FIC: Candlelight, (H/D)

[mildlywild]

Title: Candlelight
Author: Anjali
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: With its gleaming crystal festoons and delicately faceted bobeches, a certain Manor’s chandelier leads Draco down a path of most extraordinary events.
Notes: This was first written for Armchair Slash's June 2003 Furniture Fic Challenge. My assigned piece of furniture was a chandelier.

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends -
It gives a lovely light.

- Edna St. Vincent Millay

***

He held the small crystal piece in his left hand as he polished it with the soft rag in his right. The dust fell away slowly to reveal skillfully cut facets that glittered in the flickering light of the candle by his elbow. It was the only brightness in the large ballroom, as the grand windowed doors leading to the balcony were boarded up, and the usual source of light hovered a meter above the ground, completely dark.

The gramophone played quietly in the corner of the hall. It was an ancient and squeaky thing picked up in the village. The antique record that spun on it was much scratched, yet the soft sound of Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 55 No.1 still managed to echo softly around the ballroom. The melancholy tune winded its weary way up the pillars and reverberated across the soaring ceiling with its fading mural of gilded angels.

Draco slowly straightened up from his kneeling position, wincing at the ache in his knees and back. He had only cleaned half of one brass arm, and yet already his body protested at the position it was being forced to hold. He stepped back for a moment to examine the enormous chandelier in front of him, floating directly above the center of the elongated eight-pointed star emblazoned on the ballroom floor. The star, used through the centuries as the Manor’s Apparating point, was very faded and barely visible now, even though Draco had spent several hours scrubbing. There were a few dark patches, where the bloodstains would never fully fade.

He had had a bath yesterday morning, just as he did every Sunday. He regarded this as his personal time to wash away all the dust and blood from the last week. He would haul buckets of water from the stream on the south edge of the Manor grounds. After bathing, he would wash his few clothes and leave them out in the sun to dry. Draco would then drag the washtub to whichever room he was cleaning next, dump the water out, and proceed to scrub. He’d do this completely nude until his clothes were dry, his sponge and mop incongruent with his pale ghostliness. But if he really were some ethereal specter, he’d be the only one. There was not a soul left in the Manor to see him, not even the smallest pantry spirit.

After changing back into his clothes, he’d go down to the nearby village to do his weekly shopping. It wasn’t more than a few miles from the manor, and he rather enjoyed the walk. The villagers had slowly grown used to this mysterious stranger, eyeing his worn but clean clothing. They had been deeply suspicious and outright hostile when he had first come, but he couldn’t blame them. He supposed it must’ve been very disturbing for these Muggles who had lived here for decades to suddenly find a huge manor deep in the bordering forest. Though the Distraction Charm protecting the area from Muggles had disappeared when the Manor’s wards collapsed six months ago, the villagers had still avoided the forest and were not aware of the Manor until Draco began coming to their village. They seemed to be slowly overcoming their distrust, however, and Draco had been very surprised yesterday when the baker’s wife, after eyeing his slight frame, insisted on giving him an extra loaf of rye bread. They didn’t blink an eye when he requested a multitude of unusual items, including a mop and broom, screws (after a painful experience with those and a hammer, he had to come back and have the patient villagers explain that what he needed instead were nails), silver polish, a sawhorse, wooden buckets, a very tall ladder (he’d had to rent a horse and cart to get that one back to the Manor), several meters of rope, and hundreds upon hundreds of candles.

Draco detested the dark, so it was a mystery to him as well why he kept every window in the Manor boarded up. Instead he carried candleholders and put candelabras in whichever room he was working in. He’d almost set the entire place on fire more than once, so he had now taken to keeping a bucket of water in every hallway. Candles made everything much more complicated and time-consuming, but he figured that it wasn’t like he had anything more important to do.

To tell the truth, he had a strange reluctance to uncover the windows before the Manor was completely repaired. When the side of light had won the war and he had been hailed as a hero for his role he had played, he had thought to himself, This is it. I’m done. He had spent all the years of the war expecting death, and sure that if he lived to see the end he would die right after. Draco had always believed his sole purpose in life was to redeem the name of his family. Seeing that he was not dead yet, he surmised that there remained one last duty. He must completely restore the site of the final battle- Malfoy Manor.

That is what he had been doing for the last six months. The Manor had been a wreck, but now it was approaching its former glory. Draco was the only one who labored there, and when he was inside he knew not whether it was day or night, only that there was always more work to be done. Whatever could be salvaged by hand he did, spending hours sewing torn linens by candlelight. Charred rugs and furniture needed to be replaced, and he had placed orders for them in catalogs he had obtained for in the village. The library had been flameproof, but when the Manor’s wards collapsed every single valuable volume went up in flames. He was trying to rebuild that collection as well, sending owls from the village to booksellers and antique dealers all over the world. The main difference was that the books now included Muggle editions as well as Wizarding classics. Draco had often silently thanked the heavens that the famed Malfoy fortune was still intact in Gringotts, and more importantly, still his.

Draco had accomplished all he had done completely alone and by hand. There was no sign of life anywhere on the grounds. Draco had slowly cultivated the gardens to their former magnificence and enticed birds and other small animals to come back, but no one else ever returned, not even a house-elf or ghost. After the final battle, every spell and charm in the Manor had vanished. Even now, the entire building and grounds repudiated any spell cast upon it. This condition was irreparable, and Draco oddly had no wish to change that. It had taken quite a while to get used to the magic-less state, but now that he had, he found it comfortingly natural. There were no protection spells or locks anywhere in the Manor and anyone could just walk in, but Draco didn’t care. When death came to find him, he wouldn’t run.

It would have to find him soon, at any rate, since in another few months he wouldn’t be living here. Before beginning the repairs on the Manor, he had sent a messenger to the south of France to track down his father’s cousin. When Draco was in sixth year, Lucius had received a letter from her. It seemed that in the several years that she had not been heard from, she had married a farmer and settled down happily among Muggles. Her husband had recently died in an accident, and with five children and another on the way, she was desperate for aid. Furious at the idea of half-blood Malfoys, Lucius had burned the letter.

Though that was six years ago, Draco now hoped to find the woman and her family and bring them to live at Malfoy Manor. The messenger returned just last week, reporting that he’d tracked down the family and that they’d been in tears with gratefulness, and would arrive sometime in the next month. Draco planned to remain with them for a couple weeks to set up an account of funds and ensure that they could get along all right in the Manor, and then be off. He had never had any intention of living what remained of his life there; in fact, the only way he could endure the memories was to tell himself every hour of the day, it’s only temporary. Draco often daydreamed about where he would go afterwards. He didn’t know how soon death would come for him, so perhaps he would have a couple weeks to travel first. He thought he’d like to explore the alleys of New York City, or go on an African safari, or see the Australian reefs. If he had been going to live, he pondered that one day he would’ve acquired a flat in London, with electricity and running water so he wouldn’t have to do any work, and a fifth-floor balcony from where he could watch the sky.

