Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

The Masks of Real Heroes	By : Aelys_Althea Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Slash - Male/Male Views: 17641 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: Many thanks to the wonderful J. K. Rowling who offered such a beautiful world for amateurs such as myself to frolick in. This is a not-for-profit fanfiction and all characters and original storylines of Harry Potter belong to her!

Chapter List
- 29
- 30
A/N: So this is the FINAL CHAPTER of the Masks of Real Heroes. Before I start, I'd just like to give an absolutely enormous thank you to every single reader and reviewer. I'd also love to give an especially big thank you to Jan who has offered her lovely words throughout my entire posting. I have received such wonderful support for this story, the first I've had the courage to post. Thank you. Thank you so much. I
As an aside, I (sort of) apologise for the lack of intimacy shared between Harry and Draco. I know that its often a prerequisite for fanfictions to have at least a little bit of a lemon embedded within. I was considering doing so for this story, but I don't know, it sort of felt a little cheap to just throw it in there, you know? I'm sorry if that annoys anyone...

Chapter 29: Settle To Rights
“I'm sorry, but I'm not a botanist. If there's something wrong with your plant, then you'll have to tell me how to fix it.”
Harry looked down at the little Mulch fairy as it tugged furiously on his thumb. They really were incredibly small creatures, the smallest of the Fairy genus. The little yearling before him was barely as tall as his smallest finger. And despite what he might insist from the creature, their voices were far too high and quiet for him to discern any meaning from their chirps and twitters.
With a sigh, Harry turned back to the drooping leaves of the shrub. He didn't know what the species was, but he was fairly certain its leaves weren't supposed to be mottled rust-turning dark brown. It positively reeked of sickness. He hadn't lied to the little fairy when he'd said he wasn't a botanist. He didn't know the first thing about plants. Magical creatures were his speciality.
Perhaps I can get Neville to take a look at it, he pondered idly. His friend would be visiting the day after next and was to this day the most avid Herbologist Harry had ever met. He just seemed to have a knack for anything with roots - and then some. The other man had taken great delight in boasting not a month before as he'd regailed Harry with his triumph in splicing subspecies to produce a rootless cacti. It seemed to border a little too much on the impossible for Harry's taste, but he could accept it. He'd gotten better at subduing his scepticism over the years.
In the years following what was later termed the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry had learnt more about the Wizarding world than he had previously conceived existed. A nasty surprise had been the perseverance of the British Wizarding news and propaganda network. As a primary contributor to the demise of he who had since been termed 'the darkest and most powerful wizard in memory’, reporters had been hounding his heels like terriers in a rat race. Neville had introduced him to a particularly persistent bug of a woman, Rita Skeeter, before loudly and intently suggesting that he keep as far away from her as possible.
Which was easier said than done. The desire for a story - what was the weapon that you used, specifically? Where did you get it from? How did you know it would penetrate the magical barrier when spells couldn't? Have you used one before? - had them clamouring at the gates of the Ministry appointed safe house he, Neville and Draco had withdrawn to in the aftermath of the battle. With each of them effectively unhoused - Neville had chosen to avoid his grandmother and Draco had point-blank refused to move back into Malfoy Manor - the now-sitting Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt had designated them a residence in which to while away their time in privacy. With Hogwarts effectively out of action, there was little other place for them to go.
“They're like leeches,” Neville had grumbled as he'd gazed upon the horde of clamouring reporters at the gates to the safe house. It was an impressive building, an old English farmhouse with more rooms and grounds than was entirely necessary for the three of them. But controversial though the size may be, none complained about the presence of the gate in place, ringing them like an impregnable wall. Keeping the house entirely secret would have caused more questions to be raised and more trouble caused than were alleviated for the frenzy it would elicit, so the gate was the next best thing.
“They're reporters. Of course they are. Just try to avoid letting them suck you dry,” Draco had replied in a voice that breathed boredom. He hadn’t even looked up from the chess match he was playing against himself, but Harry could hear the frustration in his tone. Draco was no fonder of the attention than the rest of them, and that in itself was telling. The blonde boy had always been rather prone to seeking the spotlight.
They’d stayed closeted for the majority of the summer. Hogwarts underwent a myriad of repairs and renovations, but school could hardly be continued for the rest of term, not with so many professors incapacitated and more walls damaged than stood untouched. There had been some distress over the matter, particularly from N.E.W.T students, but in the overall scheme of things it was hardly consequential. An intensive program was established before the end of break, eating into the new term, which would quickly remedy the issue.
The return to tuition had been controversial for Harry. Even with months hidden behind closed doors as he was, any glimpse outdoors – into Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, and even the greater Muggle London – found he and his accompaniments chased down within the hours. It was horrible; Harry had never experienced such relentless pursuit before, had rarely been the centre of any attention before attending Hogwarts, and found it utterly unbearable. Neither Draco nor Neville – both of whom had become his near permanent companions – seemed to feel any better about the situation, however.
A climax was reached when Neville put his foot down in a storm of discontent one day. Barely a week before term started, the Harry, Draco and Ginny sat nestled in the lounge room of the farmhouse with the company of Hermione, Ron and Ginny. Blaise was still absent – he’d travelled down to Italy in the break with his mother and would only return a day before school resumed. Draco had said he needed a break, to some time. He wasn’t coping so well.
“I don’t know if I can handle it.” Neville paced the length of the room, long steps carrying him in five strides from one wall to the other. “And I know – I just know – that they’ll follow us to school. Bloody Skeeter will sneak past detection and there’ll be a page on us every day.”
Neither Harry nor his friends could find anything to disagree with Neville at Neville’s sentiment; there was no need to. They all knew the inevitable would occur, that their privacy would be invaded within the month and their every move laid bare to the eyes of the public. Ginny was receiving nearly as much hounding as Neville, and Ron and Hermione not much less.
“She wouldn’t dare,” Hermione replied, frowning. “We know she’s an Animagus. If she says anything, we could just –“
“You honestly think that will stop her?” Leaning back slowly in his chair, Draco regarded his folded hands moodily. “I would anticipate the enormity of the stories she could unearth would be nearly worth revealing her dirty little secret.”
Hermione clamped her lips shut at that. All of them knew Draco was more learned in terms of politics, even something as superficial as daily propaganda and rumour mongering. In general, his experience left them deferring to him in such matters. “So what do we do?” She asked.
