Refraction

"Not pain, or not so much pain, but only a just sadness, a due measure of melancholy, quiet and right."

--Lois McMaster Bujold

* * *

(Harry, 2006)

We rest here in a desert.

Sunlight is filtering slowly over a brown landscape covered in low, scrubby plants with strange, spiky leaves. Small cold-blooded creatures are beginning to move sluggishly in the faint heat of the rising sun. The last of the night-things are giving up their hunting and browsing, and sunlight animals are starting their daily fight for survival. The desert is beautiful and cruel.

Some say that the desert erases memory, but this is not true. The desert preserves everything; better than a peat bog; better than the bottom of the sea. It has no hatred for the past, my desert, but rather terminal indifference. Its landscape is not influenced by transient humans and their memories. Human structures inevitably bleach to a light grey and fade into the varied browns of desert land and sky, flora and fauna. The desert doesn't erase memory; it allows you to erase it.

I still remember a soft, green land that did more to nurture me than my human guardians, and I remember the life I led there, but the memories are blurred, underwater. They seem the confused thoughts of a previous century, or the fragmented images of a half-recalled nightmare.

My lover tells me that for great stretches of my history in that place, I might have been considered insane. Luna tells me that I was absolutely raging mad and practically foaming at the mouth. This might explain the distance between myself and my memories. I don't know. She tells me it's just as well I can't remember properly. She may be right.

Dean doesn't mention the past at all. He only smiles sadly at me, and I know he misses his family as much as I miss the two friends whose memories have managed to stay sharp in my mind, despite everything.

We've lived in the desert for five years, after the timeless space we spent travelling. Perhaps seven years altogether, or even more, since the end of the war which I only recall as a series of shadowy, blurred images, bitter smells, and harsh, painful sounds. Apparently we were prisoners. I suppose it's possible. Chains and broken light and split lips...though that memory is strangely connected to Ron. I should just stop trying.

I remember every death, though I cannot always remember the circumstances.

Seven years or more, and I still have the nightmares; I still have the scar. Some days they remind me of everyone I failed (Cedric Sirius Molly Will Ginny Seamus Tom...). Other days...

As the years have passed, I've become accustomed to waking from some hideous scene of battle and death to the sight of Draco's frowning face hovering over mine, to the feel of his hand pressing on my chest as if he would push me out of dreams and back to the waking world by main force. More and more frequently, as I wake to the feeling of being loved and protected, I'm able to remember those I didn't fail.

Draco has his share of nightmares as well, and I try to help him as much as he helps me. I don't know if I succeed. I'm careful not to ask what he dreams about, because he doesn't ask me. He's right. One set of horrors is quite enough for any sane person to manage ... and I'm not convinced either of us--any of us--can be called quite sane. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But we are, at least, relatively happy in our exile. Happy in our home, invisible to muggle eyes, cooled by magical fans, with magically imported food, water, and entertainment. I feel that I'm going nowhere and becoming no one, and it's not a bad life. Soothing. Sometimes I fear the others are lonely, but for myself ... if I had Ron and Hermione, I could wish for nothing more.

Draco and I fly, or he tries fruitlessly to teach me Potions, or we duel. Luna and Dean argue over obscure books Draco and I have never heard of, and Dean draws and paints, and Luna writes furiously. Luna harasses Draco for existing, Draco informs her that her constant writing is suspicious, Dean draws characatures of them both, and I laugh at all of them.

The others summon and banish, communicate, sometimes go out. I have no contact with the outside world, and I prefer it that way. No cheering crowds, no screaming mobs. I'm finally past the most horrible phase Draco had to talk me through. The phase when I'd wake up every morning feeling useless and unfit to live; feeling a drain on my friends and society at large; feeling that I should have died when Voldemort did. Once I saved lives every year, I would think. And now I don't. Time and occupation and Draco's stubbornness heal all things, I suppose. Nothing perfect ever lasts anyway, so the small flaws and sorrows in this existence please me. They hold us down to the earth.

The sun has risen fully now, and I walk back into the house to find Draco listening to Luna witter on about a book with a small smile on his face. Dean is baking scones, and has somehow managed to cover himself in flour again.

"So then he goes to the Forbidden City. What was he thinking? 'Oh, gee, demons and serpents live there, let me join the fun'? Such an idiot."

"Luna. You do know that it's only a book, right? You do know that these people aren't real?"

She waves this away impatiently. "Fine. So he, the creation of the author, goes into this city, and (this is where he's really stupid) he..."