He wouldn’t mind continuing to live as Muggles do. In fact, the truth was that Draco barely had any magic left himself. He felt curiously akin to the Manor, as they had both been utterly drained after the final battle. The most simple of spells could take him an hour to cast. The last time he Apparated on his own, he had been violently sick for days after. He had passed it off to others as a bout of the flu. Sometimes he came across a repair situation that would be impossible to do himself, and he would have to venture off-grounds, since the Manor canceled spells made while the caster was on its property. Deep in the forest, he would fight with the magic within him until he could bend it to his will and shape the spell he needed. Tired, he would return to the Manor and rest until he was able to use it, whether it be a simple Levitation charm or basic Sealing spell. Not a single person knew of his condition, and he wanted it to stay that way. He could just imagine that hateful expression of pity on Potter’s face...

Potter. Draco had to admit that there was no one else who had occupied his thoughts more in the last six months. He had really tried not to think about him at all, but the other possible subjects were Lucius and Voldemort. And dead was dead, a practical viewpoint all Malfoys hold; and Potter was far from dead, a viewpoint the most recent Malfoys would have heavily disapproved of, unless it was in conjunction with plotting the death of said Potter. But somewhere along the way Malfoy had gone from wanting Potter dead to simply wanting him anyway he could get him.

Of course, this change had been gradual and included such phases as wanting Potter on a different hemisphere than his own, wanting Potter to dislike cooperating together as much as he himself did, wanting to watch Potter every minute of the day, wanting to do delicious things that would make Potter scream with pleasure... More than anything, he wanted. It was a want he had kept muffled deep inside him for many years, twisted and denied, until that one moment when it had turned from want to pure need.

***

The change began two weeks before the final battle. Draco had sneaked away from Voldemort’s forces stationed in Malfoy Manor to Dumbledore’s camp a few miles away. He had given his report on Voldemort’s latest plans and was just leaving headquarters when Potter’s hand caught his sleeve.

He stood there in the dark shirt and trousers he wore while out on the field, his hair attesting to the fact that he didn’t even bother to brush it anymore. There wasn’t much sunlight left, and his eyes were very dark. "Are you going back tonight?"

A few years earlier, Draco would have nodded brusquely and Apparated then and there. However, working together these past years had created between them something bordering on comradeship; and in the most recent months, Draco had come to realize that it was becoming harder and harder for him to deny Potter something gave that idiotic pleading look. He replied smoothly, "I must. My information is vital to our cause."

Potter regarded him for a moment, not releasing his sleeve. "I don’t think it’s safe to go back."

Draco shook his head, annoyed. "Potter, I - "

His words were cut off as Potter suddenly tugged him closer. "It’s Harry, Draco. Don’t you remember?" His voice held a teasing note. It was an old standing joke of theirs. While Potter had quickly got used to calling him by his first name, Draco had refused to do likewise. The seven years spent as blood enemies were not so easily forgotten, and Draco wasn’t sure if he wanted to forget at all.

"Perhaps," Draco replied with a small smile. His hitched as Potter raised a hand to his chin and slowly slid a finger up his jawbone. What on earth was he doing? Draco’s eyes widened as Potter leaned toward him, bringing his mouth even with Draco’s ear.

"Harry," whispered Potter. His unruly hair brushed against Draco’s cheek. He turned his face in, the movement excruciatingly slow, and his warm breath tickled at the edge of Draco’s ear. "Just Harry."

Draco had frozen when Potter had first leaned toward him. Now he exhaled sharply, and took a fearful step back. He stared very hard at Potter, who only smirked and pointed behind Draco. Warily, Draco turned to see the setting sun just disappear behind the hills. He turned back to see Potter grinning like a madman.

"You bastard!" Draco exclaimed, astonished. Once the sun set, it was not safe for anyone to travel, even by Apparition. He might have still risked it, but then he remembered that the Death Eaters had blocked the main Apparating point in Manor’s hall and the closest point he could Apparate to would be outside the grounds. He could see the misty outline of the full moon in the eastern sky, and knew the werewolves would be out tonight.
Potter smirked deviously. "You can share my tent." He walked off, leaving Draco still in shock. Potter had grown increasingly sneaky during the war, and must have known that if he had grabbed Draco and refused to let him go, Draco would have Apparated away in a huff. Instead, he had - well, let’s just say that Draco spent several hours that night, as he watched Potter sleep, pondering why on earth the insufferable man had decided to distract him in such a way.

The next morning, Dumbledore, somehow knowing Draco had stayed in the camp, informed him that a Death Eater had seen him leaving the Manor last evening. Voldemort, when informed, had immediately realized that Draco was a spy. When Draco didn’t return that night, he had taken out his rage on Lucius Malfoy. Draco knew immediately that his father was no longer among the living. He also knew that if he had returned last night, he would most certainly be dead by now.

All he could think numbly was, thank god my mother’s past all this. She had died of illness shortly after his graduation. Draco left Dumbledore’s tent without a word, and blinked in the harsh sunlight. He was still alive, and his father was not. He hadn’t thought it would ever come to that.

After that morning, he watched Potter even more.

***

Things came to a head two weeks later, during the siege of Malfoy Manor. Draco had accompanied Potter on a reconnoitering mission, which went horribly awry when they stumbled on group of Death Eaters. The pair fought fiercely, quickly casting hexes and sending stunning spells. After every Death Eater lay on the ground, they collapsed, breathing heavily.

Draco regarded Potter, who lay sprawled in the leaves with a hand thrown over his eyes, chest heaving up and down. A shadow slowly crept across his face, and Draco jerked his head up to see a Death Eater standing above the prostrated Potter. The image would be burned in Draco’s mind forever: that dark and foreboding figure, its wand stretched out and a curse already on the tip of his tongue, intent on it’s unwary victim.

Draco never knew how he moved that fast. He catapulted out of his sitting position, at the same time drawing the hidden dagger in his boot. He threw himself across Potter’s body, arced up towards the Death Eater and drove his dagger straight into its chest. The scarlet blood cascaded over Draco’s hands, hot and slippery. The Death Eater screamed, and gasped out a curse at Draco, who knew there was no way he could dodge in time - but Potter rose up out from under him, tackling his body and rolling them both away so that the spell flew by harmlessly. The Death Eater fell to its knees, rasping its last breaths, before collapsing completely.