The question had been posed at more than one instance throughout the afternoon. The six of them pondered silently for a moment, a now-familiar silence.
Ginny was the first to speak. “I don’t think I’m going back to Hogwarts.”
There was a moment of stunned silence before, in synchrony, Neville and Ron spluttered, “What?!”
Shrugging, Ginny dropped her eyes to her toes. “I just don’t think studying is for me. I’d like to be a quidditch player, I think; earlier this year there was a scout at one of our games. Against Ravenclaw. You remember, Neville? The weird guy with the ugly purple robe I told you about who came up and talked to the team at the end? He said I was pretty good and to contact him if I wanted to take a closer look.”
Neville stared at her open-mouthed. “But… what about school? You’re just going to drop everything on the off chance he might have something to offer you?”
Another shrug and Ginny met his eyes. There was determination there. “I just told you, Neville. I don’t think I’m suited for school. And besides, I’ve already contacted him.”
“What did he say?” Ron sounded breathless with awe.
“He’s got me coming to the next try-outs, but he thinks I’ve got a pretty good shot of making first string for the junior league.” The expression on her face became proud. She was obviously fighting back a broad grin.
Neville appeared in a state of shock. He didn’t speak as congratulations were offered, and remained quiet for the rest of the afternoon. When Harry had approached him later that evening, sitting disconsolately before the fireplace, after Ron, Hermione and Ginny had departed, he confessed he was at a loose end.
“The thing is, Harry, I don’t think I want to go back. Not to Hogwarts, anyway.”
Perching on sofa beside him, Harry followed his gaze to the fire. The flickering flames seemed far too merry for the brooding ambiance. “What would you do otherwise?”
Neville was silent for so long that Harry didn’t know if he would reply. Finally he sighed heavily, frustrated, and, picking up a pillow from behind his back, launched it across the room. “I don’t know. I just don’t think I can go back to Hogwarts. Not after what happened there. Not with all the memories.”
Sighing, Neville closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly. “I don’t know if I could look at Snape again. Not after what he forced… no, after what he asked me to do. But then… I mean, it’s not just that.” Dropping his head into his hands, Neville scrubbed roughly at his cheeks. “Everyone who was injured. Everyone who died. I keep seeing their faces. And what with Blaise how he is, with Pansy… and then there’s my D-dad…”
His voice choked off at the last and the scrubbing stilled to simply burying his face from view. Harry waited silently; he knew nothing he could say would Neville. How could one offer solace to a friend who’d lost their only parent? Harry could never remember having parents. The closest that came were Narcissa and Lucius, and what he’d felt after what happened to them… He couldn’t imagine what Neville was feeling.
He could, however, understand his friend’s desire steer clear of Hogwarts. Yes, there were the faces, the memories of the bodies lining the Great Hall. Harry thought that he would never be able to step inside that room again without memories bubbling to the surface. He had enough trouble forgetting things in that he simply could not forget them. The thought of facing that every day… It caused him to cringe in anticipation.
But on top of that there were the other reasons. For Neville, it was the memory of his own death. Of what Snape had told him he must do, of the knowledge that he harboured a piece of Voldemort’s soul within him, had done so for nearly his entire life. Harry saw it in Neville’s eyes when he had revealed to all of his friends the secret unknown to the public, the real reason Neville had to die. The memory of Neville’s shudder as he’d spoken, of how he’d at first denied Snape’s claim, even after seeing Dumbledore’s memories, and had only silently agreed after witnessing the death of his father, of his friends, of so many… It would have been enough to drive anyone to turn tail and run the opposite direction from the castle.
For Harry, it was different. His memory was different. The image of the gun, firing and jerking back painfully in his hand. The resounding BANG, not once but twice. The bloody rose that blossomed in the middle of Voldemorts head, his eyes widening, before he collapsed from the bullet that Harry had shot at him. It was too much to consider, too much to remember.
Oh, Harry didn’t regret it exactly. If given the choice again, he would take it. To protect his friends, those friends who had come to mean so much to him – to protect Draco – he would have shot every Death Eater in the room. It was a revelation that was as horrifying as it was grounding; Harry had people he wanted to protect, those he cared for more than anyone else and would save at the expense of everyone else. It was both an empowering realisation and a daunting one.
Because Harry had already done it. He hadn’t simply made the survival of his friends possible, protected them and guarded them with his shield and his life. No, Harry had killed a man. Even unanimously declared ‘evil’ by the Wizarding world – and likely a fair portion of the Muggle world also – it was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?
Was it?
For even knowing and acknowledging what he did, the memory weighed heavily on his conscience. He didn’t feel he had the right to kill – to kill – someone. Robbing them of their life, extinguishing it like a flame with the simple tweak of his finger on the trigger of the gun. It wasn’t right.
So Harry could understand Neville’s hesitancy to return to Hogwarts. Understood it on a level that he couldn’t explain, not accurately. There were no words to describe it.
“Then why don’t we not go back?”
Neville slowly raised his head from his hands. “What do you mean?’
Harry kept his gaze on the fire. It was easier than seeing the redness of Neville’s eyes, the messiness of his hair as he scrubbed a hand through it once more, yanking hairs with every tug. “Why don’t we just not go back to Hogwarts? I agree with you on this, Neville, I really do. And... I don’t think I can go back to that place.”
“What would we do if we didn’t?”
Harry shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know nearly enough about magic to pursue something in the Wizarding workforce. And I’d have to keep going with schooling in the Muggle world if I wanted to start anything there instead.”
“You’re going back to the Muggle world?” The incredulity in Neville’s voice finally drew Harry’s eyes towards him. There was something underneath the surprise, something sorrowful, that captured Harry’s attention. It looked almost like loss. Mortified loss.
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think I could every just ‘go back’ to the Muggle world, not after what I know.” He licked his lips hesitantly. “When I was first offered a spot at Hogwarts by Dumbledore, there was another man. A man from the Parisian School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”
Neville frowned for a moment before understanding dawned. “Beauxbatons. You were asked to go to Beauxbatons?”
Harry nodded. “He offered me placement there, too. He seemed a little overenthusiastic in his offer, actually. It was a little overwhelming.” He smiled dryly in memory.
