Finding Elvis

Chapter 5 - Seeds of Time

"So, what is it?" Malfoy asked, as their waiter brought them coffees and a small scone for Malfoy.

"How long have you been playing football? You seem rather good at it," Harry found himself saying, still stalling.

"Thanks. Nine, ten years. What's going on?" Malfoy asked, a hint of suspicion creeping into his tone.

All right. No more stalling. "I talked to Andrew Zabini."

Malfoy's eyes widened slightly, then his face wiped itself clean of all expression and a dead silence settled between them.

"He's still alive," Malfoy finally said.

"Still. And he puts you at the scene of three murders you were suspected of fifteen years ago."

"What?"

"Three Muggle teenagers, witnesses to Brunhilda St. Germain's crimes. You were a suspect in their murders. Zabini says you were there, and you participated."

Malfoy's eyes closed and he took a deep breath, his face draining of all colour.

"You knew you'd been suspected, didn't you?"

"No, I didn't," Malfoy said evenly, meeting Harry's eyes. "I left Zabini's place about a week after that and lost all contact with the wizarding world. How would I have known?"

"A witness saw you there. It was one of the rumours going around about you at the time, part of why some people thought you'd gone back to the Death Eaters after you disappeared."

"Lovely. And Zabini says I did it? Even though I hadn't the magical ability to boil a cup of tea by that point?"

"He claims that you helped him to kill them. That you were an active participant in torturing them before they died. That a lot of what he did, he did at your request."

"Did he explain why he did anything at my request by that point? Especially since he refused to do the one thing I kept asking him to do, which was to let me go?"

"Because he thought you might be useful to him, when or if you got your magic back. That you might emerge as a leader. For either side."

Malfoy's face was still expressionless. "Do you believe what he told you?"

"I don't know."

"Those Muggles were killed by Avada Kedavra."

"You don't deny you were there, then?"

"No, of course not. I even knew somebody'd seen me there, Zabini told me as much. I just didn't know they'd ever told anybody."

"What were you doing there?"

"Zabini had brought me along; I'd no idea why."

"What did you do?"

"What did Zabini say?"

"I'd rather hear your version first."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed, and Harry was suddenly reminded, viscerally, of the fact that they had once been sworn enemies. That Malfoy had never told the truth unless there was a percentage in it for him. That Malfoy had taken the Dark Mark, knowing full well what it meant, and stayed among people who committed murder for sport, for four years. Asking him his version of events - what possible use would that be?

Malfoy's gaze dropped to the tabletop and his eyes unfocussed as he put his elbows on the table and absently rubbed at his left forearm. Harry waited patiently, noting how completely the healthy flush of exertion from the football game had been replaced by deep pallor. How Malfoy's breathing was a little too steady, as though he were going to extraordinary lengths to keep himself calm. Observations and clues about an enemy's state of mind that Harry hadn't had to use since the war.

"I did help Zabini," Malfoy said abruptly. Harry felt his mouth drop open. Malfoy's eyes didn't flicker from the tabletop. "I don't remember much of what happened that night, fortunately. Or rather, unfortunately, I suppose. But I do remember being there. Watching while he tortured them. He used Cruciatus on at least one of them. Dangled them over the quarry just to hear them scream."

"The witness said you were laughing."

"I probably was."

"Those Muggles were sixteen and eighteen years old," Harry said, wondering how his own voice could sound so dispassionate when he was screaming inside.

"By the time I was as old as that boy, I'd killed two people myself, and seen plenty of others tortured and killed. Death Eater, remember?"

"Did you tell Zabini what to do?"

Malfoy's jaw was set, the fingers of his right hand white as they gripped his left forearm, but his voice was calm and cool. "I remember commenting that if we'd both still been Death Eaters, we would've had some fun with them before killing them. I may have suggested some of what Zabini did, but I honestly don't remember."

"What else did you do? Other than be amused at their pain?"

"The boy tried to crawl out of the quarry. I pushed him back in. The fall may have killed him. I don't know. He was definitely dead by the time Zabini got him out of the quarry."

"Malfoy... why?"

"He was dead anyway. Zabini wasn't going to let him go. And... and I wanted to." Malfoy's eyes closed briefly, then he continued, his voice almost as steady as before. "I wanted to. I didn't know much by that point, but I knew I wanted someone to hurt for what had happened to me. And that boy was as good as dead; if I didn't kill him, Zabini would, and probably be a lot more brutal about it." He cleared his throat. "And he was just a Muggle," he said softly. "Nobody important anyway."

"Did you do anything else?"

"After they were dead, I helped Zabini put them into their car before he sent it off to crash."

"So you are guilty, then," Harry said calmly after a moment.

Malfoy shrugged, almost casually. "Accessory after the fact, if nothing else."