Draco silently assisted Potter in transporting the stunned bodies and one corpse, leaving them as close to the Manor as possible. This way none of them could regain consciousness and follow the pair back to the camp. They were on the outskirts of camp when Draco looked down at his crimson-streaked hands, and suddenly realized that one of those Death Eaters would never be getting up again. He promptly vomited into the nearest bush.

Potter bent over next to him, hands on Draco’s shoulders to steady him. "Haven’t you killed before?"

Draco wiped at his mouth with the sleeve of his robe. "With the Killing Curse. Not - not like this."

"The Curse is easy. Uncomplicated and impersonal. This is the way Muggles kill, and yet it is the real way to kill." Harry turned his intense gaze away from the darkening sky and back to Draco. "Whose knife was that?"

"My father’s. He gave it to me at graduation, and told me that it might save my life one day. If I was lucky, he said, I’d one day be able - be able to..."

"To?" Potter prompted. Draco cracked a mirthless smile that stretched his face.

"To kill Harry Potter." He gave a high-pitched giggle. Tears streamed down his face, and he crouched with his arms around his knees. Hysterical laughter wracked his body.

"Draco!" Potter knelt next to him, shaking him by the shoulders. "Are you all right? Calm down!" Draco only laughed harder, gasping for breath. So Potter pulled him up by the neck and kissed him hard.

Draco froze mid-cackle, tears still dripping from his chin. His eyes darkened, and he watched Harry with something that flickered between fear and anticipation. Harry dipped towards him again and paused hesitantly. Draco’s lips flew up to meet his halfway, hard and biting. Harry leaned back to keep upright, Draco tasting his throat while his hands slid up Harry’s shirt.

"Not here!" Harry hissed. Without a word, Draco yanked Harry up and dragged him into camp and straight to the tent they shared. Dark had fallen, and nobody was around to see them. They fell in a tangle of sweaty limbs on Harry’s bedroll, the inside of the tent speckled with moonlight shadows. Draco quickly divested both of them of their shirts and trousers. They were caught up in constant movement, clacking teeth and skimming skin.
"Draco, wait - " Harry gasped out. His hands caught Draco’s silvery hair, wrenching his burning mouth from Harry’s collarbone. "I don’t want to force you," he said hoarsely, eyes searching Draco’s. Draco’s face was flushed and his lips swollen, and he stared back at Harry with shadowy eyes. "Do you want this or not?" he asked darkly.

"Damn you, yes."

"Then there’ll be no regrets." He tugged away from the grip on his head, dipping his mouth down and eliciting a low moan from Harry.

No more words were spoken that night.

***

Draco carefully ran a soft cloth over the crystal festoon draped from one brass arm to another. He held it steady with his other hand, fingering the intricate facets. The entire chandelier was hand carved, and Draco marveled at the intense labor needed to craft something of such elaborate beauty. The festoon attached to a pendant hanging directly below the shaped bobeche, and he carefully dipped the cloth into the small niches to catch every speck of dust. The newly cleaned crystal glowed warmly in the candlelight, the delicate strands resembling trails of silvery tears.

The music continued to play, slightly scratchy from the ancient gramophone. Draco remembered long-ago times when the music in this ballroom had been smooth and light. A quartet of musician-less instruments would hover in the corner and play as society’s elite gathered to dance. There was a constant rustling of fine fabrics as poised ladies moved gracefully in their flowing gowns, pearls glowing from each elegant neck and diamonds dangling from their ears.

Draco crouched in his hiding spot behind the cello, having escaped from his bed and crept past the sleeping nursemaid. He’d pulled on a light blue jerkin over his striped nightshirt, and sat on his small bare feet. In-between the movements of the bow, he could see the postured legs of the dancing guests. Draco had always been mystified by the huge swathes of fabric that were the women, and alternately fascinated by the elegant legs of the men, their white hose impeccable and golden shoe buckles gleaming. While their torsos remained stiff and upright, the lower half of their body stepped elegantly in time to the music.

Already a few intoxicated pairs, often not the ones that arrived together, had gone out onto the balcony. There they wandered along the terrace and through the gardens, leaning on the balustrade as they flirted under the moonlight. Sometimes the pair wouldn’t even come back, but the partners they had arrived with never seemed that bothered. It all rather mystified Draco.

Every few minutes a new couple would Apparate in at the point in the center of the ballroom, the man in a tailored greatcoat and the woman wearing a delicate cape. The ghostly butler situated there would solemnly announce their names. He had been a part of the staff as long as the Manor had existed, and knew the full name and ancestry of every past and present guest as soon as he saw their face. Sometimes, Draco suspected, just by a glance at the back of their head. A house-elf would take the couple’s outer garments and scuttle off to the coatroom. The house-elves in the kitchens were doubtlessly hard at work, under extreme pressure by the demanding hostess to have a nine-course meal ready for over a hundred guests in less than an hour. Some collapsed into the cooking pot while others thrived, and this is a prime example of natural house-elf selection. Draco had tried to sneak in to snag some bruschetta or at least dip a finger into the consommé, but the muffled racket of house-elf skulls meeting rolling pins scared him off. Instead he sneaked into the ballroom to get a glimpse at the refined guests.

Sometimes Draco saw a dress swoop by with more exquisite embroidery than the rest, the inhabitant of it having a persistent tinkling laugh. This he knew was Mother, the odd woman who sent him angrily away when he touched her dress and scolded him when she saw him run down the grand staircase. She sometimes would have the nursemaid bring him to her when she was having a tea party in the garden, and she let all the other women in frighteningly large hats pet him. When he tried to tell her that he was seven years old, not five, she had frowned and then given him a sticky sweet before sending him away.

Draco was more interested in watching out for Father, the pair of legs that wore black shoes with silver buckles and silver heels. His breeches were lace-trimmed, and he walked with a defined stride that Draco could pick out from hundreds of other legs. He had never seen much of father beyond that as the man was always away on business trips, so Draco was a little curious about his face. Was it dainty like his mother’s, round like his nursemaid’s, smaller like this own? It was only the year before he received his Hogwarts letter that Draco began seeing his father with any regularity, and he found that Lucius’ face was much like the pointed ones that glared at him from the Portrait Hall. You are Malfoy, they would tell him. Malfoy, like us. The pale men with their dark sunken eyes had frightened him as a young child, and he would answer petulantly, my name is Draco, not Malfoy. Draco.

Draco reflected that up until 6th year in Hogwarts, when Harry mocked him derisively with a drawn-out "Dracooo," Draco would snap back angrily, "Malfoy, not Draco." Now he remembers much more recent incidents when an annoyed Harry would say "Malfoy," and Draco would wince and bite his tongue so as not to plead, "Draco. It’s Draco."