Neville didn’t return the smile. He seemed in deep contemplation over the possibility of attending a new school, as yet unsure. But there was a light in his eyes, Harry noticed, that had been absent hitherto. It was a relief to see its return. “Harry… do you think I could apply for a transfer?”
“I don’t know. You can only try.”
“And you?”
Harry pursed his lips, considering. Slowly he nodded his head once more. “I’ve thought about just sending an owl to the Minister for Education in France. I’d send one to McGonagall, too, just so she knew where I was thinking of heading, but I thought it would probably be best to see if it was possible on the other end first.”
Neville seemed genuinely enthusiastic by that point. He nodded his head rapidly. “Yeah, yeah I think you’re right. I think, yeah, I think that’s a really good idea.” A broad grin spread across his face. “Surely if we head deep enough into the Pyrenees we can escape it all, right?”
Harry could do nothing but smile in reply, even with the twinge of – guilt? – that flickered inside of him. Because there was one big – colossal, monumental – flaw in that plan. One that nearly tore him apart to consider.
Minister of Education Mr Martin was overjoyed at the prospect of acquiring new students. Apparently, magical children were few and far enough in between for any fresh meat to be grabbed at with greedy hands. He had been just as enthusiastic with accepting Neville’s request, which had left the other boy on cloud nine in a mixture of relief and excitement.
McGonagall had been horrified at first at their suggestion, which had gradually slipped into reluctance and finally simple regret. She understood Harry and Neville’s arguments for leaving – both the strain of too many bad memories and the possibility of escape from British publicity – but had attempted to dissuade them in every way possible. Eventually, however, she had conceded to assisting them to fill out their application for transference.
“I’ll be sad to see you go,” she murmured tiredly as she stood beside the Floo in her office, seeing them off for the last time. Though she hadn’t yet assumed the Headmaster’s rooms, there had been little argument that she would fill the post. Harry wondered if she ever would. “Just remember, you are always welcome back at Hogwarts. Both of you.”
The two of them had nodded gratefully and disappeared before she could change her mind once more.
Their friends had been more colourful with their disputes. Hermione had been saddened, true, but Harry felt the girl was simply thankful that they were choosing to complete their studies rather than leave them unfinished. Ginny had been a little put out that Neville was moving to France, but had declared that she’d spend every moment she had off from work in the country as resolution. That international portkeys weren’t all that expensive when you got the Ministry-Approved discount, and that she was confident she could squeeze one from either her father or the Minister.
Ron, on the other hand, had been positively distraught at the prospect of losing his ‘best mate’.
“You’re just up and leaving me? I haven’t had a school year without you!”
“Ron, it’s not that I’m leaving you, I just –“
“I’ll come with you. I will, just let me transfer too.” Ron’s eyes had widened, almost panicked, as he’d gripped the arms of his chair. “I can’t leave you to those snotty-nosed Frenchmen. No offense, Harry.” Harry had only shrugged in reply, brushing the comment off. It was only faintly amusing, if anything.
“Ron.” Neville reattempted to placate his friend, resting a hand on his arm. “You know you can’t do that. Not now at least.”
And therein lay the problem. As one, all eyes in the room drifted unconsciously down to Ron’s legs. There was nothing particularly remarkable about them, not to look at anyway. Except for the fact that they didn’t work.
In the final battle, Ron had been struck in the back with an unknown curse that paralysed him from the waist down. Not an incurable disorder, not in the Wizarding world, but the delicacy of the central nervous system ensured that his recovery would be slow when it happened. Ron was permanently seated in a magically levitating chair of sorts that looked to Harry like a wheelchair without the wheels. He had bemoaned his situation until Hermione had scolded him, enforcing that he was lucky to be alive at all.
With such sad knowledge, his face falling into the dejectedness of a lost puppy, Ron had finally ceded that he would ‘allow’ Neville to go.
“As soon as I get these legs fixed, though, I’m coming over too!” He declared, and professed to start learning French immediately. The promise seemed to amuse Hermione to no end.
Draco, on the other hand, was not so easy to placate. He hadn’t spoken out in front of the rest of their friends – he was never so brash as that – but Harry had been aware of the force of his gaze upon him throughout the entirety of their discussion. It speared him and prodded at the guilt that had been steadily growing within him since he’d first begun to consider transferring school. Draco had the right to be angry, to scowl and curse at Harry for his selfishness. But he didn’t say a word, not in front of their friends.
As such, Harry let himself be pulled without comment into the solitude of their shared room as their friends were leaving. They always shared, even in the expansive accommodation they had spent the last few months. It just felt natural; more than that, it was unnatural that they wouldn’t.
Draco folded his arms across his chest and stared at him blankly. Well, blank except for his eyes, which seemed to smoulder like dry ice. Harry had nearly writhed in the discomfort of such focus.
The consideration for Draco had been one of the very few reasons that Harry had hesitated to send his application to Mr Martin. The thought of leaving him behind – as he undoubtedly would have to – even for such a short time was physically painful. But in the end, Harry had clung tightly to his decision, pushing through the resistance that caused whole-body nausea. Even though every fibre of him urged him to apologise profusely in the face of Draco’s lull before the storm and assure him he would rescind on his resolution, he maintained his silence. He had to do this. He had to. Through the roiling guilt, he knew this.
Finally Draco spoke. “You’re leaving me.”
It wasn’t a question, but demanded an answer nonetheless. “Draco, I’m not leaving you. That’s not what I’m doing –“
“Really? Then what are you doing?”
Harry sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead. “I just don’t think I can go back to Hogwarts. That’s all.”
“’That’s all’? Bullshit, Harry. I know why you don’t want to go back, and it’s –“
“Then you should know why I’ve had to chose a different school.” Harry cut hurriedly across him, hands reaching out to Draco imploringly. Draco didn’t pull away from him, but he didn’t sink into the touch either. “Please, Draco.”
Draco maintained his cold façade resolutely. He hadn’t cracked, not even when Harry begged him once more to understand. He’d simply remained silent for the rest of the afternoon.
It was another story when night fell. Harry hadn’t seen him all evening – Draco was surprisingly elusive when he wanted to be – and was just readying for bed when he felt arms lock around him from behind.
“Don’t leave.”
Sighing, Harry shuffled awkwardly around in Draco’s grasp, raising his own arms to grasp his waist in turn. “I’m not leaving you, Draco.”
“You are. You’re going away.”