Draco turns to me and rolls his eyes. Luna whacks him on the head with her book without interrupting her narrative. Dean starts to laugh at them, then has to leap into a spectacular dive to catch a falling scone. Draco cuts off Luna mid-rant, leaning sideways in his chair to better observe Dean. "Two words, Thomas," he says. "Wingardium leviosa." Dean chucks the scone at him.

I watch them as they squabble, the only family I have. I watch them, and for the first time in many, many years, I am content.

* * *

(Draco, 2001)

Weasley,

Thought I'd jot you an informal note, ask after potential little Weasleys. Married Granger yet? Because, just between us blokes, you should've gotten on top of that ages ago. If you'll excuse the crude pun.

I like to imagine your expression is torn between shock and horror about now. Allow me to bask in the mental image.

If you were worried, Weasley, don't be. I'm taking care of him. He's not well, but he will be. Someday. If you were throwing a party celebrating his demise, well, you'd best send everyone home. He may be gone, but he's not dead. Far from it.

Don't try to track this owl. It will be futile. A waste of resources. Oh, go on, track it. The long evenings will fly by if I can spend them imagining you fruitlessly tracking the poor owl back and back and back and getting absolutely nowhere.

Perhaps I'll send you another note in a few years. If I'm feeling magnanimous.

Yours, body and soul,

Draco Malfoy

* * *

(Theodore Nott, 2004)

This morning, like every other morning for the past three years, I opened the door to my muggle flat to pick up my muggle newspapers, blithely ignoring my muggle neighbours, who still don't know my name. Nothing seemed unusual in the slightest.

I read the news, such as it was, then strolled out into the hall on my way to breakfast at my favourite café. The first hint I had that something had gone terribly wrong was when the shy girl from three doors down blushed as I passed, and said, "Good morning, Teddy." I spun and stared after her, but she didn't turn around.

The café, blessedly, was entirely normal. Everyone ignored me, just as everyone always does.

The reprieve ended the moment I reentered my building. The three girls from the Uni who were renting a flat across from mine giggled when they saw me, and one said, "Hello, Teddy!" I scowled at them, which sent them into another fit of giggles.

Just as I reached my door, a man I'd never seen before passed, saying, "Good morning, Teddy!" When I stared at him, he tipped his chin toward the top of my door with a grin. He wouldn't, I thought, with a horrible sinking feeling. He couldn't have. He's dead, isn't he?

Above my door was a carved wooden sign stating, "The Home of Teddy." Tacked below it was a bit of paper that read, "Teddy is a friendly guy! Say hello to him. He'll like it."

So. He loves me after all.

I stared at my door (proof of Draco's continued existence and unaltered insanity) for a very long time, doubtless exciting more comment among the neighbours.

I took the paper down, but I mean to leave the wooden sign up until I die. I hope Harry Potter's able to take care of him. Crazy interfering bastard.

* * *

(Draco, 2007)

Weasley.

Well, here I am, writing you when I had pretty well convinced myself that I never would again. Strange old thing, life. Incidentally, I hear Granger went and married Krum right under your overlong nose. Ouch, Weasley, ouch! Must be quick these days; the good ones get snapped up so fast. Look at me. I was snapped up fast.

Speaking of whom, he's doing very well. He's trying to learn to play the mandolin, which has been a very painful experience for all of us, but otherwise very well. More than well. I think he might even be called happy, for all that he still misses you. He smiles, Ron. He makes bad jokes. You would hardly recognize him, save from your oldest memories.

Our token female is pregnant. I assume it's Thomas's brat, but it's hard to say. They're inseparable, then they're perfecting their glamour spells so they can date other people, then they're together, then they're not. I can't keep up. Do you know what the most bizarre thing about it is, Weasley? They never fight. Never. I'm convinced they must fight telepathically. There's no other way they can be in love one day and giggling together over Thomas's new girlfriend the next. Hell, I don't understand it even if they are communicating telepathically. My lover tells me that we don't understand because we're borderline normal. All I have to say is, if we're borderline normal, that's a sad lookout for the wizarding world.

Why am I writing to you, Weasley? I think we're both wondering. It could be because my social circle basically consists of three people. (Five, if one counts your insane siblings. Which I don't.) It could be that I want to brag about him, and all his progress. Maybe I feel you have a right to know. Maybe I just wanted the challenge of having to apparate hundreds of miles out of my way to owl a sodding letter. Maybe a bit of all of them. I don't know. I might incline to the lonely theory, since I find myself regretting that you can't write back. The horror, Weasley. Evidently I miss your commentary. How shall I show my face at parties?

I'm going to be the rambling sort of old man, aren't I?

