Draco sat in his favorite chair – it was an antique wingback covered in deep red Italian leather – and stared at the envelope in his hands. He’d had it since yesterday, and still had yet to open it. He had tried to tell himself that he was just waiting for the right moment, but he knew that was a lie.
He was afraid.
It wasn’t just that the job was almost guaranteed to be either dangerous or highly unpleasant (after all, why else would his anonymous benefactor be willing to pay so much money?), it was also that he was going to have to re-enter the wizarding world before he was ready. Although it wasn’t as if he had been avoiding it completely for the last ten years, he had certainly tried his best to stay ‘under the radar,’ as it were. He had strictly followed his policy of no excursions to Diagon Alley, no trips to St. Mungos, and certainly no visits to the Ministry of Magic. Luckily, he was still young and healthy and hadn’t needed any serious medical attention, and he had found a few scattered back-alley potions shops around London where he could buy basic supplies.
At first, he had missed being immersed in wizarding culture. But the more time that passed, the easier it had gotten, until now the thought of being amongst wizards made him feel unpleasantly dizzy. For years, he had told himself he was just waiting until he had enough saved, until he could walk amongst witches and wizards and not wonder how many were whispering behind his back about how the Malfoys used to be wealthy and powerful, but were now a disgrace. Although now he was starting to think that was just an excuse.
The truth was that he was afraid. Afraid to face his past, afraid to realize that his life would never be as he had imagined it as a child. Ever since the end of his sixth year he hadn’t really belonged. After fleeing Hogwarts, he had hidden briefly in Scotland, and then he had fled to Greece, only to be captured three years later, long after Voldemort had been defeated and just when Draco had started to relax and make himself at home there. He had avoided going to Azkaban, by some miracle he still didn’t understand, but for his part in the attack on Hogwarts that had taken Dumbledore’s life, the Malfoy estate had been seized. All of his former friends were either dead or in prison. Well, Pansy had somehow made it through the war unscathed, but she, last he had heard, was living in Australia. He had to face the truth, no matter how much it hurt. It didn’t matter how much money he made, he would never be able to restore the honour of the Malfoy name.
He frowned at the envelope. Bloody thing was already giving him trouble and he hadn’t even opened it yet. Draco held the paper rectangle up to the light, hoping to see something that would give him a clue as to what it contained, but just like the last thirty times he had tried it, he saw nothing but the outline of a small, folded piece of parchment. He should just get it over with, he thought with a snarl, and stop all this pointless introspection. When had thinking about the past ever gotten him anywhere? Never, that’s when.
Draco determinedly slid his index finger under the seal, ripping a neat line across the top. He carefully extracted the small paper, unfolded it, and read it. He clutched at the paper so hard that it tore. Then he read it again.
Two seconds later, he Apparated directly to Pierre’s flat.
***
Draco had been raging at Pierre for nearly five minutes, and his mentor was still sitting in his chair, smiling at Draco and patiently waiting for the tirade to end. Draco, realizing that shouting was getting him nowhere, stopped to take a breath and glare at the man sitting so calmly in front of him.
“Don’t you have anything to say? This is an outrage! I demand to know who made this request. It’s an insult, not just to me, but to my entire family!”
Pierre raised his hands in a gesture of resignation. “I’m sorry, Draco, I can’t tell you.”
When Draco responded by pulling out his wand and pointing it at Pierre, the man only chuckled.
“I had heard that you used to have a bit of a temper when you were a boy. I see that it’s still there.”
Draco dropped his wand and looked beseechingly at Pierre. “Tell me. Please tell me who wants me to desecrate my mother’s grave. Tell me who wants her ring, the ring she never took off, the ring her corpse is wearing.”
Narcissa Malfoy had died while Draco was in Greece; her body had reportedly been found just days after the defeat of Voldemort. Draco hadn’t gone to her funeral. Actually, he didn’t think she’d even had a funeral, but he hadn’t gone back in any case, not wanting to risk setting foot in England. The day he had found out that he wouldn’t be going to Azkaban, all he’d been able to think was, ‘I should have come back to see my mother.’ Supposedly she was entombed in the Malfoy crypt on their main property. But, since that no longer belonged to them, Draco had not been able to verify this.
When Pierre shook his head in response to his demand, Draco sighed deeply and hung his head.
“I take it this means you are refusing?”
