Title: The Space Between
Author: Amalin
Notes: For selene_rain. PG-13.




Harry is haunted by rooms. His dreams have been full of them: his cupboard under the stairs, the Department of Mysteries, the room with the Mirror of Erised. He dreams sometimes of the Room of Requirement and what he would find there, wandering at night, but he wakes up sweating and remembers that he is out of Hogwarts, that his classmates are gone, that Voldemort is dead and he has no need for dreams.

Mostly, these days, he dreams of the Ministry, of a cold, dank cell where a boy slumps against the wall. He hates these dreams, because they're worse than his nightmares. He wakes up from them suffering more than when he wakes from dreams of burnt skin, of battlefields with open, screaming, pleading mouths, of spells that strip the living of their flesh.

Funny, that Draco Malfoy is still the worst of all.

The waking world hardly provides relief. After two years of war coverage, the Prophet is left scrambling for news, because who wants to hear about the Weird Sisters' new song? Tragedy is what sells. Every day, the headline covers the "last living Death Eater" in a sensationalism that would make Rita Skeeter proud. Harry drinks his coffee and feels sick.

It's strange to live in a world you shouldn't be living in. He feels every day that he shouldn't be here, that it's Ron's throat that should be burning with the too-hot liquid, that it should be Hermione's laughter he hears across the street. He shouldn't be the one rustling the paper; Sirius should be sitting here, making faces at the latest headlines. Ron. The twins. Seamus. Parvati. Ernie or Justin. Remus. Dumbledore.

Harry thinks of impossibilities. He thinks of death. He thinks of one cell, cold and lonely, and a Death Eater he doesn't want to pity and cannot bring himself to hate. Just another ghost.

He dreams. He wakes. He eats and sleeps and tries not to think of the battles, the war, the dead. Enough, Harry thinks. Isn't it enough? Hasn't this been enough? No more.

One day, he wakes up and the Prophet's headline screams, MALFOY SENTENCED: DEMENTOR'S KISS! Harry's hands shake.

It's never enough, he thinks then. Not then, and not now.

It would have been so much easier to die.







The elevator rattles on the way down, jarring Harry against the iron side. It's a laborious journey: a pretty young witch gets off on the fifth floor, cheerfully smacking her gum, and on the next floor two more inhabitants desert. By the time he reaches his destination, he is the last one there, alone in the cold.

"Harry Potter?" The guard is a rail-thin man with flinty eyes. His expression never changes. "The Minister is waiting inside."

Harry can play that game, too. He eyes up the guard on his way past, thinking, I have seen more death than you ever will. The thought isn't supposed to comfort him.

The idea that war changes people isn't necessarily accurate. The war never touched Fudge. He is still the same blustery, pompous idiot he always was, and when Harry shuts the door behind him, Fudge pumps Harry's hand eagerly as if no one ever died at all. He smiles the smile that makes Harry want to wrap his hands around Fudge's neck and never stop squeezing.

"Morning, Potter," he says, jovially businesslike, as if they are old friends. "I regret the fuss about getting down here, but there's safety regulations, see, and laws about--well, it's quite complicated. You're looking well."

"I look like hell," Harry snaps. "You may think I'm just a boy who was carried around on everyone's shoulders until the war was over, but let me tell you, I killed Voldemort. Don't talk to me about laws, because you would have broken every single one of them if Lucius Malfoy gave you enough gold. Well, he's dead, and unless you want to join him, I suggest you change Draco Malfoy's sentence now."

Fudge is red-faced. "I don't like threats, Potter. I don't like them at all. I'll have you know that I am still the Minister of Magic here."

"No one would know." Harry gives him a cool smile. "I'll have you know that I am still the wizarding world's hero."

Fudge appraises him for a moment, fidgeting with his garish bowler hat, and then he chuckles unexpectedly. "A hero you may be, Potter, but let me assure you, even you can't save young Malfoy's life. That is, in fact, the reason I called you down here."

"What are you talking about?"

"If you'll look behind you, you'll find a Penseive--I believe you're familiar with the device? That Penseive is filled with certain memories taken from Draco Malfoy's mind. All the members of the Wizengamot have viewed it and all have declared him guilty beyond question. Now, I'm doing you a favor, showing you this official evidence." Harry opens his mouth, but Fudge barrels on. "I'll leave you alone to take a look. Perhaps you'll change your mind about saving Mr. Malfoy after all."

"Four thousand galleons," Harry says, motionless.

"Take a look," Fudge counters smugly. At the door, he smirks, "Do enjoy."