The rain was dripping outside. It was almost soothing, a monotonous pitter-pat that was the same in the Muggle world and the wizarding world.

"So what happens now?" Malfoy finally asked.

"I don't know."

"How clever of you," Malfoy remarked dryly. "One would think you might've had a plan of action before confronting a known felon about something like this."

"Why? Planning on running away again?"

Malfoy didn't hesitate. "No. I don't think anything'll happen. The Muggle police won't care, this many years later. And even if they do, it'll mean at most two or three more years. Don't forget, I know the system here inside and out."

"What about on our side? You never faced that justice system. You made a deal and got away with everything you did as a Death Eater. I have a confession from you now. How do you know I didn't just record all of this? I could-"

"You could. I don't think you will. Besides, are there Dementors in Azkaban any more?"

"No. Not for years."

"I didn't think they'd stay in the end," Malfoy remarked. "Without them, Azkaban's not that much worse than here. And I doubt I'd get more than four or five years anyway."

"You would just let yourself get arrested?" Malfoy shrugged, unconcerned. "Malfoy, your child-"

"Is precisely why I won't run," he snapped. "I don't want my child to grow up hiding from anything. If I have to serve time again, I'll bloody well do it, and get out in time to actually be a father."

The rain was picking up force, and Harry watched a small rivulet travel down the window beside him. "You know..." he said slowly, "I never would've thought to talk to Andrew Zabini, if you hadn't mentioned him."

"Me and my big mouth."

"Why did you?"

"Careless, I suppose. It's been a long time since I thought about any of what happened back then. I also don't have good time sense of that era of my life; I'd honestly forgotten that I was with Zabini after I left Pansy's." He stirred his coffee idly. "I suppose if Jilly knew about this, she'd say it was my subconscious wanting absolution. Which, personally, I rather doubt."

"Because that would imply a conscience?" Harry asked cuttingly, and Malfoy's eyes snapped back to his face.

"What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry for what I did?" he sneered. "That I was violently ill afterwards, or, or that I cried every night for years, thinking about those poor, poor children dying in pain and scared senseless? That I'm still haunted by their ghosts?" He laughed bitterly at Harry's disgusted disbelief. "Do you have any idea how many situations just like that one I found myself in as a Death Eater? If I stayed awake through the night for every person I harmed, I'd've died of lack of sleep long ago."

"You never did change, did you?"

"What?"

"You came over to our side without changing who you were."

"Don't presume to tell me who I was," he snapped. "Or who I am or whether or not I changed. You didn't know me back then, and you don't know me now."

"I knew you fairly well in school. You were a selfish, cruel, spoiled brat, with almost no humanity or compassion in you at all. And I think the only reason you came over to our side was that you sensed Voldemort would lose in the end. Forget any worry over his effect on our world."

"You don't know a damn thing about me," Malfoy said coldly.

"So why don't you tell me. Explain why I shouldn't hand you over to the Aurors. Explain that night to me. Explain why you switched sides in the first place."

"You want me to give you a story that's sad enough to trigger that famous Potter need to rescue the downtrodden? So you'll forgive my sins and graciously let me go? Not interested."

"Zabini thought you'd never really left the Death Eaters. Parkinson said you'd never really believed in our side. How am I supposed to believe you deserve any kind of mercy for those crimes, if you were still sympathetic to Voldemort?"

"Oh, so if I was really a reformed Death Eater when I helped Zabini that night, what I did might be acceptable? Listen to yourself." He gave a short laugh. "I'm not going to justify myself to you, fifteen years after the fact."

"You'd rather justify yourself to the Ministry?" Harry paused to let that sink in. "Nobody knows what I've found. I don't have to tell anybody."

"You hold my life in your hands, is that it? Go to hell."

"Fine. I thought you were concerned about Jilly and your child." Harry started to get up, not knowing whether the sick feeling in his stomach was disgust at himself, or at Malfoy, or for both.

Malfoy grabbed his arm. They locked eyes for a long, tense moment, and Harry could almost sense Malfoy's pride, and his anger and resentment at Harry, battling with his need to defend himself for the sake of his family.

Malfoy finally dropped his eyes, released Harry and sat back, crossing his arms. Harry slowly sat back down and waited, and was about to speak again when Malfoy took a deep breath, then let it out and looked at him.

"I did it because of my daughter," he said quietly.

"What?" Harry blinked. "I asked why you switched sides during the war, not why-"

"And I'm telling you. It was because of my daughter."

"You said you didn't have any children."

"I'm fairly sure I don't, not any more."

"She's... she's dead?"

"Most probably. I think so, anyway." Malfoy lifted his glasses and rubbed at his eyes wearily and Harry waited patiently for him to continue.