“Of course! I would never… “ Draco paused as a thought occurred to him. “Actually, no, I won’t refuse. I’ll do it,” Draco finished softly.
Pierre raised his eyebrows in surprise but said nothing.
“I need the money,” Draco said simply, trying to look downtrodden.
He wasn’t going to tell Pierre that he was only going through with this so he could exact revenge on his so-called-benefactor. He would insist on meeting in person to hand over the ring, and then cast some sort of vicious hex – there was a particularly nasty one he’d learned in Greece that made its victim’s internal organs burst into flame. Or perhaps, he considered, he could just put a curse on the ring, something that would take time to activate so he could be safely out of the country with his money before it happened. Draco grinned, his eyes shining with cold delight, and Apparated back to his flat. Whoever it was would never know what had hit him.
***
Draco’s legs felt like they were made of lead. He had been standing perfectly still for nearly twenty minutes now. He looked down, half expecting to see that his legs had turned to wood and that he had roots growing from his feet. He could just imagine it: he was going to be stuck here forever, to be pointed at by generations of children whispering, “That tree used to be a man.” But no, there were his trousers and his boots; there was nothing preventing him from walking forwards. There was just him, and a road, and a house in front of him that had once been known as Malfoy Manor.
Taking a deep breath, Draco began walking towards the house. He hadn’t been here since the Christmas holidays of his sixth year. It looked a lot smaller than he remembered it. He supposed that was the way it was with a lot of things from childhood: nothing could live up to a child’s expectations once the child had become an adult. The Manor loomed in his memory, but in reality it was just a house. Granted, it was a large house, with several wings and three stories, but it lacked the majesty, the imposing presence that he had expected it to have. Draco smirked, thinking that it must be because the Malfoys no longer lived here that it seemed so plain. He was sure whatever family lived here couldn’t possibly be as old and pureblooded as the Malfoys had been.
It was bothering Draco that he didn’t know who the current occupants were. The first thing that Pierre had taught him was to know his mark. Yet here he was, about to knock on their door without even knowing their names. The problem was he had decided it would be too risky to make any inquiries about who had bought the Manor, because word might somehow get back to the owners. He didn’t want them to know he was coming, because then it was likely they would set the dogs on any blond man they saw approaching. And besides, he didn’t even have the right connections to make such inquiries in the first place. He would just have to count on his skills and improvise. It shouldn’t be hard; after all, he just wanted to visit his mother’s tomb for the first time. He put on an appropriately mournful expression and prepared to knock on the door. His face slipped into a scowl when he saw that their old doorknocker, a finely wrought silver snake coiled on itself, had been replaced by a simple brass circle. This did not bode well. He took a deep breath and knocked three times.
As the door opened, Draco looked down, trying to make himself the picture of humility.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I used to live here, and I have a favour to ask you. My name is--”
“Draco Malfoy,” a man’s voice interrupted. “I never thought you’d have the nerve to show your face here.”
Draco closed his eyes, praying silently that he was wrong about who the voice belonged to. It was a little deeper than he remembered from school, but the tone and speech patterns were identical. It couldn’t be him, but who else could it be? Draco looked up, straight into a badly scarred face framed by thick red hair. It wasn’t who he had feared; it was worse.
“Bill Weasley,” he said faintly. “I --”
Draco was horrified to find himself at a loss for words. In all his years of pulling cons, he had talked himself out of just about every imaginable situation, including being held at gunpoint (it had helped that he hadn’t really understood what a gun was; later when Pierre had explained, he had been horrified at what might have happened). Draco’s mind raced. He had to say something to get himself onto the property and into the crypt. But what could he say to a man who was reminded of Draco’s sins every time he looked into a mirror? Draco really had felt terrible about the werewolf Fenrir Greyback being sent into the school with the Death Eaters, but at the time had thought that at least it had only been a Weasley who had been hurt. There were so many of them, he had thought, surely they could stand to lose one? Not that he felt that way anymore – not really. Actually, he hadn’t thought about Bill Weasley in years, preferring to focus his thoughts on the present and future and leave the past where it belonged.
Bill was still staring at Draco expectantly. The fact that he hadn’t slammed the door yet gave Draco hope. Maybe he could still play the grieving son as he had planned.