But that was still long enough ago that the Manor had not boasted dust thick enough that Draco left footprints in it, long enough ago that now Draco really wasn’t sure who he was. He occupied the Manor day in and day out, yet he was little more than a comfortable stranger to it. But he tried to not let his mind go down these paths, as soon enough identity would be pointless where he was concerned.

With so much time spent alone doing constant labor, it was no wonder that the direction of Draco’s thoughts kept coming back to That Night. It was a rather pleasant distraction, he had to admit, until he inevitably recalled the happenings of the day after.

***

Draco had woken up slowly, nestled warm against what seemed to be Harry’s chest. He smiled ever so slightly as Harry gave an especially loud snore, but it quickly faded. Last night had been a temporary solution to relieve their stress, and now Draco knew he needed to pull away. Attachments had always been dangerous where both he and Harry were concerned, and were made especially so in the midst of war.

He carefully slid out of the bedroll and slipped on his discarded robes. Pulling open the tent flap and squinting in the harsh morning light, he was greeted by the sight of the entire camp scrambling about. Warning horns were beginning to sound on the surrounding hills. Frozen in the midst of the chaos, Draco abruptly realized what this day would be. He felt a twinge of fear for the peacefully slumbering Harry. Would evening even find him alive? He ran a hand through his hair and exited the tent, quickly striding towards headquarters to receive his orders.

The final battle had taken place in this very hall. He and Harry had barely had time to exchange a word all day. The doings of the night before were not forgotten, but for now unimportant. The specifics of the battle were a bit hazy in Draco’s mind, as he had received a blow to the head near the end. But what he did remember was more than enough.

Draco had been battling a host of Death Eaters and Dementors when Harry had faced Voldemort. Everyone knew that this was the private battle, the one that would decide the future of everyone else standing in the hall. It was a furious and dangerous duel, but Voldemort faltered in a moment of weakness and Harry had his chance when all he had to do was say the words and his enemy would fall crippled at his feet. Draco knew Harry would be able to do this, and he knew that Harry would then be a merciful Gryffindor and refuse to kill Voldemort. But there was time enough to debate that later; right now all Harry had to do was give the blow.

It was at this moment that Draco suddenly felt a dagger go through his back and slide between his ribs. He coughed and whirled on the Death Eater, who cackled and stepped back away from him. He clutched at his chest, vaguely amazed by the growing red stain. There was no pain, only a twisting deep inside him. He gasped out softly, struggling for breath, and slumped to his knees. Eyesight blurred, he realized that everything was coming to fruition in this one moment. Harry would deal the blow and triumph, just as Draco had always known he would. He himself would die, a fate as certain to him as Harry’s. So he closed his eyes, spat out blood, and waited as the roaring sound around him dimmed.

When he looked back now, he still resented that he had been wrong. How in Merlin’s name had Harry in the heat of battle heard Draco’s quiet gasping? Yet somehow he knew and whirled away from Voldemort, whose own breath rasped in his throat, red eyes narrowed at his opponent’s sudden move. Before he had even completely turned his back, Harry was garbling a stream of words and thrusting the spell at Draco across the hall. Draco inhaled sharply as the healing spell hit, the dagger falling away and his flow of blood ceasing. He could feel the wound beginning to knit itself back together, his entire body resounding with the strength of the magic.

No. Draco would not let him do this. He struggled to resist the spell, to counter it and shove it away from him. But he was too far-gone, and his treacherous body was embracing the healing when his mind was screaming against it An enormous amount of Harry’s magic was pouring into Draco, caressing his bones and soothing the pain. This was the power Harry needed every bit of to defeat the Dark Lord, and now he was wasting it. Draco threw back his head, eyes tightly closed as he struggled for voice with which to scream his unbelievable frustration. Harry stood firm, power pouring in to overcome Draco’s resistance. The last thing Draco saw through a horrified haze was Voldemort approaching Harry from behind, before he was hit on the head by another Death Eater and knocked out.

It was only when he came to two days later that he found out what had happened. It seemed Voldemort had thrust the last of his strength into a killing blow directed straight at Harry. Harry was one of the strongest wizards of his time, and hadn’t even reached the peak of his power yet. He may have been able to survive Voldemort’s blow, even with much of his magic diverted into numerous protection spells and Fidelius Charms situated at Hogwarts, the campground, and Malfoy Manor. But by also pouring a great amount of his remaining power into reviving a dying man without a will to live, he had overextended himself.

Voldemort had struck at him, and Harry writhed in agony. The hellish green glow lit up the entire hall. Dumbledore, wounded in a corner and menaced by a group of Death Eaters, suddenly shunted all his remaining strength and power into Harry. Weak as he was, it was still a considerable amount. Harry went from glowing a hellish green to shining a blinding gold. Magic overflowed from his body and repelled Voldemort, who was violently thrown against the opposite wall. He never got up again.

***

Draco looked up from his buffing of a cloudy glass globe, one of several mounted in brass cups on the chandelier. Something was pricking at him subconsciously, which he traced to the east wall. He picked up a new candle and lit it from the already burning one next to the chandelier. He stood and stretched, back cricking after the length of time spent kneeling. Blurry candlelight played over his exposed limbs, and coupled with his tiredness served to soften the angles of his pointed face.

He took the burning candle in his hand and walked slowly around the dark circular ballroom. The light flickered on the wall alongside Draco, and reflected dizzily on the shining marble beneath his bare feet. He paused at one point to examine a slight crease high up on the wall. This was where Voldemort had been thrown against the wall and killed. The body had been long-gone when Draco had returned to the Manor, but the gaping hole had remained. Filling it had been one of the first things he had done. But even now, with several layers of paint, the slight imperfection on the wall continued to niggle at him uncomfortably. He would be glad, really, to finally get away from this dark Manor with its stifling memories.

He continued walking. There, that was where Dumbledore’s body had been found, an empty shell. His eyes had been closed behind cracked half-moon spectacles, and his mouth upturned in a crooked smile. Draco had gone to the funeral to pay his respects to the backbone of the force Draco had betrayed his family for. Hidden in the crowd, he had watched intently as Harry stood over the body, smiling gently with tearstained cheeks, and carefully lit the pyre.

Another memory, right at this spot. Draco had scrubbed the floor here but not repainted it, so when the light was just right one could see the remains of a star-shaped burn. Draco bent down and ran a hand over the rays that faintly discolored the pristine marble. It had been here that Harry had stood with so much power in him it was a miracle he wasn’t killed outright. It was here that Harry had so carefully knit Draco back together while at the same time violently striking out at the Dark Lord. It was here that Harry had fulfilled his destiny.

