Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Returning to Sanity	By : AchillesTheGeek Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 31212 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter books or films, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 39
- 40
- 41
40. The Return of a Little Comfort
Last time:
"Ah, Mr Malfoy," the unfamiliar voice of Agnes Touauld said. "Good. Now, perhaps, we will get some answers."
Draco turned to face the healer, and she all but pounced on him, a fierce and fearfully intense curiosity obvious on her aged face. He knew that look: it was one that Professor Snape had grown proficient at hiding, but Draco had always spotted it. He winced; that look meant that he was going to give answers, whether he wanted to or not. There was nothing for it but to tell her everything, he knew that perfectly well.
"Hello," he said, mildly. "Do you think I could get a drink of water?"
The witch said nothing, just waved her wand and a glass on the bedside table filled itself from the pitcher next to it, and then floated over to him. The move was so fluid and fast that he could tell she had done it often. It figures, he thought; she must be well used to patients playing for time. By the look on her face, she was well aware that that was what he was doing.
"Thank you," he said, once he had finished his drink. "Now, what would you like to know?"
"Everything," she said promptly. He had not, in truth, expected any other reply. "Start from when I walked into the room and cast the spell, and go on from there."
"Well, to begin with, there was darkness, and then …"
"That's not quite right, is it?" she said sharply. "There were colours first."
"Oh yes," Draco said, rather shocked not have been allowed to finish even his first sentence. He frowned, remembering. "Well, yes, um … you cast the spell, I remember that, and this amber light came towards us. It would have been perhaps two or three inches away when the Shield erupted in front of us – I mean," he corrected himself, seeing that she was itching to interrupt and knowing intuitively that she would want detailed observation, not his theories about what had happened, "the three colours of red, green and silver swirled in front of my eyes, and I knew that this was the Haussmann shield. Are you aware of what that is?"
"I am aware of the shield," the healer replied, not adding more, her tone inviting him to continue.
"Right. Well, I watched the swirling colours, and then suddenly the Shield sort of stopped, as if it had let the amber through; one moment it was mostly red light in front of my face; then amber; then it went black, and I must have lost consciousness because the next thing I knew I was lying there with my eyes shut."
"And you opened your eyes?" she prompted.
"I opened them, but it didn't really make any difference."
"I see. How did you feel about the experience?"
Draco wasn't used to healers asking about his state of mind, but then he wasn't used to healers with as much experience as Agnes Touauld either; so he thought back.
"It did feel strange …" he began.
"How so?" she asked, animatedly. "Claustrophobic? Dangerous? Unsettling?"
"No, quite the opposite, actually. It felt safe. And the space seemed sort of spongy. And then I wanted it to be my study; and it was."
He decided to leave out the voice entirely; somehow he didn't feel ready to talk about that, not while Harry was still unconscious. But Touauld didn't seem to have noticed, merely asking if it was exactly like his study.
"Yes, except it had French doors," he replied. "And I went through them, and found myself in a cottage garden, just the sort of place Harry would love, and I knew I would find him there somewhere."
At this point, the door opened and, no doubt drawn by some maternal instinct which told her that her son was awake, Narcissa Malfoy walked in, with Molly Weasley behind her.
"Dragon!" Narcissa said. There was delight in her voice, but also a note of apprehension. Touauld turned to look at her. With a hundred years of experience, she was quite used to relatives coming in to the sick room and wondering whether they should be there. As a healer, she had a very firm opinion on that score: the love of friends and relatives was an irreplaceable ingredient in healing, to be used whenever possible.
"Good afternoon, Mrs Malfoy, Mrs Weasley. By all means, come in and join us. Mr Draco Malfoy was recounting the very interesting events that happened while he was unconscious. If I understand correctly, we had just about reached the moment when he joined Mr Potter."
"Look, this is all very well," Lucius had said, as Narcissa sat down next to him. "But I don't understand how any of this is possible. I mean, was Draco dreaming? And if so, how could Harry actually be in his dream?"
