Draco's Wand

Draco's Wand

June 2001

Three years to the day after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy walked through the door of Harry's office.

"Potter."

"Malfoy." They stood in silence. "What do you want?"

"I want my wand back."

Harry stared at him. "What?"

"My probation's over - the Wizengamot's just confirmed it," Draco said, slowly. "I want my wand back - the one you took from me during the battle. You're obviously not using it, so I don't see why you can't give mine back." He gestured to the wand that was on Harry's desk - the one that Ollivander had presented to him a few weeks after he'd returned to his shop in Diagon Alley, with apologies that it had taken him so long, since he'd had to restock components from Europe and Asia.

Harry wracked his brains, trying to think what he'd down with Draco's wand after the battle. He hadn't lost it - he remembered that much - but where he'd put it, he had no idea.

"I don't know where it is," he admitted.

Instead of losing his temper and railing at Harry's incompetence - both of which Harry expected - Draco said nothing. He simply nodded, with a disappointed air, and turned to go.

"Wait!" Harry called out. Draco turned back. "It's at home, somewhere. I never throw anything out - at least, hardly ever - so it's bound to be there. I'll have a look for it this evening, all right?"

Draco looked at him, and Harry wondered - not for he first time - exactly what went on inside Draco's head. The man was just as much of an enigma as the boy had been, only less annoying because he didn't see him often.

The Malfoys kept pretty much to themselves, these days. Ron said they were lucky to have kept the Manor, after it had been used as Voldemort's headquarters for so long, but by some quirk of fate Lucius had managed to convince the Wizangamot that he and his family had been acting under duress, and they had each of them been given fairly lenient sentences - a huge fine, plus five years' probation for Lucius and Narcissa, and three years' for Draco in recognition of his youth and presumed lack of understanding. None of them was permitted to use a wand during that time, of course, so the whereabouts of Draco's wand had not been an issue ... until now.

Harry wondered how they'd survived, with no money and no magic. Come to think of it, Draco's robes looked shabby and a little short in the sleeves. They must be the last ones he'd bought before the whole world came crashing down.

"Honestly," Harry tried to say something reassuring. "I'm sure I'll find it. Come back tomorrow, and I'll have it here for you."

Draco's expression didn't change, but he nodded slowly and then left.

* * *

It's funny how you forget things, mused Harry as he rummaged through his trunk that evening. There were huge chunks of his life that he didn't really remember. Admittedly, that was probably just as well, since most of his life had involved grief and pain, but still, it annoyed him. The funerals after the Battle of Hogwarts, for instance - he knew he'd been to them all, but he really couldn't remember the details. He didn't even remember getting his old trunk back from the Dursleys, but he must have retrieved it at some stage, because it had been with him when he moved into his flat in London.

Now, as he shifted through possessions he'd forgotten about, he wondered just how much of his life he had lost. The old textbooks weren't much value in themselves, of course, but they each represented a year at Hogwarts, and so were precious to him. A pair of mustard-coloured socks puzzled him, until he remembered that it had been a present from Dobby. A single white feather - from Hedwig, of course, and there was a prickle of tears in his eyes as he thought of her. He had a new owl now, a very respectable barn owl given to him by Minerva McGonagall, who had remarked with characteristic acerbity that she expected him to live up to the owl's standards.

He glimpsed a bit of wood under a red cloth (his quidditch robes from first year) and reached in. There it was - darker and a little stiffer than his own - Draco's wand. He held it for a minute or two, running his fingers back and forth over the wood.

He sat there for several minutes, wondering what he ought to do. He felt a reluctance to give it back. It had served him well in the few days he'd had it, allowing him to overcome Voldemort and save the world. Perhaps he ought to give it to a museum - the Wand That Defeated Voldemort. He chuckled, imagining the reaction people would have when they found out that they owed their salvation to a Malfoy wand. No he wouldn't give it away, but he didn't want to give it back, either.

He was tempted to hide it back in the trunk and tell Draco he'd lost it, or broken it. It was nothing more than Draco deserved, after all. He was lucky enough to have escaped prison after what he'd done, and if he couldn't afford another wand now he was allowed one, well, that was just too bad.