“I’m so sorry,” he began. “I didn’t know you lived here, or else I would have -- well to be perfectly honest I probably wouldn’t have come.” The second thing Pierre had taught him was to stick as closely to the truth as possible, because it made the lies easier. Draco looked at the scarred face, nearly unrecognizable as the formerly good-looking Head Boy of Hogwarts. “This probably means nothing to you, but I didn’t know that Greyback was going to be there. I’m terribly sorry about what happened to you.” Draco tried to look as penitent as possible and was surprised to realize he didn’t have to try very hard. He actually was sorry.
Bill sighed heavily and studied Draco, his eyes narrowed. “You’re right, it doesn’t mean much to me. But I appreciate that you said it. Although, that can’t be why you’re here, since you were surprised to see me answer the door. Don’t tell me you’ve come to ask for money! I knew the Malfoys had fallen on hard times, but I didn’t think you’d been reduced to asking for charity.”
Draco bowed his head to hide the way he was furiously clenching his jaw. When he looked back up, his eyes were wet with tears. The third thing Pierre had taught him was how to cry on command.
“Actually, I was hoping to visit my mother’s crypt. I wasn’t here was she was entombed –“
“Because you were a fugitive hiding out in… Greece, was it?”
Draco nodded, sighing. Everyone knew he had run away from the war.
“Yes, it was Greece.” He paused before continuing. “I’ve always regretted not being here for her – to see her one last time.” Draco paused again and let a tear slide dramatically down his cheek. “I’ve decided it’s past due for me to pay my respects to her. Even though she helped the Death Eaters, she was still my mother.” Draco glared at Bill, as if daring him to argue the point.
Before Bill could respond, a beautiful woman with long, silvery-blonde hair stepped out from behind the door and cast a scathing glance at Draco before turning to Bill and saying, “I theenk we ought to let ‘im visit ze crypt, Bill. Elle était sa mere1. It would not be right to send ‘im away, no matter how much ‘e ‘urt us in ze past.”
Draco realized with a start that this woman was Fleur Delacour. He had forgotten that she had married the oldest of the Weasley spawn; it had seemed an odd choice to him at the time, although it appeared that their marriage had lasted at least this long, so perhaps Fleur had known what she was doing. He remembered her being a haughty, strong-willed girl at seventeen; he would have to be very careful of her now. Draco smiled gratefully at the part-Veela.
“Merci beaucoup, Madame. Je ne mérite pas votre bonté."2
Fleur’s face softened as she smiled at him, and Draco silently thanked whatever gods there were that he had Pierre for a mentor. The fourth thing he had taught Draco was French, because, as he had put it, “Women will do just about anything for a man who speaks French. I should know.”
1: She was his mother
2: Thank you very much, Madame. I don’t deserve your kindness.
***
The three of them stood solemnly in front of the crypt. It was a mausoleum, really: a marble structure the size of a small house, with Doric columns arrayed across the front, two on each side of the door. Draco had never been allowed inside as a child, but once when he was about seven he had sneaked in by following a house-elf who had gone inside to clean. He remembered it had been very cold and dark inside, and he had tried very hard not to cry when the door had shut, leaving him inside. When his mother had found him many hours later, he was sleeping in the middle of the floor, having exhausted himself with crying and pounding on the door. Draco had gotten to punish the house-elf himself.
Bill broke the silence by clearing his throat and then casting a spell to remove the wards around the building. Draco knew enough about that kind of magic to be impressed at the severity of the protection they had erected around his ancestors’ final resting place. He was extremely grateful that he hadn’t decided to try getting in here uninvited; he would have wound up either unconscious and hanging upside-down in midair, or cut into several pieces, depending on the exact wording of the ward-spell. It was probably the former, considering that the latter would be highly illegal. Besides, the Weasleys weren’t the type to have wards that would vivisect intruders.
Draco thanked Bill and walked towards the door. To Draco’s surprise the couple came along with him.
“Sorry, Malfoy, we can’t let you go in here alone. I’m sure they’ll all be spinning in their coffins in there at having a Weasley in the place, but--”
Bill stopped talking when Fleur elbowed him sharply in the ribs and began speaking softly but sternly to him. Draco couldn’t hear what she was whispering, but it made Bill turn to face him, looking somewhat contrite.
“I’m sorry. My wife thinks I’m being rude. Ouch!” Bill looked sharply at his wife, who had apparently elbowed him again. “You don’t understand the enmity between our families, Fleur,” he growled. “It’s just – You know what? It doesn’t matter. Malfoy, I apologize if I offended you. Fleur, I’m sorry your husband is a boorish Englishman. Let’s just go inside.”
