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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
- 44
- 45
- 46
45. Return Trips to Foreign Parts
Sunday 21 June 1998
Bill rose very early that Sunday morning. But even so, by the time he Flooed to Gringotts, there were plenty of goblins already there, working away. Many of the goblins didn't care for things like regular days off; the ones who did, Bill had noticed, tended to work on a ten-day cycle anyway. In fact, this had been one of the major battles between the Ministry and the goblins: the Ministry felt that it had to stick up for all wizarding workers, and wanted the goblins to agree to work a six-day week. The goblins themselves understood quite well that humans needed a break; but they weren't human, and didn't see why they couldn't have different rules for different races. The wizards claimed it wasn't fair, and the goblins would feel aggrieved if they didn't get the same days off as everyone else; the Gringotts Head Goblin, faced with such nonsense, simply gave his goblin workers the choice of working or not; and most of them did. Whenever the wizards got their knickers in a twist, he would simply tell the goblins not to come in the following Sunday; they came anyway, but as it was unsanctioned by him, the books didn't show it and everyone wound up happy.
Bill thought the whole thing was very silly; he worked irregular days anyway, as most of his curse-breaking work was done in stretches abroad which could last for any amount of time. The goblins did not trust many wizards; but Bill was one they did. He would go away for two or three weeks at a time; the goblins, recognising his incredible skill at his job, usually told him not to bother coming to work for the following week. Generally speaking, he gratefully stayed home with Fleur.
Unless something important came up. Like an important ward in a secret place alerting him to unexpected entry.
He walked into the bank and sought out his boss.
"Mr Weasley," the goblin said, inclining his head.
"Raredd," he replied, with a similar nod.
"I was not expecting you in so soon?" the goblin said, with a quizzical look on his face. At least, Bill assumed that was what it was; goblin facial expressions were very hard for wizards to read, which was one of the many reasons why the two races didn't get on very well in general.
"One of the wards I set in Egypt went off yesterday," Bill said, opting to skip any preamble. The goblins liked his straightforwardness. "It's in the Museum we found near Berenice. I suspect someone wants to access the Chamber of the Secrets of Death today, on the solstice."
"I see," said the goblin. "You'd better get going then. Ragnok!" he called.
A younger goblin came in. "Yes sir?" he said.
"Mr Weasley will need a portkey to Berenice," he said, then turned to Bill. "Will that do?"
"Oh yes," Bill confirmed, "I can easily apparate from there. And we can set it to avoid the wards."
"Very good," the goblin said. "Off you go, Ragnok!"
Bill gathered a few important things into his backpack and left as soon as the younger goblin returned with the portkey.

Karkaroff consulted the ancient Book of Rituals again. It was a stroke of genius, he thought, to make the key to understanding what to do double as a port-key to get to the room itself. He checked through everything for the third time. The Map of the Worlds ritual he had chosen to perform wasn't the best one; it would only give him a partial map, but that should be enough to confirm that Voldemort was gone completely. It was tricky enough all by itself, and he couldn't see any way to get what he needed for the Full Map ritual.
He walked into the Ritual Room through the West door, as tradition demanded; that way, he greeted the sun shining through the enchanted skylight as he entered. He looked around; everything was quiet and still. There was not a breath of air, and it felt like there hadn't been for decades, if not centuries. And yet, the air was sweet; there was no doubt that the place was enchanted. He caught himself before he could fall into reverie; he had much to do. He swiftly warded the four doors, one pointing to each cardinal point of the compass, and laid out everything that he had brought carefully. The frankincense and myrrh in their jars he placed in the niches set aside for them; the hyssop branches he strew around the table; and on the table he laid out a perfectly new piece of parchment, on top of which he placed four scrupulously cleansed clear glass dishes. On each dish, he made the required mound: pure white salt, black charcoal, red cinnabar and deep yellow saffron. Alongside these, on dishes of blackest obsidian, he laid the magical ingredients that would be required: the single unicorn hair, the tiny vial of acromantula venom, the basilisk scale, and the phoenix feather; all items he had stolen from Severus Snape long ago.
After an hour arranging everything just so, there was nothing more to do for the moment but wait. Once the sun was overhead, the ritual could begin; and the latent power of the room, energized by the sun on this day as on no other day, would transform the ingredients into the map he sought.