"I do not think Mr Malfoy was dreaming, no," the healer replied slowly. "I tend not to form a theory until I have as much data as possible; but this does sound like a phenomenon I have heard of before. Specialist mind-healers encounter it more often, I understand. You see, the mind is a very strange place, and it has a reality all of its own. In cases where the patient is being healed of magical trauma, it seems able to create a sort of mode of being that is no less real than our physical world; but has its own, rather different, rules. One could describe it as 'the land of dreams', I suppose; but that label really hides more than it explains. It is really a space constructed by the mind, or sometimes minds, to facilitate healing. But that is enough theorizing. Mr Malfoy, please continue."
"Before he does, he needs to eat," Molly said, in a voice that brooked no rebuttal. "It is lunchtime, after all, and from what I understand, he hasn't eaten since last night."
Touauld looked a little abashed. An elderly lady, she managed to exist almost entirely on tea and toast, and it often didn't occur to her that other people needed more substantial meals. And she had heard of Molly Weasley's formidable reputation for mothering her children; it seemed that, for the moment at least, that included Draco as well. She, herself, was quite unstoppable when in the middle of treating a patient, and she recognised a kindred spirit.
"Yes, of course," she said. "But nothing too substantial on an empty stomach. Perhaps we could have some light food here?"
Narcissa smiled and called for Mappy, who produced an enormous plate of sandwiches, and another one of cakes. Draco reached out for a cake immediately; but the plate was levitated away from him. He looked up in surprise to see stern looks from both Touauld and Molly Weasley. He cringed under the onslaught of disapproval from both healer and mother, and took a sandwich. The two women both nodded in approval; it was almost comical how exactly they mirrored each other.
"So, Mrs Weasley," Draco asked as they ate, "to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?"
Molly looked at him kindly. "Narcissa has kept me informed of your progress. Yes, yours as well as Harry's," she stressed, because she could see perfectly well that Draco was looking surprised at the idea that she was concerned for him. "Of course I care about you, Draco. You're a poor boy who was forced into an unpleasant situation and made some bad, and often forced, choices; and here you are making amends for them. And showing that you care about Harry, my youngest son."
Draco went pink at these words, but was saved further embarrassment by Mappy appearing with a tea tray. Once everyone had a cup of tea, Touauld took charge again. Under her relentless prompting, he explained, as best he could, the garden, and finding Harry, and how Harry had told him all was well, and how he could see this for himself and was quite sure of it.
At the end of his explanation, she recapped everything he had said, making more notes on her parchment. Then she did something he had not at all expected: she smiled at him.
"You are a very observant patient, Mr Malfoy. The details you have given exactly tally with the readings I had been able to make, and on the whole I think Mr Potter is in no danger. I am more than relieved to learn that he had said he felt fantastic; healing of the magical core is a very difficult area, but one thing we have learnt is that the best indicator of success is the patient's own feeling of wellness."
"Thank you, that's comforting to know. But, um, you called me a patient? I didn't think I was the patient here?" he asked.
She fixed him with quite a stare. "From what we have learnt about the Haussmann shield, and from what I have observed over the last fifteen or so hours, it is clear that there is a magical bond between you two, Mr Malfoy. Accordingly, the process Mr Potter is going through is bound to affect you too. For that reason, as well as to help his healing, I'm going to ask you to stay here with him, and submit to further monitoring."
Draco gulped. It seemed that he was practically chained to the bed for the foreseeable future. Mind you, being forced to stay in bed with Harry (albeit a sleeping Harry); there were worse fates …

"Harry's engaged!"
Ron groaned to hear it again. "Yes, Hermione, I know," he replied. The thought, 'really, I can't believe it',in Hermione's voice, ran through his head. That was what always came next.
"Really! I can't believe it!" Hermione said, right on cue.
"Believe it," said Ron. "Dad said so, he wouldn't joke about something like this." He turned the page, silently wishing that his fiancée would shut up so he could give all of his attention to the Quidditch magazine that the twins had just sent him.
Hermione stared at him. She couldn't understand it.
"Ronald Bilius Weasley!" she said, and Ron knew he was in trouble. It was never anything good when people used his full name. "How can you be so calm about it! Harry is engaged to Malfoy, of all people! You know, tried to kill you? And Katie Bell?"
Ron sighed. How many times had they been over this? "He wasn't trying to kill me or Katie, he was trying to kill Dumbledore. And yes, I know that's despicable, but Dumbledore forgave him, so I think we should too. And, Hermione, what's really bugging you? We have this discussion three times a day, and I'm getting a bit over it."
