A Stranger Garden

Prologue

1998.

"Are you sure this is what you want?"

Draco raised an eyebrow, irritated. Really, the man had asked this same question several times now. "Do you need to ask that again?"

The man sighed. "No, I suppose not, it's just..."

"You are being well compensated, are you not?"

"Yes, of course, that's not the -"

"Then I suggest you continue with your work and do not think to question me again. I can always obtain the services of another."

Which wasn't quite true. There were others with this man's talent in the field, but none with his reputation for accuracy and, if Draco ever needed any sort of accuracy, he needed it on this project. It was too important. However, Raul didn't need to know that.

Sure enough, Raul sighed once more and continued his work, allowing Draco to adjust his robes, relax back into the pillows on his bed and return to thinking about Potter.

All being well, one day Draco was going to have his revenge on Harry Potter. Oh, yes, Harry bloody Potter was going to get what was coming to him in a way that he would never be able to escape. Ever.

.o0o.

Chapter 1.

2008.

Harry flicked open the newspaper, effectively hiding his face from his children. Three-year-old James was currently battling with a piece of toast. The toast was winning and refused to stay lodged in his nose. His younger brother Albus was shrieking with laughter in that manic high-pitched tone that two-year-olds have and that Al always liked to display right when Harry had a headache from hell and would have dearly loved a quiet breakfast. For a change.

He adored his children and on a normal day they were as good as gold, but today they were going to collect their newborn sister from the hospital and consequently were over excited. To exacerbate the problem, Ron and a few mates had arrived last night armed with several bottles of Firewhisky to 'wet the baby's head' and Harry had been drinking most of the night. Thankfully, he was on parental leave from his job at the Wizarding Historical Archive and Museum, or WHAM as they liked to call it, for the next week, which removed at least one responsibility from his list.

Molly had stayed the night to look after the boys while Harry and his friends celebrated and he was thankful for her help but he wished she would come and take over for him and get them to just shhhhhhhh for a few minutes while he read the paper and let the hangover potion do its work.

He sighed as he heard a muffled noise - one that sounded suspiciously like a sneeze - from James. It probably meant he'd managed to get a corner of his toast stuck right up in his nose and was trying to sneeze it out. James was quite good at getting things stuck in places they shouldn't be. Like the time he'd found Al's stuffed dragon, Binky, squashed flat and slipped under the rug in the hallway. Only the fact that the poor dragon had managed to gather up enough energy for one last blast of fire from its mouth and scorched a black hole in the rug had saved it. Harry wondered at times if his son would grow up to be a thief. Or perhaps a spy. He was good at hiding things.

"James, do I need to remove that piece of toast from your nose?"

"Do, dad," replied James, unabashedly grinning at him while Al still shrieked in laughter from his chair at James' silly talking.

"Fine, well I hope not. But you know what your Gamma Molly will do if she thinks you have a stuffy nose, don't you?"

Harry grinned internally when James' eyes widened in panic.

"Se woon't?"

Harry nodded. "She will assume you are coming down with a cold and dose you up good and proper with that vile tasting medicine you hate."

Al's laughter subsided into a worried giggle. Neither of the boys liked Molly's medicine and even at such a young age they refused to be seen as sick around her in fear of being dosed with something that made them feel ill. Harry didn't blame them. Not one bit.

"Daddy! Fix Dames!" Al demanded.

"You think I should?" Harry turned a grin onto his youngest son. Despite their noise, they really were adorable and he could never resist them. Al nodded vigorously, grinning and shoving a piece of his own toast into his mouth.

"'Fore Gamma Molly tums!" Al said, around his mouthful of toast.

"Hey, little man, no speaking with food in your mouth," Harry admonished him gently. All the same Harry pulled out his wand and turned to James.

"What do you think, tiger?"

A hint of relief crossed James' face now. He knew Harry would fix him and look after him. He nodded.

"All right. But tell me the truth next time you need help."

Harry waved his wand and extracted the soggy pieces of toast, wondering just how James had managed to get so much of it up there. He flicked it to the rubbish bin just as Molly walked through the door. The three boys exchanged secret grins and went back to eating their breakfast or, in Harry's case, reading the newspaper.

"Good morning, boys," Molly's cheerful voice greeted them. Both boys giggled in their secret relief and said good morning back.

"Good morning, Harry, dear. I'm surprised that you're up this early after the late night you had."