Well, he hoped so, anyway. He had done the full ritual before, the only remembered occasion on which it has been performed; but no-one had performed the partial ritual in living memory, after all …

Draco woke up to find that once again Harry had got up before him. This time there was no sign of the black-haired youth; so after a quick shower the blond dressed for the day and went off in search of his fiancé, only to find him in the kitchen, fully dressed and just finishing cooking bacon and eggs.
"Morning!" he said brightly, "you're just in time," and floated over a plate to Draco, followed by a mug of steaming hot tea.
"Morning," said Draco, not quite so cheerfully. The morning was not his favourite time; though he would make an exception for the gorgeous sight of Harry in jeans and tight shirt coupled with the delicious smell of the bacon and eggs he was offered. "Um – how come you're doing the house-elf act again?"
Harry winked at him. "Oh, I Floo-called Molly first thing to thank her for last night, and she let slip that Andy and Teddy were there so the babies could play together. So I, um, suggested to Kreacher that they could probably do with some help –"
"And he leapt at the chance, didn't he?" said Hermione as she walked into the kitchen
"Yup," Harry said, sitting down to his own breakfast and summoning the one he had made for her as well. "You noticed that too?"
Hermione nodded. "He was really sweet with Miriam yesterday," she said to Draco by way of explanation, as the blond was looking blank.
Harry chuckled at the memory. "Did you sleep well?" he asked Hermione.
"Yes thanks," she replied. "Ron is on his way down. We really want to thank you for having my family here yesterday, Mum was gob-smacked that you just took them in and worked around them so neatly. And she was so pleased that Miriam seemed to fit right in."
"Of course," said Harry. "I mean, of course they're welcome. They're family, after all. Morning, Ron," he continued, summoning the fourth breakfast as the redhead walked in.
Draco held in a snort – just – as he saw that the breakfast Harry had made for Ron was twice the size of the other three; but then, he had seen Weasley eat, he would probably have no trouble getting through it.

Twenty minutes later, they all had empty plates in front of them and were sipping fresh cups of tea when they heard the distinctive Floo chime from the kitchen fireplace. Harry was rather shocked; the kitchen Floo hadn't been working; he decided that his friends must have fixed it as part of the renovations to his house. He wondered how many other odd things he would find like that; it gave him a funny feeling to think that so many people had loved him enough to come and do such an amazing job in the house, without any hope of getting anything back.
"Allo?" said Fleur's voice out of the grate. "Iz 'Arry there?"
"Hello Fleur!" Harry called out, moving over to the fireplace. "Yes, Draco and I are here, and Ron and Hermione."
"Oh! 'Allo! Wonderful! I was wondering, 'Arry, Bill 'as 'ad to go off for work and I am going to Paris for ze day to do zum shopping and 'ave lunch with my cousins; would you all like to come too? Isabella would love to see you all again, I am sure!"
Harry looked around at his friends. Draco looked excited at the prospect; but Hermione shook her head.
"Sorry, Fleur," she said, "Ron and I promised my parents that we would visit and help them sort out their house today."
"Oh," Fleur said, a little dejectedly. "That's too bad. But 'Arry? Will you and Draco come?"
"We'd love to!" Harry said.
"Excellent!" Fleur replied. "Can you be at Shell Cottage in 'alf an 'our? Yes? OK, see you then."
And with that she was gone.
"Right," said Hermione. "Well, we need to help Mum and Dad, and I guess there's no time like the present. Um, Harry, can we Floo from here?"
"Eh? Oh, I suppose so; I didn't even know the Floo here worked, to be honest."
They quickly found a box of Floo-powder on the mantelpiece; so Ron and Hermione braved it. It must have worked; they disappeared quickly enough.
"Well, shall we go?" Draco asked.
"Oh!" Harry said, his face miserable. "Your mother!"
"What about her? You don't want her to come too?"
"No," Harry said, and then realised Draco was winding him up. "Prat. No, it's Sunday, we go to the Manor for lunch on Sundays."
"Oh, that won't be a problem, I'm sure," Draco said, and immediately Floo-called the Manor. Dippy answered, and went to fetch Narcissa.
"Draco, darling, how lovely to hear from you," she said, the picture of elegance as always, even though Harry rather suspected she'd been called from the breakfast table. "Oh, and Harry, dear, how are you? Will we be seeing you today?"
"I'm sorry, that's what—" Harry began, but Draco cut him off.
"I'm afraid not, we have been invited to lunch with Fleur Delacour's cousins in Paris."