***

Six months after that fateful moment. The celebrations had died down at three months, but only now was the dark mourning attire being laid aside. If there were still funerals to be attended, Draco wasn’t going. Instead he stood in Gringotts and busily stuffed his small suitcase with Muggle money he’d exchanged from his account, while the bemused goblins looked on. He turned away from the counter and stepped onto the Apparition point, a sun mosaic in the center of the lobby. He took a deep breath, wand clenched in hand, and -

"Draco! Wait!" Draco twitched in surprise, dropping his suitcase. He jerked his head up to see Harry, black hair flying around bouncing spectacles, dashing around customers and goblins in his haste to reach Draco before he could disappear. Draco swore creatively, ignoring the scandalized looks of other customers.

After the battle, both Draco and Harry had been tended to in the Hogwarts Infirmary. Draco had healed fairly quickly, thanks to Harry’s fast work on his mortal wound, and then spent the next few weeks sitting next to Harry’s bed and desperately urging him to pull through. An hour within the dying of the fever, Draco had Apparated into London to sort out Lucius' debts and his own affairs. As Harry was now on his feet, he used the organization of the Malfoy estate as an excuse not to see him for the next few months. Whenever they attended the same business dinner or social function, Harry would spy Draco and quickly go after him. Draco would duck into unoccupied rooms and hide behind curtains, once even climbing off a balcony onto the roof to escape a determined Harry.

Now Harry looked far too close to catching him before he could get safely to the Manor. He realized that money had fallen out of his suitcase, and he threw himself to the floor. Suitcase entangled in his legs and arms desperately wrapped around all the currency scattered on the floor, he Apparated a split second after a firm hand grabbed his shoulder.

When Draco’s surroundings materialized again, he found himself sprawled on a dusty path surrounded by oak trees. Right behind him was the familiar imposing Malfoy gate. He was flat on his back, his right hand clenched around the handle of the suitcase. But worst of all, he was staring straight up into a pair of bewildered green eyes.

Harry was lying on top of him. Panic hit him hard, and the familiar urge to flee uncurled in his stomach. Harry saw it in his grey eyes, and clamped his hands down hard on Draco’s shoulders. "No, Draco, don’t - "

Draco swung the suitcase up and it connected soundly with Harry’s head. Harry reeled, giving Draco the chance to pull away and leap up. A few strides and he was nearly to the gate, when a murmur of his name followed by soft swearing stopped him. He turned and saw Harry kneeling on the path, clutching his head with eyes tightly squeezed. Draco suddenly realized how heavy with money his suitcase was.

He walked back slowly, a small part of his mind cursing himself as he did it. Draco fished out a handkerchief from his vest pocket. He kneeled and carefully dabbed at the thin trail of blood along Harry’s temple. Harry’s eyes flicked open behind his spectacles, but Draco avoided their probing gaze. He dropped the handkerchief in Harry’s lap and moved to walk away, but Harry’s hand darted up and caught him by the wrist. He twisted away, automatically hissing, "Don’t touch me!"

Harry froze, stricken. "You loathe me that much?" he asked haltingly. Draco should have walked away right then, but he felt he owed Harry some sort of explanation.

"No. But every touch creates...an attachment. And I do not want attachments." Harry slowly stood, facing Draco.

"Is this why you’ve been running from me? Do you regret so much that night six months ago?"

"I promised no regrets," Draco retorted harshly. "But I regret entirely the day afterward."

Harry stared, befuddled. "I don’t understand."

"Why couldn’t you have just let me die?!" Draco burst out angrily. Harry choked in surprise, Draco’s reply the last thing he had expected. "You had to go and be a damn hero trying to save me, and you almost didn’t defeat Voldemort. Dumbledore died so you could, and even then you almost exploded from all that power!"

"Dumbledore knew he was going to die," Harry said shortly. "Why can’t you leave this behind us, Draco? The war’s over, and there’s a clean slate for the both of us." Draco shook his head with frustration.

"Every time I look at you, all I can think is how an attachment to me nearly led to the doom of the entire wizarding world. When I look at myself, I know that every attachment I make will only lead to more pain when I...when I leave. And I won’t ever do anything but leave."

"But Draco, I- I-" Draco whirled on Harry, eyes blazing.

"If you dare say you love me, I will hex you so hard that your toes will multiply - "

Harry had the audacity to look amused. "Actually, I was going to say that I missed you. But - multiplying toes?" When Harry looked at him like that, Draco could never keep his lips from quirking.

"If you care enough to miss me, then honor my wishes. Though the wards are down, never enter this property without my permission." Draco stepped through the gate and slammed it shut. He gave Harry a quick apologetic smile and disappeared into the greenery.

***
Draco carefully polished each ruby eye of the full-bodied griffin. It and its three golden brothers were frozen in mid-screech in their positions on the chandelier. He had never known these exquisite sculptures had existed. But then, as stunning as this chandelier was, it remained entirely overlooked. Draco doubted that even the house elves had cleaned it within the last decade. The huge candles in their brass sconces had never stopped burning for who knew how long, never shrinking in size though the wax had dripped all over the brass arms. Draco had spent several hours prying the candles out and then scraping away the thick waxy trails.

In fact, Draco realized with a start, the charms that maintained the candles were still intact. The twelve of them were neatly piled in a corner, waiting for him to finish his cleaning. He straightened a few of the crosscut bobeches and then stood up, wiping his hands of polish. He was finally done, and death could finally arrive. Draco didn’t know how long he had been here in this hall, determinedly cleaning each piece of crystal- it could be more than week. One by one, he carefully replaced the candles in their positions. He had considered purchasing new candles, but he didn’t want to go through all the painful effort of magicking the new ones with the same charm. Now all he needed to do was climb the ladder and push the floating chandelier back up to its place at the top of the vaulted ceiling.

Draco considered the floating spell on the chandelier and the burning charms on the candles. The floating had been the only evidence of any magic remaining at all in the Manor. He had assumed that it was a single spell that had managed to escape the breaking of the wards, but now the candles - perhaps the ability to hold magic extended to the entire chandelier. It was odd, considering that none of the numerous other spells in the Manor had survived.

It now occurred to Draco that there was another possible explanation. The reason the wards had overloaded had been from the huge amount of power compressed inside Harry in the final seconds of battle. Perhaps when the magic had rocketed out and killed Voldemort, it had also swung in a circular manner and knocked out all the wards on a parallel plane with Harry. The cancellation of magic would have continued through any parts of the Manor that had contact with each other. So when the sealing spells on the windows were knocked out, also canceled were the lightning spells on the chimney, since the chimney and windows were connected by the roof and wall.