"She was a mistake," he said, settling the glasses back down and picking up his coffee spoon, idly toying with it, avoiding Harry's gaze. "Her mother was a Muggle. Waitressed at one of the places the Death Eaters used to meet. And no, it wasn't love at first sight or anything like that, though she was fairly attractive, I suppose. Then again, at eighteen just about any female is attractive."

"And she got pregnant?"

"My father was furious," he spoke softly, slowly stirring his coffee. "It wasn't easy to explain that I honestly forgot to use contraception spells because it just hadn't occurred to me that I'd need to, with a Muggle. Definitely a low point in my father's regard for me."

"I can imagine."

"No, actually, you can't," he said dryly. "In any case, the child wasn't that big a problem, once the initial shock was over. My father made me convert some of my personal account into Muggle money and leave it for her mother to use in bringing her up, and then he commanded me to make myself scarce in her life, and I was quite happy to do so."

"Why did he make you support her at all?"

"There was no question of bringing her up as a Malfoy - can you imagine, a half-blood Malfoy? But the fact was that she was the product of my own carelessness, and I owed her a certain minimal paternal duty. Although I doubt Father was all that concerned about her; I think mostly he wanted to make sure I paid dearly for my mistake. Believe me, it wasn't a mistake I was ever going to make again."

"I take it Jilly's child is-"

"Not a mistake, no," Malfoy said firmly. "Anyhow, I didn't think about her much after that. I was too busy staying out of the Aurors' hands and helping my father. And getting more and more concerned about Voldemort's iron grip on power and people. Especially combined with his... rather shaky hold on sanity."

"And yet you stayed with the Death Eaters for four years."

"What was the alternative? Voldemort was deranged, but the other side - as far as I was concerned, they were going to destroy our world. They risked our world every time they let another Muggle-born into Hogwarts. They risked our secrecy, risked our blood and magical abilities - it was an Us versus Them world to me, and Us didn't seem so wonderful, but Them was no better, as far as I was concerned."

"How can you still-"

"Then at one point Voldemort got the brilliant notion of blood sacrifices, do you remember?"

"Yes," Harry said, suppressing a shudder. It had been a particularly horrifying part of the war, finding bodies of the loved ones of Death Eaters, thinking at first that they were killing each other off in political infighting and then realizing that Voldemort was forcing his followers to provide fuel for his magic with sacrifices of their own kin. "We didn't realize at first that-" Harry stopped. "Your daughter."

"My daughter," Malfoy repeated expressionlessly. "She was barely two years old. My father informed me that he would be presenting her to Voldemort, and he was - he was happy. Happy that the Malfoys could provide a victim that would satisfy the ritual's need to have a blood connection, without damaging us in any way. Get rid of my embarrassing little half-blood accident, provide fuel for the Dark Lord's magic, at no cost to us at all." Malfoy gaze turned inwards. "It was a win-win scenario as far as he was concerned. He was quite smug about it."

"And that's what changed your mind?"

"I don't know why, but it felt like the last straw. I didn't know the girl, I'd seen her all of once, but the fact was that she was my daughter. And, and Father's grand-daughter. And it was insane, that we would follow somebody who would demand something like that of us. I didn't care about most Dark Magic, it was just magic to me, it could be good or bad, but that... it was just wrong."

"What did you do?"

"I contacted her mother. Told her they were in danger, gave her as much money as I could without tipping off my father - which wasn't nearly as much as you'd think, by that point in the war. Told her to hide, take a new name. Then I disappeared. Stayed with Pansy for a while, then at Muggle inns in small towns. I avoided confronting the Death Eaters as long as I could, until I finally realized I had to choose a side and fight for it."

"What happened to the girl?"

"I've no idea. I didn't dare contact them; I didn't know if I was being watched or not. I don't have high hopes that they survived. Her mother wasn't particularly clever or resourceful, from what I remember of her."

"Would you want to know?"

"Not really, no. She'd be almost twenty years old, now. Can you imagine? Me, with a full grown child," Malfoy smiled slightly. "She didn't even look anything like me, except for her eyes." He took a sip of his cooling coffee. "I did wonder, though, nine years ago... I wondered if she went to Hogwarts."

"Did you tell anybody about her?"

"Just Pansy and my parents."

"Not the Ministry?"

"I told the Ministry I switched sides because I didn't think Voldemort was a good leader, which was true. That was all they needed to know."

"It wasn't the whole story though, was it? Your defection looked a lot like opportunism, wanting to be on the winning side. They didn't trust you as much as they could have. They only really used you when they were desperate. Maybe if you'd told them the reason you came over, you would've been entrusted with bigger assignments; you might have been able to help more than you did."