"Morning, Molly. Well, when two heffalumps jump on your bed and dig their feet and elbows into you without mercy..." he turned and glared playfully at his two heffalumps, making Al squeal in laughter, "...you tend to not want to stay in bed a minute longer."

"Daddy said a swear word when we jumped on him," Al chanted through his laughter, cheeky eyes flashing with mischief.

"He said 'shit'," James added. "Shit, shit, shit, shit."

"Daddy thinks that small boys should be seen and not heard or else they will not be allowed anywhere near the hospital to pick up their sister later and they will certainly not be allowed their favourite ice cream from Fortesque's on the way there." The children had jumped right on his most sensitive spot while he was sleeping and probably ruined any chance of more children. It had hurt. Badly. Harry thought he should be excused for swearing in that situation.

The children very quickly quieted at that and Harry grinned at Molly as she busied herself round the bright kitchen. Thank God the hangover potion was beginning to work; he could look at the sunlight reflecting off the surfaces in his kitchen and not feel like his eyes were being ripped out of his head.

"Have you eaten?" Molly asked him, ever the mother.

"Not sure my stomach could handle much in the way of food but if you're making coffee I'll have one." He caught her disapproving glance. "I'll eat later, I promise, but if I eat now it will probably end up down the toilet."

"All right, dear. Seeing as these monsters are finished eating I'll take them and clean them up."

"Thank you," said Harry, grinning.

The boys jumped down off their chairs and followed Molly out of the kitchen, still on their best behaviour, under threat of missing out on collecting baby Lily and the ice cream. Privately, Harry thought they'd miss the ice cream more.

He realised that Molly hadn't made him coffee, so he reluctantly dragged himself off the chair and prepared his own, hearing the complaints about washing and brushing teeth coming from the bathroom down the hall.

Once his coffee was prepared he settled himself to reading the paper, his headache seeming to disappear completely at the first sip of the strong liquid. Maybe there was some truth in Ginny's accusation that he was addicted to coffee.

The disappearance of his headache left him feeling ready to tackle the classified section, reading the small print for sales of deceased estates that he could attend and possibly purchase interesting items of furniture or other odd artifacts for the museum. While he was studying a sample list of items for sale in Albert Driver's 'Everything Must Go Clearance Sale', a name caught his attention in the Obituaries column.

Malfoy, Draco 1980-2008

Taken before his time in the most vicious of circumstances.

Rest in peace, nephew and cousin.

Andromeda Tonks and Teddy Lupin.

Harry almost spat out his coffee in shock. Draco Malfoy was dead? How had that happened? Andromeda hadn't made it sound nice. He knew from Teddy that they saw Malfoy regularly, as the boy usually talked about him non-stop on the day after a visit.

He tried to think what he knew of Malfoy since the war. It all seemed like such a long time ago most days, where the scars had grown to cover the gaping wounds, either healing them or hiding them. Directly after the war, Lucius and Narcissa had been given sentences of five years, merely because they had been allied with Voldemort and carried his mark. Harry didn't think that was undeserved, although he had spoken up on Narcissa's behalf for saving his life, which reduced her sentence to two years. Not that it had mattered. Eighteen months into their sentences, a group of giants had gone on the rampage at the prison and killed most of the prisoners, both Malfoys included.

Draco had been sentenced to house arrest, confined to the Manor for ten years. Harry supposed that term should have been completed around about now. The testimony Harry had given to the Wizengamot hadn't helped all that much, though it had kept the boy out of Azkaban. At least he'd been spared that. Still, to survive the decade of house arrest, only to die soon thereafter, was the cruelest joke. Harry made a note to ask Andromeda what happened, although surely if it was so vicious it would have been reported in the paper.

Frowning, he flicked back to the front page and started scanning the articles, looking for any indication of what had happened to Malfoy.

After half an hour he could still find nothing. Which was unusual as the Prophet usually took great delight in announcing the deaths of ex-Death Eaters when they occurred. The last few years there had been less and less of them and so the announcements were becoming even grander. Harry remembered three months ago when Jugson died, the Prophet had prepared a special edition for the sole purpose of announcing his death.

James tore into the kitchen and tugged at Harry's arm, impatiently.

"Daddy, Daddy, come on," he whined. "Ice cream time!" His brown eyes had such a dramatic tint to them that Harry almost laughed. It would surely be a tragedy if they missed out on ice cream right this very minute.

"James Potter, you have only just had breakfast. It is not time for ice cream just yet. But how about I take you and Al across the road to the park for a play first and then we can have ice cream. All right?"