They filed through the door one at a time, Bill first and Fleur last; Draco got the distinct impression he was being chaperoned. He had to figure out a way to get them out of here. There was no way they were going to let him open up his mother’s tomb. What could he say? ‘I just need to see her face one last time?’ He didn’t even know if a Preserving Potion had been used on the body. She might be completely decomposed by now. Draco felt nauseated at the thought.
As Fleur lit some of the torches along the wall, the flickering firelight played around the room, illuminating rows of intricately carved marble sarcophagi along the walls. Draco’s eyes were drawn immediately to an unadorned marble coffin elevated on a large pedestal in the center of the room. It had been over twenty years since he had last been here, but he was certain that was new. He walked hesitantly towards it, and was surprised when his escorts did not follow.
Arriving at the side of what he assumed was his mother’s grave, Draco surveyed the smooth surface for some confirmation that indeed, here lay Narcissa Malfoy. He found none. Draco felt hot tears, real tears, prickling behind his eyes. He ought to be grateful that she had at least been allowed to be entombed here and hadn’t been put into the ground of some common Ministry cemetery. But still, she deserved to have her name preserved along with her body. He would see to it that she got that. He had failed her in many ways as a son; he could at least make sure that future generations knew her name.
Suddenly, Draco felt the need to talk to her. There was so much he wanted to tell her, things that he had kept bottled up inside. He realized that this might be his only chance. He turned towards Bill, unable to stop the tears from flowing down his face, as much as he wanted to. He hadn’t been ashamed to cry before, when the tears had been false, but now was different, because it was real and personal and private.
“I’m sorry, I know you said… before, that you had to be here but… I would really like a few minutes alone with her, just to talk. Please.” Draco was begging for real, as much as it pained him.
Perhaps the fact that he really meant it showed on his face, because Bill and Fleur looked at each other for only a moment before nodding silently and leaving the room. Draco waited until they had closed the door before he faced his mother – well, what was left of her – and began to speak. Now that he was alone, the tears had stopped. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt better, just being in this room, not having to think about his reactions and the con he was trying to pull.
“Hello, Mother. I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you earlier. My life has been… complicated. Well, not really, it’s just that – I guess I didn’t want to see you until I felt I was living my life as a Malfoy ought to. Living in a modest flat in London and conning Muggles out of money, that’s not what you raised me to do.” He paused and thought a bit. “But I’m doing the best that I can, given the situation. They seized the Manor and the entire family fortune, did you know that? Well, at least I’m not in Azkaban. Father’s still there, of course. He was Kissed not long after you died. Some of the captured Death Eaters testified against him, so his sentence was increased.”
Draco had heard about his father’s fate only a few years ago. He had been surprisingly unmoved by the news; he supposed he had given up on his father long ago.
“So, there is another reason I’m here. I’m really sorry to have to do this, Mother, but I need your ring. I promise I’ll bring it back to you; I just need it for a little while, to get back at an enemy of the family. I still have my pride, you know.”
As he said it, Draco wondered if he really did.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to protect you from whoever killed you. I’m sorry I ran and left you here.” Draco began to sob as the words left his lips. It was all his fault. Maybe he could have done something to help. All he had thought about was his own safety. He hadn’t even tried to find her, to take her with him overseas.
Still sobbing, Draco used his wand to levitate the lid of the casket up and then landed it gently on the floor. He had determinedly not looked into the casket as he lifted the lid, but he had noticed the distinct lack of any strong odour. He sighed in relief. They had used a Preserving Potion after all, so she should at least be perfectly intact. Wiping the tears from his face, Draco looked down at his mother’s face.
Only, there was no face, because there was no body.
“What the fuck?” Draco whispered, pointing his wand into the empty space. “Lumos.”
With the light from the wand, he verified that indeed, there was no corpse. A glint of metal in the very center of the bottom of the casket caught his eye, making him gasp when he saw what it was.
“My mother’s ring?”
He picked it up hurriedly and examined it. It was definitely her ring. It was a fairly plain platinum band, with a delicate inlay of small but perfect diamonds and sapphires set in a center channel. The inside was engraved with the Black family motto, “Toujours Pur.” As Draco slipped the ring into an inner pocket of his jacket, he heard a faint rapping on the door to the mausoleum. Quickly, he replaced the lid onto the coffin and had just put his wand back into its holder up his sleeve when Bill slowly opened the door and stepped inside.