He couldn't do that, though. He'd never liked Draco, but there had been something horrible in seeing him so docile, so defeated in Harry's office. Draco couldn't hurt him now, and it would be churlish of him to take advantage of him. It would be wrong.

He stuck the wand into his briefcase, ready for the morning, then paused. He couldn't just carry it in like that. It wasn't fitting. He rummaged around again until he found the box that Ollivander had sent his new wand in - it was a little knocked around the corners from being in the trunk, but was otherwise in good condition. He opened it up and put Draco's wand into the box. It wouldn't fit at first - the wand was a little longer than Harry's current one - but he managed it after a finely-controlled engorgio charm.

He made himself a cup of tea and watched the news and the usual Monday night TV shows, but every now and then his gaze returned to the box sticking out of his briefcase. Was he doing the right thing? Would Draco simply turn around and hex him in his own office? Or would he go out and start a new regime of terror?

Harry snorted. Not likely. The Malfoys had no power now, not even in the old pure-blood families. The chance of Draco attracting a following of dark wizards was about as likely as the Chudley Cannons winning the Quidditch league cup three years in a row.

* * *

A parchment bird landed on Harry's desk shortly before lunch, fluttering in the agitated fashion that indicated it required urgent attention. Harry sighed, and opened it. It was from the Visitors' Desk.

Draco Malfoy wishes to see Harry Potter.

Of course - the Ministry clerks wouldn't let him in without a good reason. He scribbled Send him up on the parchment and sent it back down to the desk. Then he reached into his briefcase and brought out the wand box, placing it at the front of his desk.

A few minutes later, Draco walked in through the open door and saw the box. He stopped, obviously startled.

"I found it," Harry said, "I told you I would."

Draco gave him an ironic look. "Yes, Potter, you always did have an annoying habit of keeping your word."

Draco opened the box and took the wand in his hand, and Harry recalled Ollivander's description of it: Hawthorn and unicorn hair. Ten inches precisely. Reasonably springy.

Draco examined it, turning it over and over in his hands but othewise motionless, then raised his arm and gave a familiar swish-and-flick, saying, "Wingardium leviosa." The box quivered for a moment, but didn't rise. Draco tried again. "Wingardium leviosa!" he pronounced, more firmly, and this time the box rose smoothly a foot into the air.

The relief on Draco's face was visible only for a second, then his face became once more the emotionless mask. He slid the wand up his left sleeve.

"Thank you," he said, the words obviously choking him. "This will make life a little easier."

Harry understood. Three years of wandless existence would be Hell on Earth for a family like the Malfoys, and, much as he hated Lucius, he found that he couldn't hate Draco, who had always been so thoroughly under Lucius's control. If giving Draco back his wand helped him to regain a little self-respect, well, that was fine with Harry.

Draco turned to go, and Harry realised that there was something else he had to say.

"Draco!"

"What now, Potter?"

"Um ... I'm sorry I used sectumsempra on you, back in sixth year. I really didn't know what I was doing."

Draco stared. Harry waited, trying not to bite his lip.

"You're apologising?"

"Yes."

Draco considered that for a minute. Harry had no idea what thoughts were going through his head, but there was obviously some strong emotion that Draco was trying to keep under control. He expected a brief thank you and a terse goodbye, but what Draco said was, "I'm sorry I tried to kill you. Several times."

Harry swallowed. That was unexpected. Still, he could feel that Draco meant it. "Apology accepted," he said, as confidently as he could.

"Likewise."

They stood facing each other for another long minute. Harry wondered if he should offer Draco a cup of tea. To his surprise, he found himself holding out his hand. Draco looked at it but didn't move.

"Draco, ten years ago you offered your hand to me and I refused to take it. Don't refuse mine now. I don't think my fragile ego could take it."

Draco's face was lit with the ghost of a smile, but he leaned forward and shook Harry's hand. His skin was warm and dry, and Harry held on to it for a second or two longer than mere social greeting required.

"Now what do we do?" asked Draco.

"Now we start again."