"Oh! How lovely! Do give Apolline my best regards if you see her," Narcissa replied, and Harry was relieved that there was not a hint of reproach in her voice. "Harry, have you been to Paris before?"
"No," Harry said, his voice oozing sadness; but he was cut off by Narcissa this time.
"Oh, of course you haven't, but how sad!" she said, quickly, feeling rather guilty at having asked – for she knew his history; there was no time in his schooldays when he would have gone, and those disgusting Muggles never took him anywhere worth going to, she was sure of that. "Have a wonderful time! Draco, spoil him rotten, and make sure you find him some proper macarons!"
"Thank you, mother, I'll take good care of him," Draco promised. He looked at Harry, worried about the tone he had just used; but the emerald-green eyes were sparkling.
"Macarons, eh?" he said.
Draco smiled. He loved macarons. Especially when eaten in Paris.

Bill approached the Museum with great care. He knew where all of the old wards were, of course; but there was nothing to say that whoever had entered hadn't set up wards of their own. So he treated it pretty much like every site he entered: performing each detection spell with exquisite precision. In the course of entering he found that three new wards had been set up; but what was more worrying was that three of the existing wards had been subtly changed. Whoever had entered this place was an expert, Bill thought; it was just as well that he was, too.
It took him a couple of hours; but eventually came to the West door of the Ritual Room without having tripped any wards. And there, standing with his back to him, was the intruder. Bill took a second to take in the scene: the jars in the niches, the parchment on the Map table, the glass dishes with their particular mounds; and the obsidian dishes. He ran through in his mind the possible rituals; there were only really two contenders, and one of them required two wizards …
At the same time, he examined the man in front of him. Without seeing his face, he couldn't identify him; he had the Dark Mark though. After years of practice with dark objects, Bill could feel that easily enough. So, a Death Eater? But they were all accounted for; at least, it couldn't be Draco or Lucius, and he hadn't heard of anyone breaking out of Azkaban. Was there one they didn't know about?
He decided he needed to take a chance; he silently drew his wand, and stood at the ready. He scanned the doors for wards and let out a slow smile. The man knew his spellwork; the wards were very sophisticated. He was no amateur; but neither was Bill. And Bill knew a secret about these particular wards: they were difficult to break, except for the simplest of spells, before which they would crumble silently. He sent a pulse of magic around the corridors, and counted to three. The magic hit the wards on the East door and set off its alarm; at the same time he wordlessly cast the necessary spell at the ward in front of him.
Alohomora. The simplest of unlocking charms, and the ward was gone, as the wizard in front of him strained to see into the East doorway.
Petrificus Totalis. And now the man was in the grip of the body-bind curse, and no longer a threat. He walked into the room, casting Levicorpus and turning the man around where he stood. Strange; Bill had studied all the known Death Eaters still alive, but he didn't recognise him.
And then it clicked. His mouth dropped open.
"Igor Karkaroff?" he asked, dumbfounded, relaxing the spell on him just a little so that he could talk.
"Indeed," the man replied, in a cold, haughty voice. "And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"
"My name is William Weasley," Bill replied, deciding that he owed him a name; fair exchange was no robbery. "Well now, this is a surprise. You're supposed to be dead."
"I'm sorry to disappoint you," Karkaroff returned. "Fortunately, the Death Eaters who thought they had killed me only killed a dying Muggle volunteer. Yes," he stressed, for Bill looked skeptical, "a volunteer. A man I befriended and nursed while he was dying."
"You'll forgive me," Bill said dryly, "if I'm not quick to believe it."
For answer, Karkaroff stared intently at the wall next to the North door, and gave a grim smile. "Tell me," he said, "were you aware that some stones in magical places are able to act like a Pensieve?"
With that, he shut his eyes and concentrated; an image started to form on the wall, an image of a man struggling for breath in a small shack in a wild, windy, lonely place; Bill recognised the Scottish landscape almost at once. And then Karkaroff himself came into view, offering the man broth and porridge. Bill watched, transfixed, as the scene played out. He listened astonished as the man agreed to take Karkaroff's place; no, not agreed, he had actually suggested it, Bill realised. He cast a quick truth spell; being a curse-breaker, they were something of a speciality of his. This one glowed bright gold; the memory was completely authentic.
"Well now," he said. "I'm sorry I didn't believe you."
"I forgive you for your caution," Karkaroff replied, emulating Bill's dry tone from before.