"Or maybe they wouldn't have believed a word of it without actually seeing the girl. Maybe they would've led the Death Eaters straight to where she and her mother were hiding - neither side was particularly good at keeping secrets."

"You don't know that."

"I know that I gave the Ministry information they needed. I helped them in their damned dirty little war, even though I didn't give a toss about Muggles or Muggle-borns and wanted them out of our world. And I lost everything that ever meant anything to me in the process." He put his spoon down and stood, fixing Harry with a cold glare. "And frankly, I don't give a damn any more what the Ministry thinks or what they'll do. Or what you'll do. Let me know when you make up your mind about this. What's that stupid saying, don't do the crime if you can't do the time? I did the crime. I'll do the time, if I have to. Right now, I'm going home."

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"So what the hell do I do now?"

Celsus was motionless in deep thought, as he had been during Harry's entire recitation of the events of the past few weeks.

"Celsus, what should I do?"

"I don't know."

"I - it, it doesn't matter that Zabini admitted Malfoy was drunk that night. He may have killed that boy. And he helped to torture all of them. And he doesn't even feel any remorse for what he did."

"You don't know that," Celsus said quietly.

"He said-"

"He said that he wasn't going to tell you the kind of sad story you wanted to hear in order to get your pity."

"You're defending him?"

Celsus shook his head. "I'm not. He's guilty, and you're right, the fact that he was drunk doesn't change that. I just don't think that a show of remorse or lack thereof should be counted for or against him."

"Should I tell the Ministry? Or the Muggle police?"

"What would that gain?"

"It's not a question of what it would gain. It's a question of doing what's right."

"For whom? He's right, you know, that the Muggle police won't care. And their families won't gain anything from it. Their families buried them thinking they died in a car accident."

"Don't you think they deserve to know what really happened?" Harry asked.

"That their children died in a war nobody knew about, as a result of curses they won't even believe in? Listen to yourself, Harry."

Harry frowned at Celsus. Listen to yourself, Malfoy had said yesterday, in the same dry, mocking tone. "You think he ought to get away with it, don't you? He saved your life, he did one good and noble thing in his life and paid for it, so he should be given a free pass for everything else. Is there anything he could do that would make you drop this hero-worship of yours?"

"Allow me to point out that I didn't say he ought to get away with anything, and I'm not sure he should," Celsus said evenly.

"Do you think he should he go to Azkaban?"

"I don't know." Celsus steepled his fingers together. "What purpose would be served if he did?"

"Justice."

"Maybe."

"And if he doesn't, he'll have got away with torturing children just because he was drunk and feeling sorry for himself, and because I feel bad about taking him away from the life he's got now."

"Maybe." Celsus started to pick at his steak and kidney pie.

"Where's the justice in that? So what if he's starting a family - that's something those children never got to do, because thanks to him and Zabini, they didn't get to grow up." Harry's mouth twisted in disgust. "Zabini said he'd moved on and left the 'unpleasantness' behind him. And so has Malfoy, apparently. What about the people who never got the chance to do it themselves?"

"This isn't really about Malfoy getting on with his life," Celsus said brusquely. "Or Zabini doing the same, for that matter. It's about you."

"What?"

"They moved on. A lot of people did. Not you."

"What are you-"

"For god's sake, Harry. Grow up. It's been fifteen years. Don't you think that's long enough to hang on to the past? No matter what happened to any of us, no matter what friendships were lost or destroyed by death or the war or whatever, it all happened fifteen years ago. It's time to let it go."

"I have let it go-"

"Look around you. For once, look at yourself and the choices you've made. Look at this bloody cafeteria and look at your office and your lovely flat and ask yourself why in hell you're still doing what you're doing. Why you're still the great and exalted Harry Potter, doing what everybody expects you to do. Why you're still punishing yourself. Why you can't seem to get a life and grow up." He tossed down his fork impatiently. "Look around you. Malfoy's having a child. Longbottom's married, with three children. Hannah-"

"I've never wanted children-"

"That's not all I mean by growing up, and you know it. Emma Sprout's never married or had children either, but she's got friends and a purpose to her life and, and hope, and a place where she belongs - and you don't. Except within other people's expectations."

Celsus leaned forward intently. "And maybe you should think about all of that, before presuming to decide anything about Draco Malfoy's life. If you're going to condemn him, bloody well do it for the right reasons, and not because you're angry at him for doing what you've never been able to do." He glared at Harry. "You've spied on him, investigated his past without his knowledge or consent, told him you just wanted to 'fill in the blanks on his files' and never let him know that you were actually trying to determine whether or not he should be allowed to keep the life he's got. You've used every advantage you have to manipulate a disabled man, just because you wanted to and just because you could."