But the chandelier floated by itself without touching anything, meaning it had avoided the magic knockout. All the spells on it remained intact, such as the charms on the candles, the piece of magic that kept the wax from dripping to the floor, and the spells preventing the usual Manor drafts from blowing out the flames. What was interesting in particular was the floating spell, since that had to be fixed to the area in which it could float. In the case of the chandelier, that meant a column-shape the width of the chandelier, extending from the top of the ceiling to the center of the floor directly below it, right through the middle of the star where the Apparition point was.

This point on the floor was exactly below where the chandelier now floated. Draco shoved at the chandelier hard, but it would not move left or right, only up or down. This proved the column-shaped area theory. Draco circled the chandelier, the beginnings of an idea uncurling in his mind. Any spells in the column-shaped vicinity would not have been knocked out, as the chandelier served as a sort of protection. Perhaps then the Apparition point, directly below the chandelier, was not completely destroyed.

Draco knelt and slipped a hand under the chandelier, resting it on the center of the star emblazoned on the marble. Yes, he could sense a weak embedded magic there. Perhaps the Apparition point was operational! He’d first have to get the chandelier out of the way to find out for sure. He braced himself and pushed the chandelier up as far as he could reach, which meant it was only a fourth of the way up to its place in the ceiling. He tried using momentum, but it only jiggled back and forth. Draco sighed and went to fetch the ladder.

***

Hermione was deeply engrossed in a new report on flying vacuum cleaners when the door to her office flung open, banging loudly against the wall. Somebody hurtled across the room and stopped short at her desk, gasping out, "I need to use your Reinforced Apparition point!"

She stared up into a pair of panicked green eyes behind crooked spectacles. His clothes were disheveled and he was breathing hard. "Harry?"

He leaned forward and pulled her out of her seat, urging, "Quick, Hermione! It's an emergency!" Next thing she knew she was running alongside him through the long halls, passing first the Office of Muggle Interactions and then the Committee of Experimental Charms. She stopped suddenly in the Department’s lobby, gasping out to Harry, "What on earth is going on? I can’t just - "

"We don't have time, Hermione!" Harry kept pulling at her arm, but she refused to budge. He said forcefully, "Remember during the war, when you had to cast spells based just on what I said? Trust me again, this is just as important." She regarded his pleading expression for a moment, and then admonished him, "Fine, but I better get a full detailed explanation later." Then she was again darting through the halls, with Harry close on her heels.

They flew up several winding staircases and through long echoing halls, passing the occasional bewildered Ministry official. Hermione thought with a sigh that there'd be plenty of rumors being traded about the next morning. They finally drew to a halt in front of a large imposing door. Hermione pulled away a bundle of keys from her belt, given to her when she first became Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.

"It's Draco," Harry wheezed, still catching his breath. Hermione nodded for him to continue as she quickly picked through the keys before locating the right one, a heavy silver one. "He's going to die." Her hand slipped, and the key missed the keyhole.

"God, Hermione, I know it. I know it's coming for him, and I’m so scared I won't get there in time..." gabbled Harry. The fear in his voice alarmed Hermione, and she redoubled her efforts. She quickly unlocked the door, garbled a password, and flung it open, striding into the large dark room. A few muttered words and light sprang to the glass globes on wall sconces around the room.

The Ministry of Magic’s insignia was inscribed across the entire floor, an inch deep, and reverberated with strong, much-used magic. This was the Department of International Magic Cooperation’s own Reinforced Apparition point. Each of the Departments had one, and all were interconnected. They were used primarily for the Apparition of large business groups traveling to a meeting in another Department. Occasionally it was also used for the sending and receiving of ungainly objects, such as when Hermione had to send a dinner table inadvertently enchanted to do the foxtrot to the Accidental Magic Reversal Department.

Hermione turned to Harry, and her eyebrows shot up. Was Harry actually wringing his hands? Dear god, he must really have never gotten over the Malfoy thing. "Malfoy Manor?" Harry nodded. She immediately began laying down complicated spells.

The great deal of magic involved in Apparating great amounts meant the Apparition was very strong, hence the title of "Reinforced." It was too strong to be used to Apparate just anywhere, and so was connected to only the other Departments’ Reinforced Apparition points. Hermione was the sort of problem-solving person who liked to daydream not-quite-legal ways around obstacles and mentally store away the solutions, never expecting to follow up upon them. The power of the Reinforced Apparition point had beckoned to her since she had first come upon it, and that was why, when now called upon to redirect it, she knew exactly how to do it.

Hermione carefully integrated Malfoy Manor into the list of possible destinations for the Reinforced Apparition point. She traced golden symbols into the air with her wand, one that fell to the floor and melded into the designs already there. As she did this, Harry paced impatiently and spoke as if he could not stop.

"It was a dream - and my scar hurt when I woke, so I knew it was true. Don’t look at me like that, Hermione, Voldemort is dead and gone. But sometimes my scar hurts before something happens to someone I know. I never told you, but I dreamed about the splinter Death Eater group getting Ron the night before the battle. That was eight months ago, and he was dead before I could get to him. I won’t let it happen again." He fell silent for a moment, Hermione’s quiet muttering echoing in the room. She knew this was affecting him deeply; she hadn’t heard him mention Ron for months.

"Oh god, I’ve just realized. All his fears of attachment, the way he avoided me after the battle. He knew he was going to die, and didn’t tell me. He didn’t tell me!" Harry laughed maniacally, making Hermione jerk in surprise. "If he’s still alive, I’ll kill him myself!"

Hermione, glad to have a reason to divert him, announced, "All right, stand here in the center. I have to focus all the energy on you." He moved into the circle, and was silent for a few moments as she worked. "Hermione..."

"What?" she said distractedly, as she scratched out the last symbol on the circumference.

"The reason I need the Reinforced Apparition point is that... is that the Malfoy Manor Apparition point is blocked." Hermione’s head flew up, and she stared at him in horror. "Voldemort did it before the final battle. And it can’t be fixed, because the Manor has no magic. I felt that the last time I was there."

"But - the point -" Hermione stammered, gesturing at the circle beneath them.

"I think that the strength of the Reinforced Apparition point could blast apart Voldemort’s block."

"Harry, nothing like that has ever been tried! You’ll be splinched. And the magic - you can’t Apparate into a point without it having magic!"

Harry looked stubborn. "I know that, Hermione, but I have to try. Apparition is the only chance of getting there in time."

"But-"

"I won’t let Draco die!" Hermione looked at his pale, determined expression, remembering a broken man she’d held after their best friend’s death, and sighed.

"Visualize the place in Malfoy Manor," she instructed Harry. She embraced him quickly and backed out of the circle. There she took out the silvery key and whispered words to it that made it glow eerily. Clenching it in her white-knuckled hand, she bent and touched it unwaveringly to the edge of the circle. The insignia filled with a blinding white light, brighter than she had ever seen it do before. There was a thunderous crack, and Harry disappeared in a brilliant explosion.