"I'm sorry," the bushy-haired witch replied, and suddenly Ron realised she was close to tears. He reached his arm around her, and she burrowed her head into his chest as she started sobbing.
Eventually, she calmed enough to be capable of articulate speech again.
"I'm sorry," she said, "it's just … I feel like, he's our friend, he's always been there for us, and we're not there to share this precious moment in his life …"
Ron sighed, and clasped her tightly. "It's all right, 'Mione. He's made a choice, we'd seen it coming; but I'm sure he understands. He wanted us to come to Australia, remember? He could have waited if he'd wanted to, but obviously he decided he wanted Draco enough that he didn't want to wait. He's a big boy, now, he gets to make his own decisions. And he's our friend, and we're going to stand behind him a hundred percent. And we'll be back in just over a week, and we'll make sure Draco is spoiling him rotten, and we'll help. OK?"
They were asinine words, and he knew it, but they turned out to be perfect. Hermione laughed at how silly they were, taking comfort that her fiancé had not laughed at her or belittled her feelings. Half an hour later they were interrupted in mid-smooch by Mrs Granger. Which was just as well, really; there are limits to what a wizard should do in his future in-laws' house, even if said in-laws are Muggles …

Friday 12 June
Draco woke early on Friday morning and lay in bed listening to his fiancé's even breathing. He had been by his side for so long that he could tell instantly that Harry was at peace, just from the sound he made. He put his hand on Harry's brow to make sure, and felt a faint tingling in the back of his mind. He concentrated on it; almost instantly it became much stronger, and somehow he knew it was Harry reaching out to him, trying to tell him something. A wave of feeling went through him and suddenly it was obvious what Harry was reaching for: all was well, he was sure of that; but his lover wanted to be held. The feeling was so strong and so peaceful that he couldn't help but scoop his lover into his arms and cradle him, stroking his hair and crooning to him.
Harry didn't wake; but the feeling changed, and somehow Draco could tell that Harry was enjoying the sensation very much. Which is why, half an hour later, Mappy found him still rocking Harry and caressing him and making soothing noises.
"Master Draco is awake!" the elf squeaked. "Master Draco is wanting breakfast?"
"Yes thank you, Mappy," Draco said. "But please don't let anyone else know I'm awake yet."
"Yes, Master Draco!" the elf replied and disapparated with the inevitable pop.
Draco lay back on the head-board and closed his eyes and ruminated on life. It suddenly struck him that he, a pureblood, had said 'please' and 'thank you' to a house-elf. He really was becoming more like Potter, he thought. Hmm … More like this brave, loving, generous, wonderful man? Well, why not.
It struck Draco, too, that Harry didn't complain. At school he had thought of him as an attention-seeking whinger; but the last few weeks had shown him just how wrong that assessment had been. The boy had been forced into a tricky debt situation – Draco could now see that the Debt was as unwelcome to Harry as it had been to him and his father – and imposed on by his mother and Mrs Weasley setting his wedding date; and the Wizengamot, demanding the testimony that had become the Potter code; and the Ministry, who still, Draco suspected, wanted him to be their pin-up boy, they were just subtler about it now. And in the midst of it were Andromeda and Teddy. Not that she exactly demanded anything of it, but he clearly felt an obligation there. And he'd sucked it all up, and did what needed doing, and looked after everyone. Well, Draco thought to himself, it's time he got looked after. And I guess that's my job…
He made himself comfortable as his fingers carded through Harry's hair. He just hoped his lover would heal soon; he loved holding him, but missed their talks, and their flying, and working at Hogwarts with him, and working on Grimmauld Place with him, and … well, everything with him really.
He hadn't quite realised it before; his life had come to revolve completely around the man in his arms.
Draco thought about that, and smiled.

Petunia Dursley was not having a good day. It started promisingly enough; the sun was shining, always a good thing in Petunia's mind, though she would have to remember to top up all the garden beds with water. Vernon was even in a good mood for most of breakfast, though she had caught him looking askance at the toast. She managed to get his eggs just right, and the bacon nice and crispy, and almost succeeded in not thinking how much better it had been when the freak had cooked for them; he always got the meal perfect, though, of course, they had never told him that, since obviously he must have cheated and used magic.
