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the bottom!draco emporium-- Second Chances 2
Second Chances
Ch. 2 Out of Azkaban
Harry stood uneasily before the three men who had accompanied him, looking at the wall behind them and waiting for them to speak first. They didn’t intimidate him, but he wasn’t looking forward to their reactions when he mentioned the Malfoy name. The Ministry official looked bored, Arthur Weasley looked uncomfortable, and Sirius was impatient.
“Well, Harry?” his godfather asked finally. “Have you chosen our guest?”
“I doubt he found anyone,” the Ministry official muttered. Arthur nudged him.
“Yes, actually, I did find someone,” Harry snapped. He turned to the Ministry official. “Arrange for the release of Draco Malfoy into my custody.”
There was a moment of silence, and then the protests began. Harry ignored them all, walking back down the row of cells to the last one on the left. Draco was still standing at the bars, watching him approach.
“That went better than expected,” Harry observed cheerfully. “They’ll be here to release you in a few minutes.” He settled back in the chair on his side of the bars.
“I doubt it’ll be anywhere near that fast, Potter. I’m going to lie down again, and this time, no looking up my smock!”
Harry blushed, but retorted, “Then don’t let it ride up! Or put something on under it! Honestly, Malfoy, it’s not my fault you’re dressed indecently.”
“Show me something to put on under this, and I will. You think I like having your perverse fantasies focused on me? Honestly, Potter,” he mimicked.
The argument quickly escalated. Harry only stopped when a hand was quietly placed on his shoulder. “See why this isn’t a good idea?” Sirius asked.
“We’ll be fine. This is our way of communicating.”
Sirius snorted. “Well, unless you want to be around when the dementors come to escort him out, let’s be going. You can continue your ‘communication’ later. Preferably after you and I have had a little talk, Harry.”
Malfoy looked uneasy at the thought of the dementors, Harry noted quietly as he followed his godfather back down to the ferry. Arthur and the Ministry official were already there, and all four of them took seats to wait for the Dementors to escort the pale boy to them.
“Are you sure this is the best thing for you to do, Harry?” Arthur asked. “My sons have told me about that boy. Purely his father’s son.”
Harry shrugged. “I can handle Malfoy. If I do manage to get anywhere with him, it’ll just prove that this idea works.”
“And what about your safety? He hates you, not just the boy who killed his Master. I don’t want to have to tell my family that you got killed by taking your arch-rival into your home and getting careless around him.”
“He won’t kill me when I’m his only chance at freedom. Besides, I know how to watch my back.”
“Very well. Do you want me to tell Ron about this, Harry?”
“I think I’d better do that myself. He and Hermione are so happy right now; I don’t want to intrude on that.”
“I don’t think they would consider you an intrusion, but I leave it up to you. I would recommend telling them rather than letting it be a surprise, or you may end up with a dead Death Eater after all.”
Harry laughed. “That’s what we’re trying to avoid. Good. He’s coming. I want to get away from this island as quickly as possible.” His green eyes were firmly fixed on the approaching figures. There were two dementors, and ridiculously small between them, the pale boy dressed in a prison smock, hands manacled in front of him, a second set on his legs keeping him from running. At the ferry, the dementors released their charge with a final shove. Draco stumbled forward and fell inelegantly at the feet of his rival, long, lank blonde hair pooling around him. The ferry started to move.
“Get me away from those bloody creatures!” he snarled into the deck of the ferry. “They’re horrible! It’s not fucking funny, Potter!”
“Actually, Malfoy, after what you pulled third year, it is. And dementors are supposed to be horrible; that’s the point. You were in Azkaban prison. And unless you are looking for a reason to say that I like ogling your assets, stand up or fix your smock.”
Green eyes met grey and held them as Malfoy stood slowly, bound hands making him awkward. “I don’t suppose my second chance comes with clothes involved?” he asked mockingly, but the words were edged. “Unless you’re enjoying the view too much to give it up.”
“Eventually, yes,” Harry replied calmly, ignoring the jibe. “We live in Hogsmeade, so clothes won’t be hard to arrange for, assuming you’ve earned enough trust to leave the flat. This may be a second chance, Malfoy, but you’ll have to work for every privilege you get.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. So how do I go about earning enough trust that you’ll take these manacles off of me?”
The Ministry official, hearing the nasty undercurrent that had developed, intervened. “While you are still on this ferry, you are in my custody, Mr. Malfoy, and I say you will wear them. When we are off the boat, custody transfers to Mr. Potter. If all goes according to plan, you won’t be seeing me until the end of the summer, when you’ll be brought before the council to evaluate your progress. Of course, then your mind will have to be wiped of the identities of the council members, so you won’t remember that, either.” He grinned maliciously.
Draco rolled his eyes. “The war’s over, if I may remind you. You won. Why are you still being so secretive?”