"Right," Bill mused. "I suppose I should still be cautious though. I take it you were aiming to perform the partial Map ritual?"
"Quite so," Karkaroff said, impressed that his captor knew about the rituals, though he tried hard not to show it. "I was hoping to prove that Voldemort really has gone for good."
"Do you think the partial ritual will be able to prove that?" Bill asked, sounding a bit dubious.
"I don't know," Karkaroff replied, "but I didn't have much choice. I'm supposed to be dead, as you say; it was a bit hard to get in touch with any of my contacts. Especially since I don't want anyone to know I'm alive if Voldemort isn't gone completely."
Bill smiled. "Fair enough. Well, I'd like to confirm that he's really gone, too. My employers would be very interested to know that; while it's generally believed to be true, if we can prove it beyond doubt, so much the better. So, how about we perform the full ritual?"
Karkaroff looked at him appraisingly. "Well, that would be surer," he replied, slowly. "And also, unlike the partial ritual, I have performed the full ritual once before; so it is surer. The only difficulty is in equipment; you may not be aware, but for that ritual we would need half-a-dozen branches of elder, which, as I was not expecting to require, I did not bring."
"I know," Bill said with a smirk. "You must understand, Mr Karkaroff, that I am a professional curse-breaker; it is a point of pride for me to know all about the rituals associated with the places I break into. And I have been here before. And, knowing the rituals, I always travel prepared. You never know what might happen." He removed the backpack from his shoulders and extracted half a dozen sticks of elder from it. "So. We'll perform the full ritual then, if you are agreeable."
"Of course," Karkaroff replied, his eyes going wide. This man would be a very useful ally he thought; well-prepared, quick-thinking, and cool as a cucumber.
"Right, we'll do it together. But one false move and I kill you. Understood?"
Karkaroff looked at the man's eyes, and believed him. "Release me from the body-bind curse, and I will give you a wizard's oath."
The truth spell was still active, and still glowed gold; so Bill released the man, who immediately conjured a ball of magic and said, in the formal way of these things, "I, Igor Karkaroff, do swear on my magic that Bill Weasley shall come to no harm by deliberate action or inaction on my part; that I will perform the Full Map of the Worlds Ritual with him to the best of my abilities; and that I will freely share with him the results thereof."
It was more than Bill had hoped for. And he too swore not to harm Karkaroff, or to reveal his involvement without his consent. And with that, they shook hands and Igor began preparations for the more intricate ritual as Bill reset the wards to ensure that no-one else disturbed them.

Vernon Dursley was not a happy man. The invitation from the Malloys had arrived in Saturday's post: the limousine would arrive at seven, it said, Part of him was in awe of the beautiful engraving and the thought of being fetched by limo; part of him felt it was just like that stuck-up Malloy to show him up so badly. Petunia had only stopped talking about it when Dudley had arrived home: as it was his birthday on Tuesday, the school had let him have this weekend at home so they could celebrate together, which meant going out to dinner.
He had booked a table at the best restaurant in Little Whinging; but he couldn't help feeling he was going to be shown up tomorrow. Which made him grumpy. Well, grumpier – he still wasn't able to eat very much; this obnoxious tummy bug was lingering around. At least he seemed to be able to drink again. Still, he had had Dudley there, he had made rude remarks about the waitresses, and Dudley had seemed to enjoy himself.
But now it was Sunday morning, Dudley had gone off shopping with the money they had given him for his birthday – girlie mags, he suspected, knowing horny teenagers; well, he had enough money to buy a lot of them. But the problem was that that meant it was just him and Petunia again. Petunia, who was going out to dinner tonight. Petunia, who was insistent that she had nothing to wear and they had to go shopping themselves, and no, Vernon's old suit Would Not Do.
By lunchtime he finally put his foot down and insisted that now that Petunia had chosen two different and entirely acceptable outfits, complete with all imaginable accessories, and he had a new suit, shirt, tie, belt and shoes, that they could go home. And no, he wasn't going to buy new underwear for the occasion; Mr Malloy wasn't going to see his underwear.
Lunch was a few dry crackers and water; he didn't feel up to anything else. He hoped his stomach would behave itself tonight …

As the sun hit its zenith, a single ray came through the crystal at the top of the Room of Ritual, taking on a deep yellow hue as it shone down toward the table. The room had become quite hot; light was streaming in through the windows dotted around the top of the walls, and it seemed to swirl around in a heat haze. The two wizards had been casting spells for a quarter of an hour, as the ritual required; sweat was pouring off them, but, deep in concentration, they hardly noticed; they dared not stop, even if they could have formed the desire to.