Neither of them said anything until after they had extinguished the torches and left the structure. Once they were back in the garden and under the blue afternoon sky, Draco looked over at Bill.
“Thank you, sir,” he said earnestly.
Bill gave a tight-lipped smile and nodded.
“Fleur had to go back to the house,” he explained, even though Draco hadn’t asked where his wife had gone. They were about to begin walking back towards the Manor when Draco decided to ask Bill the question, well, one of the questions, that he had spent years wondering. Now that he knew his mother’s supposed casket was empty, the answer was even more important.
“Do you know anything about how my mother died? I heard everything second-hand, through translations of Greek newspapers. I’ve always wondered, I mean, who killed her, and how the Ministry found her, and why --” Draco stopped speaking when he saw the look on Bill’s face. He knew something.
“Please tell me what you know. Please.” It was the second time in less than an hour that he had found himself begging a Weasley and meaning it. He certainly was not his father. Perhaps that was a good thing, seeing how he had ended up.
Bill hesitated and then nodded. “Okay, I think you deserve to know. I’ve never really understood why it was kept a secret, personally.”
Draco held his breath, scarcely believing he was finally going to get some answers. Not that he’d actually tried to find the answers before.
“My dad worked at the Ministry at the time, which is how I know this. He’s retired now, but he could still get in trouble for having told me in the first place, so, please don’t tell anyone about this. Or at least don’t tell anyone where you heard it.”
Draco hastily assured him that he wouldn’t tell a soul.
“Okay, so I don’t know for sure who killed your mother, but I do know this: Severus Snape was the one who brought her to us.”
“But Snape was a fugitive, how --”
“I know, that’s the thing: he negotiated his own surrender, on the condition that Narcissa Malfoy’s body be given a proper burial in the Malfoy family mausoleum.”
Draco shook his head in confusion. “But that makes no sense. He knew he would be sent to Azkaban, why would he trade his own freedom just to make sure my mother got --” Draco tried to keep his face calm as the pieces of the puzzle fell together in his head.
“What? Do you know why?” Bill sounded excited at the prospect of learning something new about the mystery. “I’ve always wondered that myself. I have a theory... I didn’t really want to bring it up to you, but it seems like maybe I’m right, so… were Snape and your mother… lovers?”
Draco bit his tongue to keep from laughing. His mother and Severus Snape? Not likely. But he had to throw Bill off what he thought -- hoped -- was the real answer.
“I certainly didn’t know for sure, but that would make sense. I always had heard that Snape was once madly in love with a girl at school, but I never knew who. Perhaps it was the lovely young Narcissa Black.” Draco smiled thoughtfully. It was true, he had heard that Snape had harbored a pathetically unrequited crush on someone, but he doubted it had really been his mother.
“The thing is,” continued Bill, “that apparently old Severus was extremely specific in his demands. He had to be the one to bring the body in, and he had to do it alone. Of course, Ministry officials would have agreed to just about anything he asked for; they were desperate to catch him. You remember how reviled he was in the press. Well, maybe you don’t remember,” Bill added hastily.
Draco hesitated before asking his next question. It was a risk to ask, but he had to know. “Did they examine her body at all? I mean, to find out what had killed her?”
Bill shook his head. “My father told me that he only saw her from a distance. Some of the Aurors were closer, and they said that she didn’t have a mark on her. So, I’m assuming it was the Killing Curse.” Bill looked with sympathy at Draco. “At least you know she died quickly, and didn’t suffer.”
The two of them stood silently for a moment. Bill shook his head in wonderment.
“This has been a strange day. I never expected to be standing in my own garden, having a civil conversation with Draco Malfoy.” Bill smiled then, and Draco tried not to wince at the way the thick scar tissue stretched on the other man’s face.
“I’m not sure what else to say,” continued Bill, “but if you want to visit her again, just send us an owl and we’ll arrange a time. I’m glad you came, actually. It’s better to let go of the past, don’t you think?”
Draco smiled. “I couldn’t agree more.”