“Just for school. And I’ll be back to visit you at every possible opportunity I can. Just like Ginny’s going to do with Neville.” Peering up at Draco’s face, he could make out the firm set of his jaw, the slight twitch in his cheek and the rapid blinking of his eyes. It bespoke a deeper sadness, an anger maybe, at the turn of events than he had hinted at. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t –“
“I know. I know why you can’t come back. You don’t have to explain.” Closing his eyes, Draco rested his cheek on the side of Harry’s head. His arms tightened almost painfully, but Harry didn’t object to it. “I’ll come with you.”
Sighing deeply, Harry let the suggestion hang in the air. It would be so perfect, was so tempting to simply agree with the suggestion. It sounded so good he could almost feel it. But he even as he longed for it, he knew it was impossible, just as Draco did. He just needed he other boy to realise that. Draco was being stubborn. His silence persisted, and his arms only trembled from the force of their hold.
Finally, Harry spoke. “You know why you can’t do that.”
“I can.”
“No, you can’t. Draco, just think about it for a moment. What about your mother?” Harry felt Draco flinch against him, a slight whimper inaudible save that it was whispered directly into his ear. “You can’t leave her here to come to Paris with me. You know that.”
“I’ll bring her with me –“
“That’s silly. You couldn’t disrupt her like that. Not when she’s getting better where she is.” For Narcissa, though still frail, was recovering beautifully under her current specialist. It would only undo all of their hard work if she were to move from her current situation.
“Then… I’ll just come with you. She’ll be alright.”
Harry’s breath caught. The implications of that simple statement were earth shattering. His heart thudded demandingly from somewhere in his throat. It was painful to swallow. “You can’t do that. You can’t leave her.”
Draco pressed his cheek more firmly into Harry’s head. “But I can’t leave you.”
“You’re not. I’m the one who’s doing this, remember? And it’s only temporary, only for a short time. I’ll be back to visit every chance I get.” Harry attempted a smile. He feared he failed dismally.
Stroking a hand through Draco’s hair, he sighed deeply. “Draco, I love you.” He felt Draco begin to tremble against him more vigorously. “I don’t want to hurt you, but –“
“I know. I know you don’t. And I know you need this.” Despite his shivers, Draco’s voice was steady. Harry would always admire him for that fact. “And that’s why… I know, I have to let you go. Just for a little while.”
“Just for a little while,” Harry agreed. It felt like his chest was being crushed in a vice.
“But just you wait.” Draco’s voice firmed. His grasp became less demanding, less of a clutch, and more of a hold of promise, of reassurance. “As soon as I finish school…no, as soon as my mother is well enough, I’m moving there with you.”
Harry could have objected. He should have said more, he knew. But in that moment, just for a moment, the desire to be selfish was overwhelming. He’d already asked so much of Draco; he knew he shouldn’t be demanding more. It wasn’t fair to him, none of it. But for the first time in his life, he made a solid decision for himself, completely against objection, and held to it. He simply nodded mutely, pressing his lips to Draco’s, and returned the fierce embrace with equal intensity.
Beauxbatons was the chalk to Hogwart’s cheese. Not only were the classes entirely different – they approached just about everything from a different angle to their English-speaking cousins – but the very pace of the learning was so much faster. This likely had more to do with their intake occurring two years after that of Hogwarts but finishing only a year later. As such, the speed of learning seemed to increase tempo exponentially.
Neville didn’t have quite as much difficulty keeping up as Harry at first. Well, at least when overlooking his difficulty with understanding the words spoken by the Professors. The crash course Harry had given him since they’d decided to move schools had been lacking at best, near redundant at worst. Still, he picked it up quickly enough.
That didn’t mean they weren’t nearly joined at the hip for just about every lesson they shared. Harry was Neville’s de facto translator for the first few weeks at least.
In the end, though, Harry was glad they’d made the change. Word had gotten out, naturally, but the Department of Education in France forbade such harassment from nosy reporters. Especially foreign nosy reporters. Harry and Neville were relatively safe from such assaults. It was a welcome relief.
And Harry found his niche in Beauxbatons. Not in any particular friendship group – save for one in particular, befriending his peers was hardly a prominent part of his education. Rather, his interest in Magical Creatures grew and became one of his sole focuses of study. The final year of school, so focused upon the autonomous study of the graduating students, was agreeable with his increased focus. It helped that the course for Magical Creatures study was often conducted in conjunction with the Herbology equivalent; Neville was rather delighted at the fact.
When Draco finished at Hogwarts with flying colours – naturally – and, when his mother had recovered sufficiently, he made good his promise and moved to France. Narcissa had been adamant on the fact and, despite Harry’s objections that they not uproot their lifestyles. Unlike Ron, who had apparently forgotten his profession to acquaint himself with the French language, Harry was pleasantly surprised to find Draco had become near fluent in his preparation. Preparation that included seeking a Master for his Ancient Runes Apprenticeship specifically in France.
Narcissa declared herself well enough to travel, and despite Harry’s objections that she remain in the stability of her London setting, she had waved his arguments off and led the way for her small family’s intercontinental move. Not for the first time Harry was left a little in awe of the woman’s sheer force of will and ability to upend the world to pursue her goals.
Harry finished his own schooling and gained an apprenticeship under the recommendation of his favourite professor. Specialising in Mammalian Magical Creatures, he was finally able to pour himself into the field he so loved. It was a more fulfilling career path than any he had seen himself undertaking when in the Muggle world.
Harry and Draco lived with Narcissa at the Parisian Malfoy Manor. The building held fond memories for the both of them, and neither was particularly eager to seek independence by way of their own living quarters. Besides, Narcissa seemed to appreciate their presence. When she was around, at least. The woman had revamped her interest in the magical study of psychology and had become a professor at the distant Academy of Mind Magics. She was away from the manor as much as she lived in it.
Six years down the track, and Harry had thoroughly instilled his passion into the Manor. Primarily, this took the form of the extensive network of barns and gardens to the rear of the building. He’d been hesitant at first to install such extensions, but when the number of furry residents grew too much for the simple stable, Narcissa had taken matters into her own hands. Harry had returned from his studies one day to find a number of structures bigger than both his uncle Stephen’s and the Dursley’s houses put together branching off the back of the house. Narcissa had silently received his profuse thanks, the exclamations of ‘you truly shouldn’t have, though it is so, so kind of you’. She simply nodded acceptingly and requested that, should he acquire any further companions, that he inform her so she may install more accommodations for them. Since then, Harry had noticed her spend quite a bit of her spare time in the barn; she seemed particularly fond of the jarvey, a fondness that Harry attributed the majority of the mimicking creatures vocabulary to.