"That's not fair-"

"And you probably got quite a thrill, whether you admit it to yourself or not, at him being so helpless, with his fate in your hands, after all he did to you when you were children. So tell me, who's the Slytherin now, Harry?"

Harry stared at Celsus, his mouth slightly open in shock.

"Finish your lunch," Celsus said curtly. He picked up his fork and started eating his pie, ignoring Harry for a few minutes. Then he glanced at him impatiently. "You've got to review for a meeting in Velleywold with the leprechaun committee tonight, don't you? Mustn't show up unprepared for that."

Harry glanced down at his rather unappetizing curry, his mind spinning. No, he literally couldn't quite stomach it right now.

He took a deep breath. "Celsus?"

"What?"

"I didn't tell you everything Andrew Zabini said to me."

8888888888

"I'm dropping the investigation into what happened with the three Muggles," Harry said without preamble three days later. They'd barely sat down at the café. Malfoy looked startled.

"What?"

"I won't follow it any further. You... you've paid enough for what you did. More than enough. And those children... nothing will bring them back, or give them justice. All that'll happen is that you'll lose even more, and so will your family."

Malfoy stared at him blankly. "Just like that? You're dropping it?"

"Yeah."

"You believed me?"

"Not entirely. I went back and looked through your financial records." Malfoy half-smiled at him with a bemused expression, as though approving of the fact that Harry had mistrusted him enough to verify his story. "I found the money you sent to a Muggle woman named Jennifer Kalle. There's no record of her death, by the way. I couldn't find any other records of her-"

"She was supposed to run and hide herself and - and her child."

"Your daughter Sharon," Harry said gently. He answered Malfoy's unspoken question. "I talked to Pansy. She confirmed everything. Even knew their names."

"So that's it?"

"Yeah, that's it. Your file is closed."

Malfoy let out his breath, leaned his elbows on the table and rested his head on his hands. Harry noted the slight tremor in his hands, the way his whole body seemed to relax from the taut tension Harry had noted in him at The Book Cellar today, even before Malfoy had seen him.

Malfoy finally raised his head. "Thank you," he said, his voice only slightly unsteady.

"You're welcome."

"What - I mean, why-"

"Celsus Green. He... he pointed out a few things I needed to think about. So I thought about them."

Malfoy was slowly regaining his equilibrium, and Harry wondered briefly what the last few days had been like for him, not knowing what Harry would do. Not knowing whether everything he cared about would be snatched away from him again.

Harry fiddled with his coffee cup for a moment, then blurted out, "I, I brought you pictures."

"What?"

"You said you left with nothing. Did you have any pictures? Of your family, your friends?"

"Er - no."

"Do you want them?"

Malfoy was staring at him, utterly off-balance, as Harry placed an envelope on the table. "I'm, I'm sorry, it honestly didn't occur to me to bring any before. And I'd been looking through files on your activities with the Death Eaters, so I'd seen plenty of pictures of the people you knew. It never occurred to me that you might not have any of your own."

Malfoy slowly reached for the envelope, taking out the dozen or so pictures Harry had had copied. His eyes fell upon the first picture and he looked upon his mother's face for the first time in fifteen years, and his breath caught. He gazed at the picture for a few moments, an unreadable expression on his face, then he smiled slightly and slid the rest back into the envelope and tucked the envelope into his pocket.

"Thank you. Again."

"Malfoy... there's something else." Harry quickly put out his hand as Malfoy tensed up automatically. "No, it's nothing bad, trust me. It's - it's good, actually."

"What?"

"You know I talked to Zabini. He told me everything that happened, laughed at me because he thought you and everybody else who had anything to do with the Muggle murders was dead, and there was nothing I could do about any of it." Harry took a deep breath. "And then he said it was too bad you had left our world or killed yourself or whatever, instead of staying a few years longer."

Malfoy frowned. "Why?"

"You weren't the only one to lose your magic, you know the Death Eaters were using Enmagio on a lot of people." Malfoy nodded. "Well, not all of the survivors were content to live as Squibs. Some of the wealthier ones and their families set a group of people to find a counter-spell."

"There is no counter-spell."

"There wasn't. It's been fifteen years. They made one."

Malfoy stared at him.

"You could come back, Malfoy. You could have magic agai-"

"No."

Harry stopped, unprepared for the vehement tone in Malfoy's voice. "...no?"

"No."

"But-"

"Look, I don't think we have anything to discuss. Thanks for - for what you did, and for the pictures, but I, I have to get back to the store." He stood up quickly.

"What? Wait-"

"No, I-"

"Look, I know this is a lot to-"

"Do you mind?" Malfoy said between gritted teeth. "Some of us have to work for a living here. I haven't been much use at the store the last few days, I've got to get caught up." He started towards the door.