And then the joy of the day, such as it was, began to depart. It started innocently enough: the mail arrived, and there were the usual bills and rubbish – apparently they may have won a cruise – and nestled in the middle of the bundle of envelopes and flyers was a letter for Dudley. It was in a very official-looking envelope, addressed from Smeltings Academy with their crest embossed on it. As a matter of course, she put in the special rack she had reserved for letters for him.
But Vernon, who normally never noticed anything, noticed this action.
"What's that?" Vernon asked.
"A letter for Dudley," she replied breezily.
"That boy! What's he doing getting letters? Give it here," he demanded.
"It's from the school, I don't think we should –"
"WHAT!" he had bellowed at her. "Taking his side now? It's not enough for you that our son is a prefect, and getting good grades? That our lovely strong masculine son is becoming a swat and a goody-two-shoes?"
He was in full-on rant mode by now, and Petunia was desperately trying to think of a way to calm him down.
"It's all the freak's fault, he's bewitched him somehow," he said, and the thought, though completely without logical foundation, seemed to calm him a little. And if it gave him someone else to focus his anger on, Petunia was only too glad. Much better blame the freak than focus on themselves.
At this point, realising he would be late if he didn't get on with it, Vernon swore violently, jumped up, gave his wife a very perfunctory kiss on the cheek, leapt into his car, and was gone.
Petunia was so shocked that she broke a teacup while doing the dishes. Her Vernon had left in a foul temper, and had not even actually said 'good-bye' to her. She had done her best to make a nice breakfast, and he hadn't even noticed. She wondered, not for the first time, whether he still loved her. And then, and this was the first time, she wondered if she still loved him. And she had to admit that she wasn't sure that she did. She was so wound up that she decided to do the hoovering. The Hoover, after all, didn't mind her being rough with it. Except today, it did; the motor burnt out.
She sat on the edge of a lounge chair and bit back tears. She gave herself a good talking-to. What was going on? She was a strong woman, wasn't she? There was no cause to sit and weep because her husband had left in a huff, or she'd broken a cup, or the vacuum cleaner had died.
But as she went over them in her mind, the thought that rose up was that the problem wasn't that any of these things had happened, but that all of them had. It was as if the Universe had suddenly started conspiring against her. Or perhaps the freak really was still having some influence over them …
The doorbell rang, and she roused herself to go and answer it. Perhaps it would be one of those religious nutters who called from time to time. They were always good for a laugh, and she could do with one now.

Toby was glad for the one hour difference in time zones, which meant that they could leave Mallorca at ten o'clock in the morning and reach their office just after nine. Robin was full of the joy of living and eager to be off again. Proudfoot grumbled about this good-naturedly; he could have done with a day in the office. But Robin's high spirits didn't really surprise him. The man was still a boy, really, and had the resilience of youth. And he had another day in the field to look forward to. They had to go and interview one more person before they could tackle Vernon Dursley himself. Today they were going to see what Petunia Dursley had to say for herself.
It was all he could do to keep the man from going straight to Privet Drive. But they didn't want to get there before Vernon had left, so they filed paperwork and waited. It was two cups of tea later when, just after ten o'clock, they knocked on the door. There was no answer, and Robin spotted, and pressed, the rather unobtrusive door bell. This got a response; the door was answered by a rather flustered-looking Petunia.
"Oh!" she said, shocked to find two uniformed police officers at her door. "Is something wrong? Is it Dudley?"
"No, ma'am, nothing's wrong," Toby said soothingly. His manner was gentle, but neither he nor Robin failed to notice the unshed tears in her eyes and her general air of being flustered. Something has got her all a-bother, Robin thought.
"We just have some questions we need to put to you if we may," Proudfoot continued.
"Oh!" she said again, clearly flustered. "Oh, um, well, I suppose you'd better come in, then." What was I thinking? she asked herself. She had left them on the doorstep too long; what if the neighbours had noticed? Policemen, of all people, visiting her house!
She took them into the front room and offered them tea, which they were delighted to accept. Once she had made it, she brought the tea-tray into the room, with some biscuits on a plate. She was feeling a little more composed now; the simple act of making the tea had been wonderfully therapeutic.
Which was a shame really, as Robin proceeded to rock her to the core.
"Lovely room you have here, Mrs Dursley. I see lots of very nice photographs of what must be your husband, and son?"