The single beam, now darkened almost to amber, hit the blue swirling cloud of magic over the table, and a very strange effect took place. As the light touched the cloud, they heard a buzzing noise; and the beam seemed to go first a deep, deep green, and then black. Not the black that was the absence of light; but a much more solid, definite thing. It hit the items on the table; they seemed to glow, then sizzle, then disappear. Colours erupted out of each bowl, tendrils of smoke arching into the air, swirling over the parchment, and then settling. If they had looked, they would have seen an intricate design form on the surface, finer than any draftsman could have drawn.
But they did not look. All of their attention was taken up by the spellwork. It took another fifteen minutes; and then suddenly there was a loud clap. The black light seemed to shudder and vanish as the sun finally moved out of position and the light from the top of the room suddenly ceased. And all was still and quiet.
At the same time, the magic ceased. To the two wizards it was as if they had been holding on to a piece of elastic that had now snapped. They both fell backwards, arms flailing uselessly in the air. Fortunately, it seemed that the ancients who had built this chamber had taken this into account; for as he hit the floor, Bill could feel a cushioning charm around his head. He was grateful to whoever had had this forethought; his magic, and his body were exhausted, and glancing over at Karkaroff he guessed the other wizard wasn't any better off.
It took them perhaps ten minutes to recover their breath and get their strength back; by the time they had, all the smoke had gone, the wood had burnt, the bowls had vanished, and before them was just the table, and on it the now illustrated sheet of parchment.
The picture was of a set of circles, all centred on the point at the very middle of the sheet; with intricate little patterns and designs all over it. Karkaroff touched the parchment with his wand, and incanted: "Fac ut totus mundus pateat!"
Instantly, the design leapt off the page, in three dimensions, it appeared as a sequence of somewhat transparent concentric spheres. Bill thought it was at once one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen, and one of the most frightening. It sat there, shimmering in the air, and he could feel the powerful magic holding it together.
Karkaroff began to explain.
"I came here ten years ago, with one of the Egyptian magi, and made a map like this. Of course, we had the Book of Rituals to guide us, too; but he told me how to understand the map, better than the book does. Start looking in the centre. You can see a solid sphere there, like the Earth, only deep yellow." Bill nodded; he could see this clearly, and as he focused on it, the rest of the design seemed to fade, and it became very clear. It looked like a yellow cannonball; except that, instead of solid and fixed, its surface seemed alive, constantly shifting, and weird symbols seemed to move across it.
"This is the world of those still living;" Karkaroff explained further. "If we try hard enough, we should be able to focus in and find any wizard or witch known to us."
"Only wizards and witches?" Bill asked.
"Yes," Karkaroff said, his voice showing his irritation at being interrupted. "There are six billion people on this planet, Mr Weasley, I don't think we could get them all on here! Anyway, now move out."
As he said this, the inner sphere seemed to shrink a bit, and the second sphere, that enveloped it, became clearly visible. It was difficult to take in; the second sphere somehow didn't feel anything like as solid as the first, which was clearly visible inside it. It was still yellow, but more transparent; it was, Bill thought, a bit like a balloon; still strong, but much easier to break than a cannonball. Again, once you looked at it for any time, the sphere seemed to be alive and moving.
"This next sphere shows those who have passed on but are still tied to this world in some way. Ghosts dwell here; and so, last time I was here, did Voldemort."
He pointed with his wand at another sphere beyond this one, even less solid. If the first had the feel of a balloon, this one felt like a soap bubble; ephemeral, insubstantial. Yet this couldn't really be true, Bill thought; perhaps, he wondered, it seemed so because he was, obviously, anchored to the first sphere.
Karkaroff's voice brought him out of this reverie. "This is the realm of those who have left the world of physical living, and cannot return, but are still tied to people they knew here, people they loved, or hated, who remember them."
"And beyond that?" Bill said, very softly.
"Ah. You see the last sphere? The magus I was with said that there are some who can see into this sphere; but neither he nor I could. Nor, I think, can you?" The last was a shrewd guess; Bill nodded, his only reply.