Harry gaped at him, utterly thrown by the lightning-fast change in Malfoy's demeanor. "Er... fine. But think about it. I'm, I'm done at Velleywold, but I can come back same time, next week-"

"No, don't bother," Malfoy tossed over his shoulder, and the café door swung shut behind him.

8888888888

Harry's gossip weed was swaying softly to the sounds of the WWN drama program, which featured excerpts from Macbeth, The Crucible, and Three Sovereigns For Sarah. All Muggle plays, with witchcraft or witches as the subjects or as major players.

I danced for the Devil; I saw him, I wrote in his book ¹

The weed's butter-yellow had deepened to a rich tawny gold, and it was giving off a faint smell of cinnamon, radiating happiness while WWN droned on about witches who weren't really witches. Muggle imagination couldn't hold a candle to the reality of witchcraft, good or bad: gossip weeds, the enchanted sunset sky that cast its bright colours over Harry's flat, Quidditch...

Who would willingly pass all of that up? For a bookstore and football and computers? Not to mention putting up with disdainful wealthy customers and brainless superiors?

Three sovereigns, one for each golden life lost ²

Well... somebody who was punishing himself might.

Harry's mind had replayed for him, over and over, Malfoy's mocking "What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry for what I did? That I was violently ill afterwards, or, or that I cried every night for years?" But there had to be a reason Malfoy had fallen so far down after the war. A reason beyond just feeling sorry for himself for losing his magic or family or friends or social position.

Although, now that Harry thought about it, all of that would be enough to make a lot of people fall a lot farther than Malfoy had.

But maybe Malfoy had also been dealing with deep guilt. For the death of a daughter he'd never known, a family he'd betrayed, ideals that had failed him, as well as those "poor, poor children dying in pain and scared senseless" and the rest of his victims. And maybe after the worst of his guilt was expiated by prison and addiction, he'd decided that the Muggle world was a fitting life-long punishment.

What had he said? "I did the crime, I'll do the time," and he really seemed to mean it. Maybe having that potential short-term sentence lifted, and almost immediately being given the chance to lift the life sentence he'd become resigned to, had been too much to take in all at once.

In which case, he probably just needed time to think it over. The time that Harry had taken, after talking to Celsus. Time to think, not just about the undeniable horror of what Malfoy had done, but about the mitigating factors in play at the time. Pain, loss, grief, drug addiction, alcohol, and essentially being held captive by Andrew Zabini. Not excuses, certainly, but definitely food for thought. Because in the same situation, what would anybody do?

You are God's instrument put in our hands to discover the devil's agents among us ³

"If you're going to condemn him, bloody well do it for the right reasons, and not because you're angry at him for doing what you've never been able to do," Celsus had said, and he'd been right about the first part of that, at least. He had to condemn or forgive Malfoy for the right reasons. And the fact that so many others were dead or still suffering, and Malfoy was not, was just not good enough.

As for condemning him because he was angry at Malfoy for moving on, when Harry himself hadn't... well. Celsus was a wise man, but he didn't know everything. Harry looked around his comfortable, spacious living room, with its warm fireplace and enchanted ceiling. Not a bad place. He doubted Malfoy's flat could compare in any way. Not likely, on the salary of a bookstore clerk and a waitress. How this qualified as "not moving on" and "punishing" himself, Harry had no idea.

Harry idly waved his wand to change the display on his ceiling to a starry sky, grimly dismissing Celsus' words. He wasn't punishing himself. Living up to expectations was not punishing himself. Besides, Malfoy had reasons to punish himself. Harry didn't.

There be no blush about my name ⁴, said the WWN, and the gossip weed swayed in time with the words.

Harry had attended, of course, those lectures on mental health that the Ministry had sponsored right after the war. Talking about psychological maladies and urging that people "look into themselves to heal their wounds of war" - tripe, as Malfoy had labelled that kind of thing. He'd dutifully listened to the lectures on Survivor Guilt. Accepted that the way he felt was normal and natural, and that many other survivors felt that way too. Of course they did; there was no shortage of people to mourn. An endless array of Ginny Weasleys and Ron Weasleys and Seamus Finnigans and Vincent Crabbes and Draco Malfoys. People who were dead, imprisoned, missing, insane, maimed. Reaching out to those who'd escaped more or less unscathed and weighing them down with guilt and a sense of undeserved good fortune.

If you can look into the seeds of time/And say which grain will grow and which will not/Speak then to me ⁵

So Harry had done what he could to deal with it. Dutifully taken cheering potions and listened to a few motivational speeches that would've made his gossip weed quite happy if he'd had it at the time. And he'd made sure he lived his life in a way that would minimize his survivor guilt. Because the best way to make other's sacrifices not be in vain was to not squander the life they'd bought for him.