She nodded in agreement, wondering where this was going.
"But none, I think, of your nephew. We're very worried about him, Mrs Dursley; we've uncovered some rather underhand activity taken against him. We were hoping you might be able to help us put together the picture of his life."
Petunia pursed her lips. Would she never be free of that damned freak?
"I'm sorry," she began, though she was nothing of the sort, "but I'm sure you know that he's a wanted criminal, and no longer welcome in this house. He left of his own accord, so we take no responsibility for him. It's a shame that you've come all this way, as I can't help you, I'm afraid."
"Oh, I'm sure you can," said Robin, and his earnest face began to work its magic on her. "We know about Harry's situation now" – far better than you do, he thought – "but we were hoping to get a line on what he was like growing up. You see, we have found evidence to suggest that he didn't commit any of the crimes he is accused of …"
All of a sudden, something in Petunia's mind clicked. She wasn't entirely happy about the way Vernon had acted; he and that odious Dyson had put their heads together, without her, and cooked up what she was quite convinced must be a pack of lies. And that offended her for two reasons. Firstly, she had been brought up to respect the law, and the police officers who upheld it; to see one of them deliberately working against it had put a bad taste in her mouth. Secondly, truth to tell, she actually missed Harry. He was, after all, family; the only other surviving member of the Evans family. Petunia might have bitterly resented the special treatment that Lily had received, and felt totally rejected by the world that had so easily accepted her, and, in Petunia's eyes, stolen her from the family; but she was still her sister. And Harry was all that was left of Lily.
She would probably rather have died than admit these things out loud; but Auror Banks and Auror Proudfoot were both reasonably good at legilimancy, and her unguarded Muggle mind practically forced the thoughts on them. And they both were very aware of the moment when she made up her mind. They both expected her to clam up further and throw them out to protect her husband; to their surprise, she did the opposite: she told them everything,
When they left, just before midday, they took with them a signed statement that they were well aware would cook Vernon Dursley's goose well and proper. To be sure, Petunia had not been entirely truthful, and they knew it; she had presented herself as being entirely under Vernon's thumb the whole time, forced unwillingly to accept his determination to punish Harry. What for, she had been rather vague about; which of course only strengthened the statement as it removed any semblance of rationality from Vernon's actions. He came across as a boor and a bully, hurting Harry for no other reason than that he was there.
Petunia invited them to stay for lunch, but they gave their apologies and left, explaining that they had a mountain of paperwork to catch up on, and they had to have their report ready by two o'clock. This was entirely true; but also, neither of them wanted to stay, anyway. And they didn't, of course, say that it was Lucius Malfoy they were reporting to. Let Petunia assume this was going through police channels, Robin thought wryly, and that Vernon was for it. For Robin was a lovely man, but people who hurt children deserved everything they got, in his eyes. So if she didn't have the nous to realise that she was putting the noose around her own neck as well, that was hardly his problem …

Lucius Malfoy spent much of the morning in his London office.
First up, George Grunnings came to finalize the sale of Grunnings Drills. He was very impressed by the office. Well of course, Lucius had thought. Impressing people was, after all, what the office was for. It took only a few minutes for the money to be handed over and the sale was now all finalized. The only negative thing was that Grunnings insisted that they go to a nearby pub and drink a pint together to celebrate.
Thus it was that Lucius Malfoy found himself sitting in a Muggle bar, drinking Muggle ale. While it was not unpleasant, it did not really fit with his own image of himself; and when Grunnings suggested crisps as well, Lucius felt a limit had been reached, and declined the offer.
They sat drinking, George offering what he no doubt thought of as helpful observations about the staff. Lucius didn't care; he had done his research, he knew that the company practically ran itself; he'd keep Grunnings around, the man was useful as the figurehead, but there was, he well knew, one director who didn't really make a difference to the bottom line and wouldn't be missed …
That thought, and what he was going to do with Vernon Dursley, brought a smile to his face, which Grunnings mistook as encouragement.
"Well now," the son of Yorkshire said, "I was thinking of making a little announcement about the sale to the senior staff. Would you like to come along and be introduced?"
Lucius thought about it for a moment. On the one hand, it would give him a neutral forum in which to assess Vernon Dursley; on the other hand, it might be better to sneak up on the man and not give him any chance to know what hit him.