When she could see again, there was nothing but drifting sparks and grey smoke remaining. She found that she had collapsed, the stone floor pressing uncomfortably to her knees. Staring at the empty, sooty spot in the center, Hermione blinked through tearing eyes and whispered, "Good luck, Harry."

***

The chandelier was back in its accustomed place in the center of the ceiling, and it glowed with a radiance that lovely to behold. Draco smiled satisfactorily, and then bent over the Apparition point. He ran a hand over it and thought he detected enough magic for it to be operative. It was possible that there wasn’t enough power there and he just couldn’t tell because of the many months spent with very little magical contact, but he doubted it. Draco didn’t consider himself quite that inept, at least not yet.

Well, he might as well try it. If it didn’t work, it wasn’t a great loss. Draco thought for a moment, and then decided he was running a bit low on Muggle money to use in the village. He carefully visualized the lobby of Gringotts in his mind, and stepped onto the point. There was the familiar dissolving feeling, then -

His stomach lurched. Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong. And in the split second before everything fell apart, he realized what he had forgotten. Voldemort had blocked the Apparition point, and the spells had not faded away because of the chandelier’s protection. They had been greatly weakened by his death, but enough remained to oppose anyone who tried to Apparate on the point. And even the tiniest bit of Voldemort’s sadistic power was enough to twist a person to insanity.

Draco bucked as the pain hit. Incredible pain. Apparently Voldemort had used a derivative of the Cruciatus Curse to form the block on the Apparition point. It was like every molecule of his body was straining in different directions, like freezing fire was scorching every sense receptor he had. It was a thousand times worse than the last time he had Apparated, where he had been merely weak on magic. Even being splinched would have been preferable; this was the magic attacking him. And he had no mouth to scream, only a brief broken thought of, I’d not thought death would come like this.

***

Harry felt like he was soaring, free and unencumbered in a sea of lily white. Slowly the force and speed of his movements intensified, the Reinforced Apparition much stronger than normal Apparition. He was hurtling faster than he’d ever before, and all he could think was, not fast enough.

He hit a barrier with tremendous force, making him shudder in pain. This must be Voldemort’s block. He fought through it, tearing at it with nonexistent hands, until he found himself slowly falling through molten fire. As he advanced through, he saw something thrashing in this bizarre netherworld. He instinctively grabbed at it, wincing at the extreme heat emanating from it. He dragged it along with him as he pushed, and slowly the burning red died away and he fell out of the Apparition. And opened his eyes to see a dead Draco Malfoy in his arms. For one sickening moment, Harry saw a pale face in a dark coffin and an existence before him that was far too empty to be alive.

Then Draco coughed, and Harry started breathing again.

Both of them were unhurt, as all injuries while Apparating seemed to not have taken effect on their actual bodies. Yet they still felt exhaustion deep in their bones, and they remained as they were with Draco sprawled on Harry, both gasping for breath.

"Goddamn you. If you ever saved me again, I was going to kill you."

"Go ahead and do it," panted Harry. "But I’m taking you with me."

Draco’s eyes suddenly widened, and he struggled to stand. "Harry- you have to get away. Death comes in threes."

Harry stood up and stared at him. "What on earth - "

"You bastard, just let me die already!" Draco shoved him hard, and Harry stumbled back away from him. At that moment there was a sharp crack, and Harry looked up to see that the crystal-laden chandelier, previously floating high up in the center of the ceiling, was falling. It tumbled through space, its crystal chains twisting like flailing limbs. It would smash directly below it onto the Apparition point, where Draco now stood.

Draco had not moved when he heard the crack. He knew what was happening, and time seemed to slow down. He regarded Harry position on the edge of the circle, and decided he was just barely out of harm’s way. Satisfied, he felt a dry sense of irony that the chandelier on which he had slaved away on would now be the instrument of his death. Reflecting on the failed Apparition, he decided there were worse ways to die. His emotions slowly dwindled away until he was left with nothing but emptiness. He watched the horror on Harry’s face, gave him a wistful half-smile, and waited expectantly.

But he underestimated Harry’s reputation. There was a reason he was such a deadly accurate Seeker and a Hero who should have died many times over. He’s a Gryffindor after all, and, as Draco liked to put it, how much more idiotically courageous can you get? Before he even knew it himself, Harry was brandishing his wand and throwing all of his remaining power into the strongest blocking spell he could cast. It appeared above Draco a split second before the chandelier hit. It stopped sharply, hovering threateningly above Draco’s head. Draco stood perfectly still, very pale with his hands clutching the sides of his robes.

Harry ran to him, grabbing his arm to pull him away. "Draco - hurry, I can’t keep up the spell - " Already Harry could feel something pinching his lungs. Draco stared at him blankly and instinctively dug in his heels. Harry dragged him off of the Apparition point, but they remained within range of the chandelier. Draco suddenly realized what was going on, and twisted away. "Get away from me, Harry - I won’t let you go with me - "

"Neither of us is going to go, you prat!" yelled Harry. He suddenly gasped and fell to his knees. He clutched at his chest, a painful twisting deep inside him. The spell was taking too much out of him, and he couldn’t breathe until he dropped it. He tried to get out the words to tell Draco to run, but they were strangled in his tight throat.

Draco had his back to Harry’s distress, and was more concerned with getting as far away from Harry as possible. He figured that when the next attack came, at least Harry would be out of it. But when he turned to check if Harry was following, he instead was horrified to see Harry slowly asphyxiating on the floor while the chandelier above him jolted closer every time he convulsed. Just a few more meters and it would smash right next to him. Draco cursed, and the next moment was sprinting back as fast as he could. He didn’t have enough magic to form a protection spell, but he threw out what little he had at Harry’s blocking spell just as Harry let go of it.

Draco quickly pulled the shreds of the spell over himself in a crude protection charm and threw himself over Harry, shielding him. For a moment angry grey eyes met stunned green ones, and then both pairs squeezed shut tightly as the chandelier hit.
It smashed against the marble floor, the screeching of brass and shattering of crystal created a deafening sound that echoed through the ballroom. The splinters of glass flew up, ricocheting off the floor and then the walls, flying everywhere. The room was full of translucent shards glinting brightly with a deadly beauty. And then the pieces were falling, and Draco cried out as several dug into his back. He pinned Harry to the floor, protecting him with his body. One of the terrified Harry’s eyes could see around Draco’s shoulder, and was hypnotized by the frightening rain of glass that rained down on the marble, the tinkling shatters interspersed by Draco’s moans of pain.