Then it is just Harry, alone with the past.






Harry sees himself.

Of course Fudge would smirk; the first memory almost shocks Harry out of the Penseive altogether. It is strange to face himself, especially a naked, gasping version of himself, and he is grateful when Draco pulls the sheet over their heads.

Yes, Harry remembers that--the afternoon sun pouring across their bed, like swimming in light, like flying. He thought he loved Draco, at that moment, when Draco was poised over him and everything was gold. Harry had opened his mouth, unable to stop himself, to confess it. Harry remembers that.

And then Harry remembers regaining his senses and saying nothing at all. Harry does not remember what comes next.

"Don't be stupid tomorrow," Draco says to the Harry of the past, collapsing beside him and letting the sheet fall back. His hair is full of static, and every line of his body is traced in light. Harry is shocked by the reverence he can see in his former self's eyes. "You're not careful. They're going to do something stupid and you're going to die."

"I'm not going to die," past-Harry reassures him with a soft laugh. "Wait, how do you know about the attack tomorrow?"

"You told me," says Draco.

"Did I?" Past-Harry is sated, sleepy, blinded by the sun. "Well, it's all right. Remus planned everything, he made sure of everything. We shouldn't even run into any Death Eaters, if we're careful. He's been watching it like a hawk for two weeks."

Draco frowns. "Why do you have to go?"

"They need me to go. Tonks broke both arms last week and she's still healing. Five can't handle the job. They need me."

"Six of you," says Draco. "Be careful." He leans over and kisses past-Harry, a long, lazy kiss full of sunlight and future afternoons. Then he sits up. "The little things," he murmurs, and he reaches for his wand.

No, thinks Harry, standing beside the scene, watching his former self stretch and close his eyes. No. No. No.

"Obliviate," Draco whispers, and Harry breaks.






Ron looks younger than Harry remembers him looking. Then again, Harry never saw Ron black and blue and chained to a wall, so he has no frame of reference, and he can feel himself crumbling the way he did at the funeral, lips forming around Ron's name and refusing to let go.

"Where is my father?" Draco asks, tight-lipped, cold. Harry almost rejoices when Ron spits bloodily at Draco's feet, but he remembers that he thought he loved this boy, loved him. Loved those cruel smiles and those frigid eyes and the clipped edges of his drawl. Loved him.

"Let me repeat myself, Weasel," Draco hisses. "What have you done with my father?"

"You'll never find him," Ron returns weakly, a trail of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "He's going to suffer for everything he's done. You'll hear him screaming, all the bloody country will, and you'll still never find him."

Harry wishes that Draco's voice would turn unrecognizable with hate when he grinds out the curse, but it's the same as it's always been. "Crucio," he says, off-handedly, carelessly, and Harry cringes with every scream. He can't watch Ron's jerking body. He can't look. He stares instead at the indifferent expression on Draco's face, the slight curl of his lip. He feels sick.

Before Harry can turn back to Ron, feeling as if he owes his friend at least that, the scene changes. He is standing on a cold beach whipped by rain, and Draco is barefoot, kneeling in the surf, hair wild. Someone in a dark cloak stands over him, one hand on his shoulder. Harry knows who it must be.

"Father," Draco chokes out. Harry, wading closer, can see the bundle of blood and rags and flesh and bones that he is cradling against the waves. It can hardly be called a corpse; it is hardly a man at all. "Father, how could they do this to you?"

Harry remembers Draco from that night, wet and angry and inconsolable, his eyes electric with grief. Harry had soothed him, telling himself that Draco was loyal, just a boy who loved his father despite everything. Just a boy who loved his father.

Harry didn't know how much.

"You will avenge him, young Malfoy," the hooded figure hisses, as every nerve in Harry's body screams, Voldemort!

Draco says, simply, fiercely, "Yes."







Draco is standing over an unconscious Cho, Bellatrix crouched beside Cho's body. She trails a lazy wand-tip along Cho's collarbone, chuckling delightedly, looking up at Draco. "So many spells," she says, sing-song sweet. "So many pretty, pretty spells. Do you want to see her scream, Draco? Shall we make her bleed? I'll make her scream so badly her skin will peel right off to get away from the pain."

Harry yells outright when a hand falls heavily on his shoulder. The scene is already blurring, however, and he is falling backwards, falling back and back and back until he staggers backwards in a frigid stone room in the basement of the Ministry, Snape's iron grip steadying him.

"Potter," Snape says.