“That, Mr. Malfoy, is none of your concern.”
Stung, the blonde stormed as best he could over to the railing to stare at the approaching shore. He was joined after a few minutes by his rival. “The world is changing, Malfoy. A new age is beginning. You may only have been out of touch for a few months, but I think you’ll find our world very different. The council is responsible for all those changes. Even the Minister of Magic is only a councilor. The most powerful, of course, is the head of the Order. And since he is shortly to retire, his second in command will have to choose a second himself. The changes being made are certainly not universally popular. There are still enemies out there, so we guard our secrets carefully. Still, I’ll tell you about it, if you like, Malfoy.”
“Draco,” the blonde said after a moment.
“Hmm?”
“If you’re going to give me a second chance, you might want to start off by not associating me with my father. We aren’t the same person. My name is Draco.”
They stood in silence for a time. Finally, as the ferry docked, Harry observed, “It’s a good thing it’s summertime. Otherwise, you’d be freezing to death instead of just embarrassed in that short smock. You’re a little bit taller than I am, but my clothes should fit you reasonably well. You can borrow some until we get you your own.”
“Thanks Potter.”
“It’s Harry . . . Draco.” Before his rival had time to react, Harry led the way off the ferry. Just before picking up the Portkey that would take them all back to Hogsmeade, he turned to the Ministry official. “I trust the custody of Draco Malfoy has fallen to me, as it was supposed to?” he asked sarcastically.
“It has.”
“Then let’s be off.” He picked up the Portkey, an old edition of the Daily Prophet, and made sure his godfather and charge were both touching it. Seconds later, he felt the irritating tug behind his navel, and they stood in front of the Three Broomsticks, garnering some odd looks.
“We’d probably attract less attention if you took the manacles off,” Draco offered coolly.
“I doubt it. You’re still wearing a prison smock, and the Malfoy looks are unmistakable. But give me your wrists.” He tapped the chain with his wand and muttered the unlocking spell, then bent and repeated the procedure on the set binding the blonde’s ankles. “You’ll carry them, Mal—Draco?”
“Fine. Where’s your flat? I don’t like the looks I’m getting.”
Sirius led the way, but before unlocking the door, he said, “Better take care of his Dark Mark, Harry, or the wards will eat him alive.”
A blonde eyebrow rose slightly. He proffered his arm obligingly, the Mark hideous against his pale skin. He was quite doubtful that his rival would succeed in whatever he planned, but it would be highly amusing to watch him fail.
Harry looked at him, considering. “This will hurt.” He passed his wand over the Mark, almost but not quite touching it, and muttered a highly complex charm, sweat breaking out on his brow.
Draco tensed, but he showed no other reaction to the pain. A few moments later, he relaxed and looked at his arm. It was flawless. He raised his eyebrow a little higher. “I didn’t know that that was possible.”
“There is a reason your master wanted to kill me before I grew up.”
“The Dark Lord is not my master now, Pot—Harry.”
“I know. I killed him.” The two owners of the flat vouched for their guest and led him inside. Sirius disappeared, leaving the tour to his godson. “This is the living room, obviously. The kitchen is over there. The room Sirius just went into is the study. You don’t go in there unless you’re with one of us.” He led the way down the hall. “Spare bathroom, but every bedroom has one, too. The first closed door is Sirius’ room, the second is mine. You don’t go into either room, ever. There are wards that will keep you from doing so, but I thought I’d warn you as well.” He led the way back to the living room, and pointed to the first door on the little hall. It was open. “This is your room. You can go in there as often as you please. As I already said, you have your own bathroom. You may do what you like to both. If you ask nicely, I’ll even come in there with you sometime and help you redecorate. As you can probably guess, there are wards on the room that will keep you there unless you have my permission to enter the rest of the flat. That may not always be necessary, depending on how much trust you earn.”
“I’m guessing there’s nothing in there, or anywhere in the flat your damned wards will let me touch, that can be used as a weapon? What a pity. I had planned to put you out of your misery and do the world a favor.”
“You’re right. Both the room itself and the bathroom have doors. I haven’t had time to remove them yet, and neither has Sirius, so for the time being just understand that both are always to be open. The bathroom can’t be seen into from the hall or the living room, so you have a reasonable amount of privacy. You are responsible for keeping both rooms tidy and clean. The bell on the nightstand is there for a reason. If I’m awake, I’ll hear you ring it, no matter where I am. I may not come immediately, but I will hear it. If it’s an emergency, which is unlikely, keep ringing it. If I’m asleep, you’re out of luck.
“The bathroom is equipped with the usual things: soap, towels, and shampoo. It’s nothing fancy, probably nowhere near what you’re used to, but it’ll do. While you settle in, I’ll go get some of my clothes for you to wear until we take you shopping.”
“And what about the manacles? Will you throw them away, or send them back to Azkaban?”