"I see," Karkaroff continued. "Well, until we can find someone who can see into it, we won't know exactly what it represents, I'm afraid. And if there ever was anyone who could, they didn't leave any details about it; which suggests to me that either no-one can, or it is not a secret anyone will share."
They stood in silence for a minute, each marveling at the image before them.
"Now, to business," Karkaroff said briskly. "Hominem demonstretis, quisVoldemort!"
The image became a little dimmer, and Karkaroff held his breath as the spheres seemed to roll around for a few seconds, then stop. He looked intently at the second sphere, but could find nothing. He let out the breath.
"Not the second sphere," he said. "He cannot return. Is he in the third sphere?" He searched intently for a few seconds, then looked puzzled. "No," he said slowly. "So where is he, then?"
"What are we looking for?" Bill asked.
"Hard to describe," Karkaroff replied. "And it depends on the wizard in question. When I performed the ritual last time, Voldemort showed up as a sort of kite-shaped black blob. Here, let me show you. Think of an example. Someone important works best."
"Harry Potter?" Bill suggested. After all, if they were interested in the Dark Lord, who could be more important than the Destroyer of Voldemort?
Karkaroff smiled, a thin, mirthless smile. "Yes, of course, your friend Mr Potter. We know he's in the inner sphere. Hominem demonstretis, quisHarry Potter!"
The sphere rotated again, and then came to a halt; as soon as it had finished, an intense green light was visible in the centre of the sphere. It seemed, at first approximation, to be shaped like a triangle; but then the picture zoomed out, or the symbol became bigger, Bill wasn't sure which, and it became much clearer.
Karkaroff looked thunderstruck. It was indeed a triangle; but there was a line bisecting it, and circle within it.
"The sign of the Deathly Hallows," he breathed out. "Harry Potter is the Master of Death ..."
The next moment, there was no longer any question about it: the symbol was becoming bigger. Karkaroff's breathing became more ragged; Bill could tell he was astonished by what he was seeing. As the triangle expanded, it elongated, moving out through the spheres. It touched the edge of the second sphere, and as it did so it projected light back along its length, back into the first sphere. They could see now that what had at first seemed only green was in fact bound together with another shape; one that sent out fine silver threads entwining with the green. Before Bill could really examine it closely, the green triangle breached the edge of the third sphere, and a red line formed around it, suffusing the green. And still the triangle grew, getting narrower, and the red and silver lights twined around it more and Bill held his breath in wonder at the beauty of the sight; until it touched the outermost sphere and they could just make out a faint black symbol.
A solid, kite-shaped blob.
Bill looked up. "We have to tell Harry," he said.
Karkaroff nodded. Potter needed to know, that was clear. They could argue about who would tell him later.

It had been a wonderful, magical day. Harry had loved the whole thing: the colours, the sights, the smells, the sounds of Paris had completely overwhelmed him. He had loved the Delacours; they were so full of life. They had jabbered away non-stop all day in French, and Draco had replied, occasionally translating for Harry's benefit. It had made Harry realise just what life must be like for Fleur; he decided there and then he would have to learn French and return here with her often. She deserved to have someone around her who understood a little of what it was like to be surrounded by people you didn't quite understand.
Fleur herself had been wonderful. She, as much as Draco, had watched him like a hawk as they wandered around the city. The moment he started to flag, she seemed to suddenly find another café that they had to try, or the patisserie with the best bichons au citron in all of Paris, or the chocolatier who made Belgian chocolate seem pedestrian … He knew he was being molly-coddled; but at the same time, the sheer zest for life, the pride in their city, took his breath away.
Now at the end of a perfect day, Fleur, Harry and Draco sat together at a small bistro in the Rue de Remarque, the Wizarding shopping district of Paris. Harry might have called it 'Paris's answer to Diagon Alley', except that Diagon Alley wasn't really a question, and comparing this place to it seemed faintly ridiculous. There was, he was sure, nowhere in the world that could compare to the Rue de Remarque.
He sat, watching the passers-by in the twilight. Everyone looked busy, and happy. Everyone greeted one another with a simple "bonsoir, M'sieu" (or "Madame", or "Ma'meselle"), and smiled, and nodded, without seeming to need to converse and he realised quickly enough that they were not greeting their friends, as he had at first assumed; no, everyone greeted everyone else, even strangers, and no-one seemed to think it impolite.
Unknown to himself, Harry was grinning at the sight. And Draco, watching him closely, grinned too.