***
As soon as he arrived back home, Draco scribbled out a hasty note to Pierre, telling him that he’d completed his mission and would like to arrange a meeting with his mysterious benefactor. After he had sent it off -- Draco hadn’t been able to give up his owl; it was one of the few channels to the wizarding world that he had kept open – he sat down in his favorite chair and pulled the ring out of his pocket. He slid it onto his pinky finger and waited impatiently for Pierre’s response.
Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door to his flat. Puzzled, Draco got up and looked through the peephole. When he saw who it was, he swore loudly, and tore the door open. How in the world had Harry Potter found him? And why? Had Bill Weasley arranged this somehow?
“Hello, Potter,” Draco said, coolly but politely. He had a great deal of respect for what Harry had accomplished – saving the world and all of that – but he still didn’t care much for him as a person. He was so common.
“Hi, Draco,” said Harry casually, strolling through the door and into Draco’s kitchen. “Nice place you have here. It’s very cozy. I like it.” He walked through the kitchen and into the small living room. “Wow, nice chair!” He bent down to feel the surface. “That’s Italian leather, isn’t it?”
Draco, who had been following the interloper in shock, frowned when he realized that not only did Harry Potter have good taste in furniture, he also knew what Italian leather was.
“Are you just here to inspect my flat, or are you here for an actual reason?”
“Oh, right!” said Harry, grinning, “You don’t know why I’m here. Um.” He suddenly got serious, and pursed his lips before speaking softly to Draco.
“Pierre told me that you had completed your… mission,” Harry began. But before he could continue, Draco drew his wand and leveled it at the other man, shaking with anger.
“You! It was you who wanted me to desecrate my mother’s grave! You were willing to pay me to do it, even. Everyone thinks you’re a hero, but really--”
“Your mother’s not dead!”
Draco dropped his wand and stared at Harry in shock. “How did you know that?”
“Wait, you already knew?”
“No, but I assumed so when I discovered her coffin was empty. Well, that added to what I found out about--” Draco hastily snapped his mouth shut. He had promised Bill he wouldn’t tell anyone that he knew.
“What you found out about what?” asked Harry suspiciously. He studied Draco for a moment. “Bill told you about Snape, didn’t he?”
Draco looked at Harry incredulously. “Were you following me this morning? Or do I have everything that happened to me today written on my forehead?”
Harry snorted and shook his head. “Honestly, Draco, it’s not that hard to figure out. I knew Bill must know, because Mr Weasley isn’t good at keeping those sorts of things secret. And there isn’t anything else you could have found out while there that would lead you to believe that Narcissa was still alive, so it must have been that.”
“Okay,” replied Draco, a bit impatiently, “so why did you send me after her ring? Did you just want to mess about with my mind? There must have been easier ways of letting me know my mother was still alive… such as, let’s see, owling me? The letter could have been something short and to the point: ‘Malfoy, It turns out your mum didn’t kick the bucket after all. Thought you ought to know. Sincerely, Potter.’ Really, you are a moron, aren’t you?” Draco had grown more and more animated while talking, using his hands to mime writing a letter and sending off an owl, just in case Harry needed a visual aid to help him understand.
Harry shook his head, laughing. “You’re a bit dramatic, aren’t you? I guess you always have been. Anyway, I guess I need to tell you the whole story.” With that, Harry took a seat in Draco’s favorite chair, taking a moment to caress the soft leather on the arms before continuing.
Draco remained standing. He had too much energy to sit down.
“A few months ago, I went to see Severus Snape in Azkaban. They don’t normally allow visitors there, but I put some pressure on the Ministry and they gave me special clearance to go. I know, don’t roll your eyes at me. I usually hate using my fame, if you can call it that, to get things, but this was important, so I decided just this one last time…” Harry trailed off, obviously lost in thought about something else. Draco cleared his throat and the story resumed.
“Right. So, I never got to talk to Snape after he was captured. He turned himself in, confessed to everything he was accused of, and went quietly off to Azkaban. I just wanted to get… well, my therapist calls it ‘closure.’ I just felt like, I couldn’t move past things until I got all the answers. I lost so much… my parents, my best friends, my whole childhood really, because of things that he did… I mean it was all Voldemort’s fault, I’m not saying those things were all Snape’s fault, but he had a lot to do with certain parts... and I knew he had a lot of answers to the questions I kept asking myself. For years I just sort of, dunno, ignored everything. But that didn’t work so well. I was a mess, really and even with all the --” Harry stopped and looked sheepishly at Draco.