He hadn't squandered it. He had done good and important things with his life. He might not enjoy his job all that much, but he did it because it needed to be done and he needed to feel useful, to know that he was doing the right thing. What was it Celsus had said about Emma? That she had a purpose to her life and a place where she belonged? Well, so did Harry.

It was just too bad that Celsus couldn't see that. Celsus probably thought Harry should surround himself with friends, or quit his job, or get married and start a family, or spend some time "healing old wounds". Contacting Molly Weasley, for instance. Or Remus Lupin, or Hermione Granger. All things he had no time or need to do.

I have bought/Golden opinions from all sorts of people ⁶

Celsus could bloody well keep his opinions to himself, Harry thought impatiently, and turned the WWN off.

8888888888

Malfoy was deep in conversation with a customer in the Mystery section when Harry walked into The Book Cellar, but he acknowledged Harry's entrance with a quick smile and an 'I'll be with you in five minutes' gesture. Harry perused the shelves, his interest caught by the bizarre book covers in the Music section.

"Ted, I'm going on break, right? Cover?" Malfoy said, and was answered by a grunt from a clerk Harry couldn't see. He turned as Malfoy walked towards him, gesturing for them to go to the café.

"Dave, where's the invoice for the Penguin shipment?" asked a harried-looking woman. "They forgot to-"

"I cleared it already; it's all in the log."

"Oh god thank you. Hello," the woman said to Harry, "Are you Dave's brother-in-law-to-be, then?"

"No," Malfoy chuckled, "Alan came by already today, you missed him again. This is Potter, we went to school together."

"You went to school?" she teased Malfoy, and he nodded.

"Very exclusive private boarding school," he said seriously, and she laughed. Harry smiled, amused, as they left the store.

"Jason, cappuccino please?" Malfoy called out, and Harry nodded for the same.

"So, did you think about it?" he finally asked as they sat down.

"Yeah."

"And?"

"My answer's the same, Potter. It's not going to change."

"What?" Harry was honestly floored.

"I've worked for fifteen years to make a life for myself here," Malfoy said simply. "This is where I belong."

"This? You belong here? You're happy to sweep the store and bring in boxes and talk about young adult novels?"

Malfoy smiled, amused and not offended in the slightest. "You really don't understand, do you?"

"Understand what? You could-"

"The wizarding world was an escape for you, from your miserable Muggle childhood. That's what the Muggle world is to me."

"This is an escape?"

"Yeah."

Harry stared at him.

"I didn't need a week to think about it." Harry opened his mouth and Malfoy cut him off. "Don't worry, I did think about it, but I really didn't need to."

"But you, you... how can you say you prefer this? You were... you were a Malfoy, you had house elves and the world at your feet-"

"Oh, has Malfoy Manor been rebuilt in my absence? Because last I saw, it was an impressive pile of rubble with rather a lot of Ministry types wondering how they were going to hide it from the Muggles in the morning."

"No, but-"

"And even if it had been rebuilt, I wouldn't want to go back to it."

"But you could be - you don't have to - look, you know I'm at the Ministry? I'm actually Deputy Minister, Malfoy. And Hermione Granger ended up Professor of Transfiguration at Hogwarts. Padma Patil is an Auror. Millicent Bulstrode-"

"What's Ron Weasley doing these days, Potter?" Malfoy asked quietly.

Harry fell silent.

"And Vincent Crabbe? And-"

"Yes, I get the point, thank you."

"And what would I go back to? A world where most of my friends and family died or ended up in disgrace? Why would I want to do that?"

Harry opened his mouth to speak, only to find he had nothing to say.

"And where would that leave Jilly? You can't give her magic, can you?"

"No. But she-"

"She'd have to live as a Squib. She deserves better than that."

"You would give up the chance of getting your magic back, for her?"

"Not just for her. For me too." Harry opened his mouth and Malfoy continued. "Even if it was just for her, she's worth it." Harry frowned. "Maybe you can't understand that because you're not married-"

"No, I'm not. Not any more."

Malfoy frowned, thrown off-balance. "You were?"

"Yeah."

"Anyone I know?"

Harry took a deep breath, wishing that for once that he could think about her without bitterness and regret. "Hermione Granger."

Malfoy's eyes widened. "Granger? Good god."

"Yeah."

"I always thought she and Weasley-"

"Well, no."

"No, I suppose not," Malfoy said. "When - how long were-"

"Three years, off and on, around the end of the war."

"What... what happened?"

Harry was abruptly reminded of Pansy Parkinson's "We hadn't realized high school romances should be left in high school," and wished it had been that simple for himself and Hermione. He shrugged. "Who knows," he said shortly. "War. Peace. Ghosts. It doesn't matter."

"Do you still see her?"

"No. Divorce doesn't lend itself to friendship after the fact."