As a result, the extension on the back of the house was nearly twice as large as it had been originally. Harry had been rather sheepish upon realising as much, but the sheer delight of each of his magical friends was simply too great to fall victim to self-reprimand for too long. His newest acquaintances, the Mulch Fairies, had eased themselves into the workings of what Draco called Harry’s Menagerie seamlessly.
Well, excepting the rather worrisome deaths of their favourite shrubs.
The little Mulch fairy, dragonfly wings buzzing sadly in a mirror of its wizened face, seemed to sigh heavily when Harry informed it of his ineptitude with plant care. Or sighed as much as a creature the size of a very small phasmid could. The tiny creature was nearly as thin as the bug it resembled.
“Sorry,” Harry murmured again, resting an elbow on his knee. “But I did remember to pick up some pine needles for you.” Fumbling around awkwardly in one pocket, he scratched out a handful of the fragrant little needles. The fairy loosed a piercing shriek of delight and dove for them, beady black eyes brightening. Scooping them into its arms, the creature chittered excitedly before struggling into the air with its load and darting into the bushes.
Sighing, Harry eased himself to his feet. He’d seen the pine needle fortress the little colony of fairies had built under the patio; it was rather impressive, to say the least, and they were very proud of it. He’d be more than happy to supply as many as the creatures desired.
Wandering through the gardens, Harry passed into the stables and quietly greeted his friends. It was a low-ceilinged structure, and more of a rabbit warren of pokey compartments and open walls than would actually be comfortable for humans. Polished wooden doors branched off the central hallway, leading to a variety of specialised rooms each with their own resident species.
As he wandered down past door after door, greetings sounded after him. The Pegasus trumpeted a whinny as he passed, startling the pair of fidget into bouncing, chirping activity in the room across from her. A resounding call from the cockatrice contributed it’s own melody and soon a cacophony of sounds punctuated the air, echoed by the more sedate tones of the hulking arminadii.
Harry smiled as he noticed Lyssy wander from the pygmy skimple’s crèche; the cat fell into stride beside him, an expression of satisfaction in her step. She adored the skimples, spending much of every day staring at them. She had more than once attempted to steal one to tuck maternally into her own bedding, even when they grew too large for her to easily manoeuvre. The squeaks of the little creatures followed her departure, adding to the jingle already clanking through the air. It was a beautiful sound, Harry considered, despite how Draco complained that long exposure would certainly drive the most patient man insane.
Sighing at the thought, Harry’s mind drifted to his partner. Draco was overseas at the present. In Africa, of all places, at a new dig site. Predictably, Draco had quickly risen through the ranks in his field and even at the tender age of twenty-three was a respectable source for anything Ancient Runes related. Hence the eager request upon uncovering the latest find in the Amazon; Draco disliked field work, especially that which required him to trudge through any form of rough terrain, but even he couldn’t pass up such an opportunity.
He had been gone for nearly three weeks. It was a long time, considering they had barely been apart from each other for more than a week since Draco had moved to France. Harry knew it was selfish of him, especially after the decision he’d made to move to Beauxbatons in the first place, but he could hardly wait until Draco was back with him. He uncharitably resented the professors just a little for speaking so highly of Draco, recommending him for such far-flung projects –
A tingle in the back of Harry’s head swelled abruptly into warm fuzziness. Harry stopped in his tracks. Lyssy froze beside him, cocking her head questioningly.
I think…
Ah, is your tom returning? He is fast; fast, coming home so fast to see you. Smugness, contentment, approval. He missed you. A purr rumbled from Lyssy’s replete smirk, a soothing litany to the softly projected thoughts that thrummed through the magical bond of collar and earrings.
Harry’s felt a smile split his face. He could hardly have contained it, even had he wanted to. Spinning on his heel, he turned abruptly and started towards the kitchen. If he hastened, he might be able to have a cup of tea waiting by the time his ‘tom’ got home. For despite living in France for nigh on five years, his Englishman still did love his tea.

Scowling at the parchment in his hand, Draco scratched out another line in frustration. The scrawl painting the thick material was so horrendous that the line of error looked neat by comparison. Lines, for that matter, for the page was strewn with them.
Bloody Pollard. Not only is he as good as illegible, but he can’t write up a report to save his life.
It wasn’t the first time Draco had worked alongside Quinton Pollard, but he would strive to make it his last. The man had been in the business of archaeological Ancient Runes for ten years longer than Draco yet he still constructed his work like an amateur. Leaving his colleagues – Draco, primarily – to pick up the slack.
Sighing, rubbing a hand across the lines in his forehead, Draco slipped his pocket watch from his sleeve. Four-thirty, or there about. Still half an hour until his portkey was due to depart, which meant that he really aught to have time enough to finish reading through the drafted report. Even as illegible as it was. Draco supposed he should be grateful for the period of humdrum occupation. Had he been in France, he wouldn’t have gotten around to finishing as much. He just wanted to be home.
Three weeks he’d been gone. It was one of the longest expeditions he’d been on in his career, and when he’d received his request for assistance a month prior it had seemed like a marvellous opportunity. He’d always wanted to visit to the South American Branch of Archaeological Museum. To be given the chance to travel not only to the museum itself but also to the very source of most of its findings was too exceptional to pass up.
And it had been as grand as he’d anticipated. The little Wizarding village located in the very heart of the Amazon, in the ruins of Imergyian civilisation, had been breathtaking to behold; a clutter of mud-brick houses sprawled in a network of alleys and nearly swallowed by trees. The timber planking across the ground had been the only indication of pathways throughout the buildings; to stray from the pathways was to wind up ankle-deep in chilling, slurry-like puddles.
Being of the more refined societal circles, Draco had been dissuaded at first by the simplicity to the local lifestyle. Not to say they had been unfriendly, or unintelligent, or unhygienic even – surprising, as they seemed to revel in living atop mudflats – but… simpler. But being introduced to the true purpose of his visit had disregarded any initial discouragement.