“Sorry, I’m getting off the point, aren’t I? So anyway, I went to see Snape. I asked him a lot of questions, most of which he refused to answer, but one thing he did tell me is why he had turned himself in. He said that he had an opportunity to save a life, and since he was ‘in the hole on that score’ – his exact words – he decided to take it. When I asked him how getting Narcissa Malfoy a proper burial had saved a life, he gave me that look – you know the one he used to get in class, when someone had said something really stupid? It was that look, but times a hundred. ‘Mr Potter,’ he said, ‘You of all people should know that things are not always as they appear.’ And so I sat and thought for a minute or two, and I realized: that must not have been her. He helped her fake her death so she could escape and not have to worry about anyone looking for her.”
Harry stood up and walked to the window. After staring down at the line of cars in the street below for a few moments, he continued.
“He admitted it to me, when I asked him. I don’t know why, but I guess he figured after all this time maybe no one would care. Or maybe he knew that I wouldn’t go running to the Ministry to report it, seeing as how I’m not on the best terms with them, ever since… well, ever since quite a few years ago.”
Draco raised his eyebrows at Harry. That sounded like an interesting story. He’d have to remember to ask him about it some other time. Draco frowned when he realized that he would enjoy spending more time with Harry – it seemed like either he had changed or Draco had. Maybe they both had.
“I think he knew that I would want to tell you, because he just said to tell you that her ring was the key to finding her. I asked what ring, and he said you would know, and that it was the only thing in her casket. I didn’t think you’d believe me about any of this unless you saw things for yourself, which is why I didn’t just owl you.” Harry looked expectantly at Draco, making Draco realize that he was finished with his story. Draco wasn’t sure which question to ask first, so he went with the one that seemed most harmless.
“Why would he know that you would want to tell me? I was under the impression that you disliked me, I don’t know why anyone else would think differently.”
“Well, I suppose partly he knew that since I had lost my mother so long ago, I wouldn’t ever want someone to think their mother was gone when she really wasn’t. But he implied that somehow he knew that I had….” Harry reddened, much to Draco’s surprise. “Oh, fuck. I forgot about all the things you don’t know. Look, um, I hope this doesn’t weird you out or anything, but, um, I was the one who kept you out of Azkaban. I sort of, demanded it. I gave them reasons and stuff, but I also sort of threatened them. A little.”
Draco sat down on the floor; he hadn’t meant to, it just happened that his legs no longer felt like supporting him.
“It was you? I always wondered… I just thought it was luck or something.”
Harry shook his head, still blushing. “Nope. Not luck. Persistence. Me.”
“Oh. Well. Thank you, Harry.” Draco knew that wasn’t an adequate response, but he didn’t know what else to say.
“You’re welcome, Draco.”
There were a few minutes of silence, during which Draco tried to adjust his picture of Life, the Universe, and Everything, to accommodate the idea of Harry Potter as Draco Malfoy’s personal saviour. It just didn’t make sense to him.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Why?”
Harry chuckled nervously. “I don’t think I’m up to telling you that part just yet.” He stood up abruptly and gestured at Draco’s hand. “Can I take a look at your mother’s ring? I have some ideas about how we can use it to find her.”
***
Several weeks later, Pierre was surprised to receive an owl post, not from an owl but from a brightly-colored tropical bird.
Dear Pierre,
I just wanted to let you know that I’m fine
and that I think I’m going to be staying here
in Costa Rica for a while. I’ve met this lovely
old woman who reminds me greatly of my
mother, only she’s much nicer. I’ve also been
seeing someone. I know I said in the past that
I would never fall in love, because it seemed
the surest way to heartbreak and ruin, but I’ve
decided to give it a try. I think I understand
why so many people do it, now.
Thank you for everything. You are a good man,
no matter what the Muggle authorities may think.
Fondly,
Draco
***
Author's Chapter Notes:
Author: 
janicechess
Rating: PG
Pairing: Gen, with Bill and Fleur, but implied Harry/Draco at the end
Summary: Draco is appalled at the request he finds within the envelope, but continues the mission anyway, planning on taking revenge on whoever asked the job of him. What he finds out in the course of completing the assignment upends nearly everything he thought he knew about the past, and opens up unexpected possibilities for the future.
Warnings: Language, in a few spots. That's it.
Author's notes:Thanks to why_me_why_not for beta-ing. You’re the best!
Originally posted here .