"But she was one of your closest friends."

"I take it you've never been divorced."

"No."

"Pray to keep it that way," Harry said grimly, then cleared his throat and looked away, unwilling to see the naked pity on Malfoy's face. "What... what will you do if your child is magical?"

"Not likely," Malfoy said. "That curse was supposed to get to your blood; that was part of the horror of it for the precious purebloods, wasn't it?"

"But what if they are? Wizards are born to Muggles sometimes; what would you do?"

"Send them to Hogwarts, I suppose."

"And you would still stay here?"

"Yeah, I would."

"Malfoy-"

"That's not my name any more."

"Look-"

"My name is David Bergsen. That's who I am, it's who I've been for fifteen years. I work at a book store, and I live in a small flat with my girlfriend Jilly, and in my spare time I play football and read and babysit my niece and nephews. And Jilly and I are getting married and starting a family. And that's all good, Potter. It's a hell of a lot better than anything I ever had as Draco Malfoy."

"So you're just going to forget the first twenty-three years of your life?"

"I haven't forgotten my past. I can't forget - if nothing else, I see my tattoos every day of my life. But it's who I was, not who I am."

Harry was struck by the fact that he and Malfoy were probably the only two people who knew what those tattoos meant. To the world, they could be seen as mementos of a wild youth. Or perhaps the efforts of a young inmate trying to project toughness for self-preservation behind bars. Only Harry could see them as mute memorials to a man who had died, etched onto the skin of the man who'd taken his place.

A man who seemed quite content to have taken his place. Who actually seemed to like it here.

He sat back and sighed, giving in. "I can't believe you're-"

"Can't believe I'm rejecting your efforts to rescue me from this dismal life of mine?" Malfoy shook his head. "I think of the two of us, I'm not the one who needs rescuing the most."

Harry dropped his eyes and was silent for a long time. "Maybe."

"Did Celsus have anything to say about that?" Malfoy asked after a small pause.

"Yeah, actually, he did," Harry replied, a little startled by Malfoy's unexpected insight.

"Celsus never gave much advice," Malfoy said, almost gently, "but when he did, it was almost always a very good idea to at least think about it."

Harry nodded, and silence settled between them again.

"I guess there's not much else to say, then," Harry said finally.

"Not really."

Harry stood up and paid for both their coffees, murmuring, "No, it's on me," and they headed out of the café.

"Malf - er, Bergsen, I suppose," he said, stopping at the door.

Malfoy grinned in appreciation of his attempt at the name. "What?"

"Your hair and your eyes."

"Yeah?"

"How do you keep them that colour? Did somebody spell them for you before you left?"

Malfoy chuckled wryly. "I wish."

"So how-"

"It's not brain surgery, Potter, just contacts and colour."

"For fifteen years?"

"More like twelve, but yeah."

"Jilly knows?" Harry asked.

"Jilly knows I've got a sordid past. Probably figures there's a reason for it."

"I could spell them to stay that colour."

Malfoy smiled at him, amused. "Tell me how I'd explain that to Jilly."

"I suppose you couldn't, not with the eyes. But a lot of people's hair gets darker as they age."

Malfoy started to shake his head, then cocked his head to the side and looked at him. "All right, yeah."

"Really?"

"I've got nothing against magic. And it would save a few euros and a bit of time in the morning, hiding the roots, so why not?"

Harry glanced around the café. Nobody around. He slipped out his wand. He felt an odd pang of regret over what he was about to do, thinking of Malfoy's distinctive near-white hair. On both him and his father, it made them stand out in any crowd. It seemed so wrong to get rid of that forever, in favour of this nondescript mousy brown. But Malfoy was looking at him expectantly, not seeming to have any second thoughts about it. "Capilluscoloro," he said quickly, and tucked his wand away again.

Malfoy looked at him quizzically. "That's it?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"You just happen to know that spell off the top of your head?"

"I looked it up," Harry admitted. "I thought... I honestly thought you'd want to come back. But I figured, just in case..."

"Thanks." Malfoy touched his hair briefly, smiled slightly. "Doesn't feel any different."

"That's the point."

"Yeah." He opened the Book Cellar door. "I have to get back to-"

"Yeah, back to work, I know," Harry nodded, and then Malfoy hesitated for a moment, gazing at him thoughtfully.

"Potter?"

"Yeah?"

"Think about whatever it was Celsus said to you."

"Yeah. I will."

"And... thanks."

"You're welcome. I'll see you around."

"Yeah. I'll be here," Malfoy grinned and went into the bookstore. Harry stood thinking for a while, then turned back to Velleywold.

David Bergsen had found where he belonged. Maybe it was high time for Harry to do the same.

He stepped into the floo and headed for home.

- end