Al came skipping into the kitchen, chanting "park, park, park" which made James kick his ankle and stage whisper, "We're trying to get ice cream. Shhhh."

Biting his lip, he watched the interplay between his sons and saw Al pin James with his bright green eyes and look for all the world like he was thinking things through. Then he grinned and began a new chant. "Ice cream, ice cream, ice cream."

Harry could do nothing but laugh delightedly at his two boys. They were terrors now; he could hardly imagine what they would be like when they got older. "There will be ice cream after the park."

"Feed da ducks?" Al asked, clinging to Harry's knees and bouncing.

"All right. We can feed the ducks. You boys go and get your shoes and I'll get the bread."

They both scampered off to get their shoes and Harry prepared them for the trip to the park, all thoughts of what had happened to Draco Malfoy pushed from his mind.

.o0o.

Consciousness came slowly to Draco. It was just a vague presence back behind his dream - a very lovely dream where he was giving Potter what for in the dungeons at the Manor - just enough for him to realise that he was dreaming. Just enough for him to smile in satisfaction. He might pull this dream out and place it in a Pensieve later. Finally having Potter exactly where he wanted him was something he'd like to revisit over and over again, even if it was only in his dreams.

Eventually, his bladder let him know it was time to wake up properly and he slipped his hand beneath the covers, under the elastic of his boxers to adjust himself, taking care not to caress himself too much or he'd be too hard to piss. Though, slowly he was registering that his limbs felt stiff and were hard to move. He frowned and went to open his eyes, but they felt like they were coated in the crusty stuff he'd had once as a child, and were stuck together. What in the hell was happening? He was sure he'd gone to bed the previous night in good health and free from any revolting diseases of the eye.

Last night...

Oh fuck...

Draco sat bolt upright in bed, ignoring the bolts of pain from the sudden movement, as his memories flooded back. After several panicked moments where he thought he might be blind, Draco forced his eyes open and blinked numerous times to get used to the light and clear the blurriness from his vision.

When it cleared, his worst fears were realised. The bed he was currently in was his own, the room a perfect replica of the original upstairs. Everything down to the items in the drawers beside the bed were exactly the same as they had been when he was eighteen. But the room had one wall missing and in its place, Draco had a view over a dusty Ballroom. The Blue Ballroom in Malfoy Manor that had been closed up and warded since Abraxas Malfoy died from dragon pox in it forty years ago.

Draco had had no plans to reopen it any time soon and he was sure that most people had forgotten about it in any case. Which was why once he'd found a way around the wards, it had been perfect.

But not like this. Anger burned in him with the injustice of it all, hot and bright like the fire of the sun. Involuntarily, his hand rose to his forehead, half expecting to feel the hole that went right through to the soft grey matter of his brain; feel them leaking out between his fingers all over his face. Or had they been blasted out the back of his skull and splattered all over the wall?

He wasn't stupid; he knew about Muggle guns. He just didn't know why he'd become victim to one of them. He supposed that he'd have an eternity to think on these things. At least until the dust faded him and bleached colours and shapes from his world until he no longer existed.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, registering that they were stiff and cramped as well, as if they hadn't ever been used before. When he thought about it that was probably true. These legs hadn't been used before; they felt like they were cracking and brittle. He stretched, groaning at the pop and crackle of his joints creaking and loosening up.

Curiosity, and the novelty of seeing his room from this side for the first time, noticeably abated his anger over the reason he was stuck in his portrait. He took several minutes to shakily stand up and walk around the room, checking that everything was exactly as he'd ordered it painted. His shelves with everything on them; books, nick knacks, photographs of himself, Pansy, and his mother. They were all as he remembered, although these photographs didn't move. When he opened his wardrobe all this clothes were hanging there, in the same neat, ordered fashion they'd been ten years go when the painting had been commissioned.

Even the view from his windows had been painted correctly, although the flock of birds motionless in the sky was disconcerting. Luckily it had been a sunny day when the painting had been done; the sky was blue and there were several puffy clouds, Draco's favourites.

He opened the door that led to his bathroom and smiled to see his eighteen year old self in the mirror, and that even his bottles of hair care products appeared to be exact replicas. And they would never run out, apparently. Just like he'd never run out of food or drink from the kitchens in another portrait, the gardens would always be at their best in yet another portrait and in the Library, he'd had an endless supply of books painted. At least he'd be able to keep up appearances, even though there was no one to keep them up for.

He blinked at himself in the mirror, stilled by a sudden thought.

Potter.

Harry bloody Potter was in his dungeon.