It was the latter thought that decided it for him. "Thank you," he replied, "but I think it's more your meeting; why not take them out for a nice meal and make a night of it? The firm can pay."
Whether Lucius had known it or not, he had found the way to the other man's heart. George Grunnings hadn't got where he was by throwing money around; but if this Malloy character wanted to, he was very happy to sit back and let him. Especially if it was going to wind up in his favour.
Lucius had been glad when the meeting was over, and Grunnings had gone off back to Surrey. He went back to his office, and decided he needed something to take away the taste of the ale. He called a house-elf, and Dippy appeared.
"How can Dippy be helping Master Lucius?" she asked, her eyes wide and showing the perennial eagerness to serve that was such a characteristic of the creatures.
"Ah, Dippy," he said. He had been half-expecting Mappy, that elf usually appeared. But Dippy was perfectly up to the job. "I would like a large glass of water and a small glass of fine brandy; and then some lunch."
Then he had a thought. Of course it wasn't Mappy; Mappy was charged with looking after Draco and Harry. And thinking of Draco reminded of something.
"Actually, no," he said, just managing to forestall Dippy from disappearing to do his bidding. "Not water. Make that an elderflower cordial made with soda water."
Dippy looked at him with her head on one side.
"Master is wanting his drink like Master Draco likes?"
Lucius chuckled. "Yes, Dippy, exactly like Master Draco likes."
"Yes, master!" the house-elf chortled, happy to have guessed her Master's wish, and made him chuckle; that would make a good tale to tell the other elves. She vanished, and returned two minutes later with the drinks.
Lucius sipped his cordial, and it took him straight back to that day nearly three weeks ago, when Harry had tried elderflower for the first time, and he wondered how Draco and Harry were getting on. Well, he would find out later today, no doubt; there was obviously no problem, nothing he needed to do, or the creature would have told him so. In the meantime, he had plenty of other things to occupy his mind, things he did need to do to put his plans into action.
He had been given a copy of all the documents that Banks and Proudfoot had discovered, and from it he had extracted one important name: that of the Magistrate who had granted the injunction. The highly confidential, and very secret, files that the Aurors had found showed that Mr Justice Tony Collias was a Master Mason; and indicated that he was more than a little fond of a tipple. Lucius made himself some notes as he ate his lunch, and decided that he needed to talk to the magistrate. He scanned the court list; yes, he was in court today, but his case was not expected to last the whole afternoon. Excellent, Lucius thought.
He was interrupted by the two Aurors coming to make their report. He listened with great interest, and agreed with their assessment of the situation. It was absurd. Looking at the evidence coldly and dispassionately, was it really credible that a twenty-something-stone man was being victimized by a teenager? Had it really not occurred to anyone that the truth might be the other way around? Lucius shook his head. Obviously, it hadn't; so it was time that it did.
Armed with his knowledge about Tony Collias, and the evidence that the Aurors had brought, it was simplicity itself to intercept the man as he left the court building, to pretend an interest in the Masonic lodge and arrange to have a drink with him that before his Lodge dinner. Indeed, Mr Collias was so delighted to make his acquaintance that Lucius had had to invent a prior engagement to avoid being roped in as a guest to the non-ceremonial part of the dinner.
Lucius was grateful that the man did not suggest they drink ale. They sat together, each nursing a glass of whisky on the rocks. It was an up-market bar, and there had even been a range of whiskies to choose from; Lucius had left the choice to his drinking partner, and the result was surprisingly drinkable.
They chatted for a while about nothing in particular; but the conversation was easily led to Collias's job. Lucius adroitly asked him about injunctions, and the need to prove the situation before they were issued, before discussing the particular example of a teenager in an abusive home situation. At the same time, Lucius was using his legilimens skills to bring the Potter case to the front of Collias's mind, so it was no surprise when the lawyer started talking about it.
"It's funny you should ask," he said. "I had a case a few months ago, but it was sort of the other way around. The man had taken in a relative of his wife's when his parents had died, and the boy was now living with them. Apparently this lad used to beat him and his wife up. Sad, really; he'd obviously gone off the rails big time."
Collias drained his glass, and Lucius suggested another, which was gratefully accepted.
"How does that happen?" Lucius asked. "I mean, a teenage boy beating up a grown man? He must have been a weakling?"