The Deeply Sincere,

Draco Malfoy

* * *

(Draco, 2007)

Every major newspaper in the world, Weasley? You must be wealthy. Also insane. If I do indeed, as your newspapers suggest, become a rambling (and ranting and raving) old man, then you will become the sort that bankrupts himself donating chickenfeed to dog shelters.

Your eerily identical brothers send us things that explode from time to time. It amuses me that they never told you. Damn, everyone in your family despises you, don't they, Weasley? Or should I say, Bilius?

I may make this an annual letter. Just to cause you pain, you understand. Now, will you spend the money to respond?

Eagerly awaiting...

Malfoy

* * *

(Luna, 2009)

Dear, dear Draco,

You need to get out more. Really. I haven't mentioned this while at home because, well, Harry. But we all know he has this terrible fear o' correspondence, so I figure he won't be reading this. And you NEED TO GET OUT OF THE HOUSE.

I'm serious here, Draco. You're driving everyone almost as batty as you are. If I had ever wondered how you managed to control Slytherin house, these past--dear God, how many years has it been?--have uncovered the mystery for me. You're unbearably hyperactive. You need lots of sun and air and people and occupation. You knew just about everyone at Hogwarts, didn't you? And hated most of them? I can't believe I never realized how much energy that must have taken.

The point being, you obviously couldn't leave at first, because, well, Harry. I understood that. I overlooked your compulsive need to read and correct everything I wrote the moment after I wrote it, and I understood why you made us buy you materials to set up a potions lab in the basement and why you bullied Dean into teaching you how to draw and how to paint and how to SHARPEN HIS PENCILS WHEN YOU WERE BORED, but Draco, you have no excuse now. None. Get out. Go places. Harry won't self-destruct. Really, he won't. He's fine. Fine, and anti-social, and even hermit-like. This is not a trait you share, mmmkay? You don't need to have everything in common. It's okay.

Given this, Dean and I have decided that Dean will stay with Harry, and you will come with me when I visit my father in the fall. You won't like my father. You can expend some of that boundless energy disliking him. Also, I'm going to drag you around and introduce you to all of my childhood friends, most of whom you will probably also dislike. You'll be taking care of Rowen whenever I go out as well. Dean and I are both amazed that you can remain hyper after following Rowen around for days on end, but we mean to break you of this ability one way or another. So, you and Rowen--quality time. Maybe I'll send female friends to stay with you while you watch her, and tell them that you're straight and lonely and good with children. Then you can fend them off and watch Rowen. What do you say? Will it make you calm down a little? Please?

Also, I wanted to express how impressed I am, and always have been, with how well you handle Harry. Well done. You should get a medal, as it's nothing short of miraculous that he's as sane as he is. But you need to take a break now, Draco, because you've been positively Hufflepuff on the subject of Harry for so long that I think it's starting to affect your sanity. You are not, by any stretch of the imagination, a Hufflepuff. Your pretending to be one is driving us all insane. Except for Harry, because it's too late for him.

When Dean and I get home, I want you to announce that you really want to come with me to visit Dad, and that you've always wanted to meet my Dad, and that you want to get out of the house, and that you're going stir crazy. If I do not hear these statements, or a close approximation, immediately after I arrive, I will hear them soon after, because you will be saying them under Imperius. Understood?

Tell Harry that Dean's relatives are all insane, and that I fear them. He has all these siblings--crazed siblings!--and they all have children, and the net effect is...alarming. They all have Dean's sense of humor. It's a scary thing, en masse.

Love and snuggles and unforgiveable curses,

Luna

* * *

(Draco, 2010)

Right, Weasley.

Thomas has run off to visit his family twice now. Lovegood as well. They take their spawn. Female spawn, if you care. Rowen. Ridiculous, muggle-hippy name, if you ask me, and a cruel thing to do to a child. And don't try to pin me down with that Rowena Ravenclaw, historical-precedent nonsense; Rowena's parents were just early hippies, as far as I'm concerned. That's why Ravenclaws are so uptight--Rowena was rebelling against her hippy family by becoming an unbearable prude, and her house is full of those like her. Excepting always our token female, who clearly should have been a Slytherin.

My point is, Weasley, that I'm going to give you an address, being, as I am, a Secret Keeper. And I expect you to be here by Christmas day, or I'll kill you myself. He misses you, for reasons inexplicable to me. No Granger this time. Maybe later. When I trust her a bit more. It'll be your job to convince me, so come prepared. He misses her, too. Inexplicably.

I suspect I spend too much time with Gryffindors. It's a damn good thing we don't have any Hufflepuffs around, or all my good sense would have vanished years ago.

See you, Weasley.

Burn that paper after you read it, foolish Weasel.

Malfoy

[end]