Harry spits out, "Don't touch me."

"By all means, lash out at me." Snape's ugly scowl steadies Harry further; it is an unchanging familiarity that stabilizes the tumult inside him. "You could have been in there forever, you know. Unable to quite pull yourself away. Fudge is enough of an idiot to let you."

"He--"

"I never cared for Bellatrix Black," says Snape dourly. "She came up with all of the Dark Lord's favorite spells. The horrible ones, the ones that turned you inside out and made your flesh literally crawl. Her trial was a nauseating affair."

"Malfoy--"

Snape pushes him unceremoniously into a chair. "And here I thought perhaps you would be reasonable. I clearly hoped for too much. Sit down and be rational for once, Potter. How many years were you with Draco?"

Harry's voice is dull. "Through the war. Well, almost. He left without a word two months before the end. Now I know why."

"He left you because he was putting you in danger every time he was with you," Snape snaps. "He left you because he refused to let you die. Do stop being maudlin."

"He killed Ron. He--he. He betrayed me."

"Nott killed Weasley. Draco couldn't."

Harry stands up with his fists clenched. "Stop standing up for him! You're all the same! Did you spy for them too? Did you torture people? Did you help Bellatrix make those spells? Did you know they were going to kill my parents? You hated my dad, you hated him, did you know he was going to die? Did you laugh?"

"Potter," Snape growls, "I have endured things you cannot even dream of, I have saved your life more than once, and as far as I am concerned, Draco deserved far better than you. You, too, did horrible things. But you aren't dying tomorrow. And he is."

"I hope he's scared," Harry hisses, hand on the door. "I hope he's terrified. I hope he's sitting there in his cell, wondering what death's like, wondering if I'm going to come. Because I'm not. I won't."

Snape lets him go.






Harry wakes up dry-mouthed, terrified, his hands fisted in the sheets. Draco had been laughing, in his dream. Draco had been standing over him, terrifying in his familiarity, and he had been boasting, "I'm going to make you scream, Potter, I'm going to make you beg and beg for the pain to stop, and I'll laugh . . ."

He thinks, I wanted to save you. I always wanted to save you.

Harry dresses in the dark and finds his Floo powder. Green flames, ash, and then he is at Hogwarts in the hush of cold dawn, running through the shadows to Snape's door. His heart pounds the time. How long does he have? Perhaps he's already too late.

"I can't forgive him but I can't--" Harry starts when Snape answers, but he breaks off at the furious look on Snape's face. "I know it's early--"

"Early?" After a moment, he relents. "Inside, Potter. If you ever come to my door again, you won't live to see dawn."

Harry swallows. "Understood. Just, why did he pretend to love me at all? Was it just to spy on our side?"

"I am not Draco Malfoy," Snape growls. "Ask him yourself."

"Why did you come to me, then?"

"I came to you because you were the only one who loved him, Potter. Even I knew that. I fought for him on every side, and it wasn't enough. And you, his last ally, betray him now."

"He betrayed me! He spied on me, he Obliviated me, he tormented the people I loved. He left me."

Snape shakes his head. "You Gryffindors make everything so complex. Draco is ruled by his ambition. He does what's best for those he cares about. If you're pretentious enough, Potter, no doubt you will presume to be one of them. Perhaps you would be right. He never hurt you, Potter. He just couldn't be who you wanted him to be." Dark eyes confront Harry. "Can you accept that? Draco is who he is."

Harry says nothing at all.

"You accepted that once. He was a boy who hexed you and hated you and tried to beat you at every turn, but you let him in. You forgave him then."

"He said he was different," Harry mutters. "I only--"

"You saw one side of him. Now you see the other." Snape stares at the shadows making dark flames in the corners. "Go, Potter. Do what you will. I never want to see you again."

Harry's heart beats the time through Hogwarts' shadowed halls. He will go home. He will pull his pillow over his head and let the day wash over him like every day before, listening to ghosts and nightmares.

He will stay here, combing the corners for memories and dreams. He will take tea with McGonagall. He won't think of a room full of shadows at all.

He will go to the Ministry. He will wrap his hands around Fudge's neck until his face turns purple and he will say, "Let him go. Let him live." Yes, he will go to the Ministry.

But he breaks instead through the front doors of Hogwarts and stands on the steps with his hands in his pockets, watches as the sun gilds the trees, turns everything gold. He is bathed, transformed: the world is painted in light.

Harry loves Draco then. He thinks he always has. He makes his slow way across the grass, through the morning light, through the pale, wide sky.