"I don't know, really, he didn't appear in court. The whole thing was done as a police file; they showed some evidence of marks to his wife and son, as I recall. But there weren't any pictures of him, now I think about it …"
"It seems very easy to get an injunction then," Lucius mused. "I mean, how do you know the truth isn't that the man himself abused his wife and child, and was just blaming the boy?"
"Oh, well, the police case was well documented," the magistrate replied, but Lucius could hear that his confidence was waning.
"You know," said Lucius, reaching into the briefcase he had brought, "I just wonder if perhaps I know the man. He wasn't Vernon Dursley, was he?"
"How … wait, this is a set-up!" Collias replied, as Lucius placed some photographs on the table. One was of an enormous fat man; Collias did not recognise him, but his mind was racing …
"Is that …" he began.
"This is Vernon Dursley," Lucius replied, and then placed a photograph of scarring and wounding on top of it.
"I've seen that before," Collias said, "they were on the other boy, the Dursley's son."
"No," Lucius replied, turning the photograph over to reveal that it had been signed by a master sergeant, attesting who they were of, "they are of the boy you granted an injunction against. These wounds were inflicted on Harry Potter, not Dudley Dursley."
Collias' face went ashen, as grey as a Dementor, and Lucius pressed his advantage home.
"I have evidence that the case against Harry Potter was entirely a fabrication between Vernon Dursley and the officer in charge, Darren Dyson."
"Why hasn't Potter come forward to contest this?" Collias asked.
"Why should he?" Lucius asked, putting a steely note in his voice. "Isn't he innocent until proven guilty? And who would believe him? And anyway, right now, Mr Potter is officially a missing person; but I can tell you he is in a coma due to injuries that were inflicted upon him by the Dursleys."
Seeing that Collias was about to explode, Lucius wove a calming charm around him as he slipped across the file of documentation that the Aurors had prepared. There was a blank sheet on top of the file, and Lucius placed a pen on it.
"This file should provide sufficient documentation for an official review," he said, quietly, in a voice full of menace. "I just need to know who to give it to."
Collias blinked. His emotions had gone on a rollercoaster in the last ten minutes; he had always believed in the system, believed that he had a role to play in stopping crime and abuse, and it seemed he had in fact abetted it. But now he was being given a chance to fix things. He prayed silently that he would be forgiven as he took the pen and wrote down the details of the officer in the internal investigation team that he knew he could trust.
Lucius smiled at him. "Thank you for your assistance. I'm sure we can get this sorted out. Now, I believe you have a meeting to get to?"
"What? Oh, yes, thank you," the man replied as he got up, a mite unsteadily.
"Don't worry," said Lucius, "I'll take care of everything. I'm sure that your decision was based on lies that were presented to you, not a deliberate miscarriage of justice."
Collias stared at him for a moment, vacillating as it occurred to him that his whole career was in the hands of the blond man before him. Then suddenly he knew it would all be alright. He found himself taking comfort from the certainty rising in him that this stranger, with all this new evidence, actually believed in him, and it gave him the courage to stand up straight, thank him again, and leave the bar.
Lucius smirked. He didn't really care about Collias's career, of course; but the man had been lied to, and was only guilty of not having enough curiosity or wit to actually demand some tangible evidence in front of him, rather than relying entirely on what he had been told. Well, he knew now that there were police who lied, and lied convincingly; so next time he would be more cautious about believing them unquestioningly. Lucius hoped so, anyway. He would have a word with the senior detective whose name Collias had written on the file, and make sure that Collias knew he was being watched.
But the man didn't really matter. To Lucius, the important person was his new son. Harry Potter. And the important fact was that now he had a legal avenue through which to attack Vernon Dursley.
He smiled. To make his plan work, he needed to leave that horrible whale of a man with nowhere to go but to him. Controlling Grunnings, he could easily close him off from there; but he was going to do more. When he had finished, Vernon would have nowhere to go to find work. And with Collias's assistance, he would have no standing in the Muggle world at all…
It was nice whisky. Lucius had another one, bought a bottle from a nearby wine merchant, returned to his office, and apparated home.

"You can't go in there, he's having an important meeting …" the secretary insisted.
'Yeah, with a bottle of firewhiskey," the older woman replied, never halting in her stride as she barged into the office.