Finally the shower stopped, and Harry quickly slipped out from under Draco and helped him up. Harry’s spectacles were cracked; he pulled them off and dropped them to join the rest of the glass on the floor. Harry pulled off Draco’s robes and then stripped him of his shirt, Draco protesting weakly while Harry supported his weight. He examined his back and found that Draco’s protection spell had deflected the worst of the damage, but still leaving his back heavily bruised. There were several tiny shards imbedded in his skin, which Harry carefully picked out. Thin streams of blood formed an eerie cobweb across his shoulders and down his spine.

Draco was too weak to run, and he slumped against Harry. "Harry, for god’s sake, get away from me."

"You said death comes in threes, right? That’s three. Trying to Apparate through Voldemort’s block, the chandelier falling, and the flying shards. If you’re not dead now, you won’t ever be."

Draco remained unconvinced. "Be that as it may, it’s not safe for us to be together."

Harry laughed. "Such a volatile combination was not meant to be?" Draco just scowled at him, and he sobered. "I don’t think there’s any point in you trying to keep running from me. I managed to get to you earlier because by some freak chance I destroyed Voldemort’s block right when you apparently got the Apparition point’s magic working. A second off and we would both be dead right now."

Draco muttered something at that, and Harry raised an eyebrow at him. "Oh sod off," retorted Draco, untangling himself from Harry. "If you’re desperate enough for my companionship that you’d throw yourself at a blocked Apparition point, I might as well stay, if only to keep you from attempting other incredibly stupid feats." This grand acquiescence was rather spoiled by Draco losing his balance and having to be caught by Harry. "Always the bloody hero, Potter," he growled.

Harry only grinned, saying brightly, "But Draco, you were just calling me Harry!" Draco flushed, and he turned towards the mangled mess of the chandelier in the center of the hall.

"You better be helping me repair that, Potter-not-Harry.”
Harry glowered at it. "I’m not touching that thing after it nearly killed both of us."

"I think it’s past its evilness expiration date. And it’s the least you can do, after barging in here and making a mess of my nice renovations." As he said this, he unhappily examined the glass all over the floor, the cracks in the polished marble, and the gashes in the walls.

Harry was silent for a moment. "I’ll be glad to pay for people to come and help you fix this all up."

Draco looked at him in surprise. "Why can’t you do it yourself?"

"I - I’m sort of running low on magic. Ever since the final battle, I’ve had less and less power. It’s one reason I really needed the Reinforced Apparition point and Hermione to activate it, since I’m can’t operate even a normal one by myself anymore. It’s also why I couldn’t maintain the spell holding up the chandelier." Draco stared at him. "Don’t start blaming yourself, Draco! I think it would’ve happened during the final battle whether or not I saved you."

Draco began laughing, to Harry’s utter bemusement. He doubled up, giving in to mild hysterics. Harry supported him, fearfully asking if he was all right. Draco took one look at his face, and went off into fresh peals of laughter. Wiping mirthful tears from eyes, he said with a sweet grin, "I’ve got barely any magic left either, Harry. Apparently my brush with death during the battle was a bit too close."

Harry looked stunned. "God, Draco, I’m sorry. If I only had - "

"If you had only what? Saved me sooner? Merlin, Harry, I’m alive. And I didn’t think I’d have even that." Draco twirled joyfully, and Harry found himself fascinated by the way his uneven self-cut hair reflected golden light off of the surrounding shards of glass. Draco interrupted Harry’s raptness with a thoughtful question. "But whatever shall I do now? After I get this place fixed up, I mean."

“Weren’t you going to live here in the Manor?"

"Merlin, no. I couldn’t bear it. I thought I’d like to travel..." He gazed up at the vaulted mosaic ceiling wistfully.

Harry said slowly, "I have...a flat, of sorts, in London. And, well, it’d be nice having someone to share it with."

Draco looked amused. "Are you propositioning me, Potter?"

Harry flushed. "Well, no - sort of - if you want - "

"Whatever happened to that dominating Harry who seduced me a year ago?"

"You, I suppose. And it wasn’t quite seduction. I was trying to shut you up."

"I’ll say - " Harry suddenly wrapped an arm around Draco’s waist, pulling him in close. Their hips melded together, and Draco unsuccessfully strove to keep his breathing steady.
Harry whispered, "Well, I don’t believe it’s said anywhere that a roommate can’t also be a bedmate." He regarded Draco’s stunned expression for a moment, and then laughed. "You’ve gone red."

"I have not!" protested Draco, cheeks very dark. When he thought about it, no one but Harry had ever made him flush like that, out of either anger or embarrassment or arousal. Often all three, he noted amusingly. "Malfoy's don't go red. Clearly you've never read Humphrey Malfoy the IV's infamous Patrician’s Politesse."

Harry snorted. "Knowing your family, it’s probably rule number one of your etiquette: Roommates in addition function as bedmates, and all Malfoys should abide by this."

Draco tried to scowl, but found he could not. He remembered all too much about his father’s business trips and so-called "roommates." And then there were the escapades between his mother and the gardener’s son... He looked up to see Harry regarding him thoughtfully. "What are you thinking?” he asked suspiciously.

"Something that would run the risk of my toes multiplying if I told you."

Draco grinned. "I’m never going to live that down, am I?" Harry shook his head. "Well, you might as well not say it then. Since I - I - "

"You - you - you what?" teased Harry.

"Just for that, you’re not hearing it," sniffed Draco.

Harry pouted. "Oh well, there’s plenty of time." He began chattering happily. "You’ll like my flat, I think. Well, you’ll want to redecorate it right away, but that’s all right. It’s in Muggle London, so neither of us will need to do much magic. There’s a great view from the balcony - "

Draco brightened. "A balcony, you say? Splendid!" The candles situated around the room had somehow continued to burn throughout all the chaos, and now Draco snatched one up. He dragged Harry out of the ballroom and into the entrance hall, striding up to the main doorway. "We’ll need to go down to the village to send an owl - " He stopped suddenly. The pair of doors he faced were huge and ancient, each with an intricate carving of the Malfoy crest in the polished wood below a boarded-up window. The brass handles, newly polished, were shaped like soaring griffins.

"Draco?" Harry asked uncertainly.

Draco smiled slowly. "I think, Harry, it is time to let in some light." He reached up and pried off the boards on the left door, revealing a circular stained-glass window. Rays of sunlight filtered dustily through it, the multicolored beams playing across Draco’s pleased face.

It occurred to Harry, as he pushed open the doors and stepped out into the sun, that he had never seen light so beautiful before.

***

How many miles to Babylon?
Three score miles and ten.
Can I get there by candlelight?
Yes, and back again.
If your heels are nimble and light,
You may get there by candlelight.

- Old Nursery Rhyme