The specialists in the area practiced an ancient form of magic that had died out nearly internationally. Not only that, but their knowledge of Ancient Runes, while not following the strain that Draco had specialised in, was fascinating to listen to. And the artefacts! Few had boasted discernible Runes themselves but those few were more bountiful than any collection Draco had stumbled upon in Europe. He was eternally grateful he’d packed one of those extensible bags Hermione had forced upon him.
And yet, even with such delights and fascinations, as the days drew on Draco had begun to grow weary of the stay. Little things that he had overlooked at the beginning – or had forced himself to overlook – began to irk him. He disliked the simple act of ridding his shoes of filth before entering his quarters; he’d had grown tired of the bugs that somehow seemed to penetrate the Repelling Charms layering the village boundaries. He longed for a long, warm shower, for those available were restricted by water regulation, and had grown rather tired of fish which seemed to be a staple in the area. But most of all, he missed home. Or rather more specifically, he missed Harry.
Since Draco and his mother had travelled to France for what was later to become a permanent move, Draco and Harry had rarely spent more than a week apart from one another. And a week was sometimes too long. It only served to remind Draco of his final year of Hogwarts and how much he had hated their long separation. Weekend visitations just weren’t enough.
Draco’s seventh year of school had been the worst year of his life. Well, maybe that was an exaggeration. There had been days of previous years that stood out as horrendous, certainly. Ones he cared not to reflect upon, for the physical shudder that would overcome him upon remembering. But that entire year had travelled so slowly and seemed to take such delight in its slowness, that Draco could only resent every day more and more.
He knew why Harry had moved to France. Knew, and couldn’t blame him. He recalled only too well the horror that had painted his partner’s face after Voldemort’s death, the tears that were shed at Pansy’s death. He remembered the nightmares that had woken Harry up with a start to lie shivering in his bed. That was a surprise in itself; Draco had never seen Harry wake from a nightmare before in the entire time he’d slept beside him, even with the events of his past that would more than explain as much. Draco could only ponder the trigger for his current response. He was sure he could guess.
Harry hadn’t shaken Draco awake at any instance, hadn’t spoken to him either the few times Draco revealed he had woken up with him. Harry seemed somehow ashamed of the fact that he was so traumatised by the events in the Battle of Hogwarts. Draco couldn’t comprehend why; he himself was had been woken more times than he could count, and Harry had comforted him when he’d been aware of them.
For whatever reason, Harry never spoke about his fears. He seemed to purposely thrust them to the side, as though to ignore them would be to eradicate their existence. In the years following, things had eased slightly; when Narcissa had suggested he see a recommendation of her own doctor to simply ‘talk’ about things – she drew gently upon his past and familial relations as the topic of focus – Harry still didn’t admit that he was pained by the Battle. Not initially, at least.
Draco found he could freely admit as much. Perhaps it was simply the environment; everyone at Hogwarts had lost someone they knew, someone they cared about. It was a known fact that the hurt, the pain, in the aftermath of the death of Voldemort touched them all. It was likely that which made it easier to admit. Easier to cope with, even, and to overcome, to move past.
In its own way, perhaps it was the need to support, to be strong for those around him that helped Draco come to his own peace on the events he had been partial to. That, and the companionship of Blaise. His friend had been hit terribly by Pansy’s death, more so likely than anyone outside of the Parkinson family itself. Maybe even more then; Pansy’s family had never been particularly close. And Draco found that, though his own pain was still raw, he could work towards moving past that pain, urging it to make way for fond memories, by supporting Blaise. Merlin knew he needed it.
With the preoccupation of Blaise, his mother’s continued recovery, and his own N.E.W.Ts, one may suppose that Draco was sufficiently distracted from his longing for Harry. Such was not the case. Many a time he had been on the verge of simply disregarding further studies and departing for France.
But then there had been his mother to consider, and even without Harry’s quiet reminder of the fact, he would have been held back from leaving her side. He knew she knew, too. Felt guilty about it, the regretful expression that crossed her face each time he visited her in the rehabilitation centre.
“Draco, if you want to leave –“
“Of course I want to leave, Mother. I can’t stand it in England, not when Harry isn’t here. But that doesn’t mean I want to leave you. And I won’t. I’m not going to leave you.”
Perhaps his words had been wrong, had placed a burden on his mother’s shoulders. Each time they had such a conversation, each time Draco cut her off, she would subside into thoughtful silence. He should have felt guiltier about it. Logic and past experience proved as much. He just couldn’t seem to fathom it. The ever-present frustration was driving such thoughts from his mind, and wouldn’t be waylaid by the all-too-brief visits from Harry, or his own weekends in France.
So when he had finished his N.E.W.Ts – satisfyingly enough, and on par with Hermione to boot – the first port of call had been a swift portkey to Harry’s side. His reluctance to leave it had led his mother to following shortly after; she was well enough by such a time, and her own eagerness smothered any protest of such travel. Draco hadn’t even had the chance to travel back to England before their small family had shifted to France in its entirety.
It was more luck that forethought that landed Draco with an apprenticeship. His interest in Ancient Runes had by no means been quashed by the war, or the events following it. His master, internationally acclaimed and sorely sought after as a teacher, had been more than happy to take on such an exceptional student. For Draco was exceptional – saying as much was purely recognition of fact rather than arrogance. He’d topped his year in Ancient Runes, topped the record twenty years running, in fact, and such was a delectable carrot to dangle before the nose of any hesitant mentor. The bait had been snapped up nicely.
In the years following, Draco had grown to love everything about his life. His previous ambivalence towards Paris had grown into a marked fondness. His love for Ancient Runes only grew stronger the more he learnt, the more thoroughly he embedded himself in works of translation and uncovering the cultures of the past. He fell into greater comfort in the French manor than he’d ever felt in London, and felt eased by the simple joy of living his mother found in their new residence, and later in her pursuit of teaching and her own research.
But most of all, he gloried in the love he found with Harry. Looking back on it, Draco could hardly believe he had survived the year they’d spent apart. It was far too long, and letters, no matter how frequent, could never carry the warmth of a handhold, the brightness of a smile or the musical sound of teasing banter.
Draco knew he wasn’t the only one to feel as much. Harry put on a brave face with his words, but each time they had reunited the shorter boy threw himself at Draco and the pair had simply clung to one another as though to let go would mean forfeiting life. Draco wasn’t ashamed to admit he had held on just as tightly.