“You keep them. Put them somewhere in your room and hope I never ask for them. Go on in. It’s your home now.”
“Some home. The cell in Azkaban was almost more pleasant.”
“You’re welcome to go back to it. You agreed to this, Malfoy. Go in.”
The blonde obeyed, stepping through the doorway, and he looked up in surprise to meet his host’s eyes as he felt the tingle of the wards.
“They’re just identifying you. They’re attuned to you and you specifically now. Also the ones on the flat will let you come in without Sirius and me having to vouch for you. I’ll be back in half an hour, and remember: leave the doors open.”
Draco nodded curtly to show his understanding and walked through the room into the bathroom, stopping only once, briefly, to toss the despised manacles under the bed. From the relative privacy of the bathroom doorway, he turned back and surveyed the room.
There was a four-poster bed in one corner, a fireplace across the room from it, and an armchair next to the fireplace, where despite the fact that it was summer, a fire was burning. At the foot of the bed was a wardrobe, obviously useless until Harry followed through on his promise to take his guest shopping. Finally, there was a desk and a small bookcase, mostly empty.
The room was done in the red and gold of Gryffindor, the woods dark and polished to a homely sheen. The bathroom was tiled in similar colors. “No wonder he offered to help me redecorate. I’m no bloody Gryffindor.” He stripped off his prison smock and started the shower, fumbling a little with the Muggle things. He used the whole half hour he had been given to clean up, washing off several months of prison. He washed his hair four times, reveling in the feeling of having it clean.
Finally, towel wrapped around his waist, he emerged from behind the minimal privacy of the shower curtain to see Harry in his room waiting. “Trying to steal another look?” he demanded maliciously.
“Not particularly. Maybe when you get some meat back on your bones, it’ll be more interesting. Can we drop the animosity for a minute? I brought you some robes.”
“And what about what goes under them?” he asked archly.
“You’re not borrowing that from me. It’ll just have to wait. Come and pick what you want.”
Draco picked over the outfits, an incredulous look on his face. “These are hideous, Pot—Harry. They don’t match, they’re poor quality, and they don’t even fit you, much less me. You actually wear these?”
Harry’s face was abruptly closed, eyes and tone cold. “Yes, I do. But you certainly don’t have to. Some of them were gifts, and I like them. Congratulations, Draco. You’ve just regressed back to being completely untrustworthy.”
“I thought I already was.”
“I was willing to start off giving you a few privileges, figuring you’d earned them by agreeing to this. I was going to offer to take you shopping tomorrow, but now you’ll have to earn it. And since you don’t like the clothes I offered, you can just wear that prison smock until we go shopping, even if it takes until after we’re back at Hogwarts. If we go to the Muggle world, I’ll maybe make a brief exception.” He swept up the clothes he had brought and stalked out, not giving the blonde time to say anything in response.
The Slytherin heard a door slam a few seconds later and assumed, correctly, that Harry had locked himself in his room.
“Damn it,” he muttered, picking up the ragged smock that he had left on the floor, having thought that he wouldn’t have to deal with it again. The twine he had to use as a belt was fraying and falling apart, but it had been like that when it was given to him; so far, it had survived.
The question wasn’t whether or not the smock would survive being worn any longer, but rather whether or not he would survive the humiliation of wearing it. It was bad enough in Azkaban where it was basically what all the prisoners wore, but to be deprived of actual clothes through his own stupidity was a blow. It wasn’t just the actual loss, either; it was what he had learned through it. The war had changed Harry.
Draco shook his head hard, ignoring the fine drops of water spraying from his hair, and returned to the bathroom, determined to stop thinking for a while. He let the towel he wore wrapped around his waist fall to the floor before remembering his host’s words; he was responsible for keeping the room tidy himself. Perhaps to comply would go a short way towards making amends. He picked it up and draped it clumsily over the towel rack to dry, then fixed it so hung straight.
Ascertaining that the bathroom was once again relatively tidy, he pulled the prison smock back over his head, wincing as the coarse material chafed his skin. There wasn’t a great deal of thought put into the comfort of the prisoners in Azkaban. Or their modesty, he knew, tugging the smock down as far as it would go before tying the twine around his waist.
After a look in the mirror to ensure he was dressed as neatly as he could manage, he rummaged through the drawers to find a comb so he could begin the long, painful process of working several months of tangles out of his long hair.
He had not slept well in Azkaban prison, and being locked up in a tiny cell did not promote good health. It was still before lunch, but he was tired. He crawled into the four poster bed with barely a sneer for the color scheme, and closed his eyes, hoping for the first nightmare-free sleep in months. He had a long summer ahead of him, most of it bound to be unpleasant. It would be best to get what sleep he could, and make an attempt to reconcile with his host when he woke.
Thoughts clear in his head, he reveled in the feeling of a soft mattress beneath him and let the tranquility of sleep overtake his mind.
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