"What the—oh, it's you," Cuffe expostulated, putting the bottle back into his filing cabinet.
Rita smiled. It was firewhiskey; she knew her editor!
"Right," she said, "I've got something for you. I happened to overhear two of Potter's pals. And guess what? There's a whole heap of stuff we've never dug into about that Debt crap …"
"All right," Cuffe said, "I'm listening …"
Half an hour later, Cuffe was ecstatic. Harry Potter had brought someone back from the dead? That was excellent for sales; there were plenty of wizards who'd said it was impossible, not least the late Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. So it would be easy to write up an opinion piece, different ideas, theories on how it might have happened, arguments that it didn't and was all a con, … Fine. The articles almost wrote themselves.
But what was much more interesting was that no-one knew. Cuffe agreed with Skeeter to play it as a Ministry cover-up; after all, Shacklebolt had been on the spot, he must have known something. And that meant that either Potter had kept Shacklebolt in the dark, or Shacklebolt must be covering up for Potter. (A little voice inside his head said that they may all have just got on with things and not thought about it at all; but that idea wasn't going to sell papers, so he discarded it. So often is the truth thrown away at the Daily Prophet …)
It took another hour to set everything up just how he wanted it, and then he opened the firewhiskey again. He was so delighted that he not only agreed to Skeeter's by-line request, he even offered her a shot of firewhiskey. Of course she accepted; this was the first time she'd ever heard of any employee being offered a drink in the editor's office and she was thrilled at the honour. Though not the firewhiskey; predictably, Cuffe's taste ran to very strong rather than smooth, and it burned all the way down. She took note of the brand, allowing him to think she was going to seek it out; but she was in fact just making sure she never bought it by accident.
By three o'clock, Saturday's paper was all laid out, and Skeeter took the rest of the day off. Cuffe wouldn't mind; he was practically comatose in his office. She left a hangover potion next to him; she didn't want him waking up and floo-calling her demanding one. He'd done that before; her boss's face, suspended in the fireplace, green both from alcohol and the flames, was not a pretty sight.

It was a very nice dinner in a very posh restaurant, and Old Man Grunnings had been in a good mood. Two facts that made Vernon Dursley very suspicious, and very nervous. He'd never known his employer to splash out like this, and no reason had been announced; he was plotting something, Vernon was sure of it.
It didn't help that Petunia was clearly enjoying herself talking to the other directors' wives. He could almost see the cogs in her mind turning, and hear the accusations he would get when they got back home. About how they got new cars and holidays abroad and new clothes … and then she would comment about how Mr Grunnings took them out to nice places for dinner, and why didn't he?
Wrapped up in his own thoughts, he almost missed the moment when Grunnings stood to speak. Here it comes, Vernon thought.
"Right," said George Grunnings. "Let's have a bit of shush, I want to tell you something. As you know, from time to time people make me offers for the business. And I turn them down flat. They all want me out of it; and Grunnings Drill Company is mine, and I'm keeping it. Right?"
They all nodded in agreement, keeping up with him easily. It was one thing about Mr Grunnings, he was very straight and direct. Easy to understand.
"But for the last couple of weeks, a new buyer has been pursuing me. And he wants me to stay as the CEO, and run the company just like it is. It was a tempting offer, but the money wasn't good enough, and I told him so. 'Well then,' he says, 'what about a bit more?' And the long and the short of it is, he offered a price I couldn't turn down.
"So as of Monday, Grunnings Drill Company will be owned by Mr Luke Malloy. Now, I don't think any of you need to be worried about this; I've told Mr Malloy that I value all of you, and want to keep you. So, let's have another round of drinks to celebrate the start of a new chapter in the story of Grunnings Drill Company!"
The speech rather shocked them all, Vernon could see that, but the offer of more drinks was received enthusiastically. He wondered what it would mean for him. It might, perhaps, be what he needed to get rid of Collings and claim the Managing Directorship for himself. He looked over at his nemesis, who was deep in conversation with Mrs Grunnings. She didn't look like she was enjoying it particularly. He took comfort from that thought.
Vernon smiled. It was not a nice smile.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have set up a thread for replies at http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/index.php/topic/56042-review-replies-for-returning-to-sanity/ . I will generally try to reply to posts before posting a new chapter.
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Returning to Sanity