It should have come as no surprise, then, that when Draco suggested they bond to one another – at the young age of eighteen, no less – that Harry had agreed wholeheartedly. And not just any bond; it was poignant, in a way, that Draco suggested they embed their relationship in stone with the Bond of Eternity. Harry had been the one to give him the ancient recipe, anyway. It held a continuity to it that rung nicely and brought a smile to his lips whenever he thought about it.
Even sitting at his desk in the guest room of the cabin he was afforded for his Amazonian stay, even at such a distance, Draco could still feel the small tingle of warmth in the back of his head that was Harry. Little could be felt through it save the simple knowledge that Harry was there. Not the faint colouration of emotion that sometimes radiated along its length, nor the soft vibrations that echoed words of love, of affection. But even so, it was enough.
Enough to bring the smile back to Draco’s lips, even as he drew a line through the last sentence of Pollard’s report. Placing quill and parchment down on the table, he drew out his pocket watch once more and grunted in satisfaction.
Finally.
Leaving the parchment on the table – Pollard would come by for it later; the man had extended his trip for another two unnecessary days, the fool – he strode swiftly from the room. Granted, it would likely have been better for his career had Draco similarly extended his trip when the opportunity had presented itself, but… three weeks was still three weeks. And Murilo, his resident guide of sorts for the duration of his stay, had only smiled kindly when he’d expressed his wish to return home. His knowing nod had indicated he understood at least some of the reason behind Draco’s eagerness to be gone without being told.
The village was roiling in steady lethargy as Draco strode through it. Stray wanderers trekked slowly over wooden paths, carrying baskets or chatting idly. Children stumbled through the puddles and long-grass, heedless of the filth they coated along shins and feet. The smell of cooking – it smelt like fish again – wafted through the air, weaving through the squat, monochrome houses. Even so late in the afternoon, the air was warm. Too warm in fact. Another aspect Draco wouldn’t miss particularly. Especially given the thick burgundy robe he wore. Perfect for Paris this time of year, yet rather excessive for the depths of the Amazonian forest.
Weaving along the designated pathways, Draco made his way towards the village centre. It was hardly noteworthy; the Hall of Communion was only slightly larger than the largest house in the village, and that wasn’t saying much. Still, it was an impressive enough structure, Draco supposed. There was actually some colour to the awnings, and he was particularly taken with the Runes that ran around every doorway in nothing so much as a pretty pattern. Draco would have to see to sprucing up the Manor with similar décor. He thought it would add a nice touch to the Christmas parlour.
Stepping through the open door directly into the main room of the Hall, Draco was greeted by a trio of men; Murilo’s wide, toothy grin and crinkled eyes, the Director of the local school Josue Sosa, and a French woman who Draco thought went by the name Royer but he couldn’t be sure. In Sosa’s hands was a carved wooden wreath, barely the size of his palm and simplistic in structure. Upon Draco’s arrival, he was just releasing the wreath into Royer’s hand. The woman bowed her head, murmuring in thanks.
“Ah, Draco! About time, my friend. We were waiting.” Murilo’s grin somehow widened further. Draco had never quite shaken his uneasiness at just how many teeth the man seemed to have. He was sure it was a little unnatural.
Sosa only shook his head at the other man’s words. “Not waiting, no. We have a moment or two before the ilefdahl is set to leave.” He nodded towards the wooden wreath in Royer’s hand, in case Draco didn’t realise he spoke of the portkey. Draco was always a little in awe that the man seemed to slip so easily into referring to simple objects by the ancient names.
Prompted by the words, Royer held out the wreath to Draco. She was a blank-faced woman, quiet, and with her eyes always faintly distant, though such blankness always seemed to somehow convey deep thought rather than simple-mindedness. Draco linked his fingers around the wreath when proffered.
Turning towards Sosa, he nodded his head respectfully. “I very much appreciate you accommodating my stay, Master Sosa. It has been a delight.”
“So formal,” Sosa replied, half-smiling fondly. “After three weeks, I had hoped your formality would wither a little, Draco.”
Shrugging in reply, Draco bowed once more. “Farewells dictate a certain sense of formality.”
Sosa cocked his head. ‘Ah, but let this not be a farewell. Let it be rather ‘for now’. You are most welcome to return, at any time you wish.”
Smiling with genuine gratitude this time, Draco thanked the man. Murilo clucked his tongue to call his attention. “Next time, you’ll have to bring your partner along, eh? Be able to stay a little longer, yes?” His still-widening smile spoke gleefully of the tease. Not for the first time Draco regretted telling the other man of Harry.
“I’ll be sure to ask him,” Draco murmured. It was better not to rise to the bait, not at the last minute. Besides, knowing Harry, he’d probably jump at the opportunity to take a look at some magical beast or fungi of some sort. What better opportunity?
Sosa and Murilo were both beaming brightly as the portkey whirred into action and, with a tug behind the navel, jerked Draco halfway across the world. His vision blurred into a smear of colours and dizzying speed until seconds later his feet slammed into the floor once more.
It was hardly a struggle to stay upright. Draco had taken more than his fair share of portkeys in recent years – international and otherwise – to let them shake him quite as easily as they once had. Dropping his hand from the wooden wreath, bequeathing it to Royer’s still grasping fingers, Draco started from the room he found himself in and headed down the proceeding hallway straight for the exit.
The International Portkey terminal in central Paris had become familiar to Draco over the years. The unassuming checkerboard tiles that filled every wide room, the black, elevated, stage-like dais that lay in the centre of those rooms and acted as a target site for the portkeys. The support staff stationed in every doorway, ushering travellers with pointless gesticulations that were barely heeded. Even the receptionists that lined the long desk in the equally unassuming entrance hall, all scribbling hastily on sheafs of paper or speaking with deliberate clearness to questioners.
As Draco passed them on his way to the exit, he noticed one receptionist in particular that he had happened across more than once. Stifling a groan, he dropped his chin and picked up his pace. Please don’t see me, please don’t see me, please don’t –
“Ah, Monsieur Malfoy! Bonjour, how nice to see you again!”
Biting back a sigh, Draco paused and turned slowly to the blonde haired young woman beckoning him enthusiastically. Her plucked eyebrows waggled in a disconcerting display over eyes oddly bright given their darkness of colour. Turning and approaching with reluctant steps, Draco stopped at her desk.
“Were you trying to sneak past without notice, Monsieur Malfoy?” She giggled in hiccups, self-satisfied with her own wit.
“Not at all, Rachel. Simply eager to be home.”
“Oh, you do not need to drop by work beforehand?” Rachel hardly had an inkling of what Draco did for a living, but this didn’t reign in her questions. If anything, it exacerbated them.
Shaking his head, Draco cast a deliberate glance over his shoulder. Nothing too obvious, but enough to alert any self-aware person that he was eager to leave. “Perhaps, but I can always drop by later. I simply wish to see my own home, dine in my own dining room and sleep in my own bed.”
Unfortunately, Rachel was being deliberately obtuse. Or perhaps she was just as stupid as Draco assumed she pretended to be. “Yes, it’s always nice to sleep in a familiar bed. Where was it that you were this time?”
Draco had to bite back another urge to sigh. “South America. The Amazonian Institute of Archaeological Magics.”
“Oh my! How exciting! How long were you there for?”
“About three weeks, but I’m glad to be back –“
“I’ve always wanted to visit South America. Brazil; it’s my number one holiday destination.” Rachel pressed her hands together, prayer-like, as she gazed wistfully into the distance. “To visit Rio de Janerio… Or the Igauzu Falls! I’ve heard they’re beautiful, but I’ve never had the chance…”
The woman nattered on inanely, for all the world as though she was speaking to an audience of enraptured listeners. Draco didn’t quite understand why she felt the need to prevail upon him her love of exotic locations. It was a new favourite destination every time Draco met her, and she’d educated him on more than a few throughout the course of their unexpected – and largely undesired – relationship.
He didn’t really know what else to call it. Rachel wasn’t looking for a partner; the ring on her left hand and the frequent references to her husband spoke as much. She didn’t seem particularly interested in were Draco had been, either, though she made a half-hearted effort to ask before launching herself into a new tirade. Draco suspected it was simply that he wasn’t one to rudely cut her off and tell her he was leaving, and her constant stream of words dissolved any attempts on his part to slip a word in edgeways.
In the back of his head, he felt the blossoming warmth that was Harry unfurl into a daffodil of amusement. He could likely feel Draco’s frustration, and given the relatively accurate locating effects of the Bond of Eternity, would also likely guess the cause of it. Draco had spoken briefly and curtly of ‘his friend Rachel’ as Harry had called her on more than one instance. He seemed to delight in teasing Draco of his inability to escape from the rather nettling situation.
Finally, however, it was Rachel’s job that saved him from an eternity of getting his ears talked off. A round, blustering man huffed up to his side and spluttered a question over the woman’s chatter that effectively ground her to a halt. She hardly seemed upset at the prospect, however, and answered the man with equal enthusiasm, as though directing him to the South-East Asian departure quarters was the very reason for her existence.
Draco slipped away when he could. The crisp air outside of the International terminal was a refreshing reprieve from his near imprisonment. It was quiet near the magical building; situated in a ring of acreage on the off chance a portkey shorted and dropped its riders outside of the predetermined point of depository. It was far more considerate than its London cousin. As such, within three steps from the front doors Draco Apparated without fear of Muggle suspicion.
He landed within an instant on the path leading up to the front door of the Manor. Right on the edge of the anti-Apparation wards, within the gates and just in sight of the house. Draco always loved the walk up to the front door. The picturesque manor looked like a dolls house seated on the expanse of immaculate grass, pointed rooftops reflecting the orange of the evening sun and wide windows blinking at his approach owlishly. Unlike the sprawling yet lovingly attended stables to the back of the manor, the front was purely pristine. So perfect as to be breathtaking.
Taking the steps up to the front door two at a time, his burgundy robes swirling around him in a flurry, Draco stepped onto the threshold of his house once more.
The first thing that met him was the smell. A faint sweetness, warmth, like freshly baked bread… Scones? Possibly. The smell was intoxicating and set Draco’s stomach growling. He hadn’t even realised he was hungry.
The second thing was the faint clatter from the direction of the kitchen. The sound of pots and pans rattling against the floor and a rich, bubbling laughter echoing from the wide room. The distant words “… can’t help it if you must, Diddy…” followed close behind.
Following his nose and his ears, Draco made his way from the brightly lit entry through the tunnel of hallways to the kitchen. The nearer he drew, the warmer Harry’s presence. The larger, the softer, the brighter. It fit the image of his lover perfectly when he stopped in the doorway, pausing as the light of the white kitchen flooded upon him.
His hair was a mess, but that was normal for this time in the evening. No matter what he did to it, Harry couldn’t seem to tame his wayward tresses. There was flour across his cheekbone, more coating his fingers, and nearly as much rested in a handprint on the forehead of the house elf gazing exasperatedly up at him. The pair seemed to be caught between an argument and open amusement. Diddy holding a tray of uncooked scones in his hands while Harry gestured hazily to the open stove behind him.
The smell of cooked scones was stronger from the doorway. Following his nose, Draco saw a small plate with steaming pouches already waiting. A teapot and matching teacups ringed it; it was a picture of perfection and Draco’s clenching stomach grumbled once more.
At his appearance, Harry turned abruptly from the house elf towards him. Diddy took the opportunity to slip his tray towards the oven, smiling in satisfaction. Harry and the house elves were forever at odds about Harry’s participation in cooking, despite the fact that he claimed he rather liked it. The exasperation was clearly wrought over Diddy’s face.
But Draco barely noticed the house elf. His mind was drawn even from the scones and tea as he watched Harry’s face light up and a wide grin spread across his cheeks. His eyes widened and sparkled brightly; he hadn’t worn glasses save briefly in years and in that moment Draco couldn’t have been happier for the fact. Not when such beauty and joy seemed to radiate from them like a visible light.
Neither spoke as they both leapt across the room towards one another. Draco wasn’t sure who reached whom first, but it hardly mattered. The force of arms locking around his waist, of a chin pressed into his shoulder. The smell of flour, of warmth. The smell of Harry. It was perfect.
When Draco slipped his fingers into Harry’s hand, those that locked within his own were soft and warm.
He was back home and exactly where he wanted to be.
~ The End of The Masks of Real Heroes ~
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The Masks of Real Heroes