Harry is happy, he thought to himself. He had devised all sorts of complicated plans to make Harry happy; but he saw now that it was the simple things that had done it. All it had taken was a day in Paris, talking to Fleur and her cousins, sitting in a salon and eating a simple, but delicious lunch of bread and cheese, walking around, and now dining in the Rue de Remarque.
As he watched his lover, he realised something else. Harry is strong. The whole day he and Fleur had been careful of tiring Harry out. Not only physically, but emotionally; he had worried that Harry would be overwhelmed by Paris, as he himself had been on his first trip. Especially after his mother's little faux pas this morning. But there was no evidence of it. Harry might still be physically recovering from his recent sickness and battle; but he was emotionally much tougher than before. Than he had ever been, Draco suspected.
"Knut for your thoughts?" the blond asked, putting the coin on the table. Fleur looked across when he spoke, gave a knowing little smile, but said nothing.
Harry turned to Draco and his smile got wider. "Oh, I was just thinking how much I enjoyed today. Thank you both for an amazing time. I'm even enjoying just sitting here. In England, if I sat outside in public like this, everyone would mob me because I'm Harry Potter, the Saviour; or they'd come up and tell me how evil I was for being gay. Here, no-one gives a damn."
Almost on cue, two wizards appeared, holding hands, and very obviously very much in love with each other. And indeed, everyone smiled and nodded at them, just like they did to everyone else, and no-one stopped them, or looked askance at them, or paid any notice when they stopped outside a shop and gave each other a deep kiss.
"Yeah," Draco replied. "In England, everyone would mob me because I'm Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater."
"Ah," said Fleur, "but here, why should who you were be zo important? You are young, and beautiful, and in love. What else could possibly matter?"
They looked at each other.
"I love this place," they both said at once, then dissolved into laughter.

The limousine arrived right on time. The chauffeur got out, greeted them, expertly installed Petunia in the left hand passenger seat, then opened the opposite door and let Vernon sort himself out, before returning to the driver's seat.
Vernon looked around, very impressed. In the centre of the car was a low solid seat, in the middle of which was an ice-bucket, well braced against any possibility of slipping, and with a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne cooling it in.
"Good evening," the chauffeur said again. "I trust you are comfortable? Please enjoy the champagne; our journey should take about forty minutes to an hour."
"Can you at least tell us where we are going?" Vernon asked, a little gruffly. "I don't want to look a gift bottle of champagne in the mouth; but it would be nice to know what Mr Malloy had in store."
The chauffeur smiled a little. Dandelus Crockford was beyond pleased that Lucius had asked him to do this job. It showed an astonishing generosity of spirit on the part of the Malfoy patriarch, especially given the awful way he had treated the Malfoys while he was under the Imperius curse; and how disgusting he had been to Harry Potter, who really deserved nothing but praise and deference for his actions.
So he was determined to do the job well – to show that there was no ill feeling on either side. Which really amounted to not letting the two passengers in the back get any inkling of what was really going on. Vernon nor Petunia had never met him, of course, so all he had to do was to hold his opinion of them in check, and play the deferential, but ignorant servant. He was, of course, far from ignorant; he had reviewed the case file, like any auror would, and he knew quite well that any auror, given five minutes alone with them, would make sure neither would ever walk again. What they had done was beyond reprehensible; beyond inexcusable; it was purely and simply inhuman.
He allowed himself a little smile, unseen by his passengers, when Vernon said he would like to know what was in store. I bet you would, he thought. But if I told you, you'd walk over broken glass to get out now. Aloud, he simply replied, "ah, that is Mr Malloy's little secret. He does love to give people surprises."
Vernon humphed, and poured a glass of champagne for himself and Petunia, in that order. Dandelus winced inwardly at the boorishness of the man. This was going to be a long forty minutes …

Dinner was wonderful. The restaurant was not well known; from the outside, it looked more like a private house. It did not advertise itself; it did not need to. The sort of clientele they wanted already knew about them, and told one another about them; and that was enough.
But inside, it was exquisite. Not that the Dursleys were really well able to appreciate the elegance; but even they could see that it was several rungs above anywhere they had ever been before. In the end, Vernon was quite glad to be wearing his new suit; he had worried that it was too fancy, but now he felt a little underdressed.
They were met by the 'Malloys' as they came in. 'Luke' introduced Narcissa, and Petunia made a little jest about them both having flower names as they were led into a small, discreet, beautifully furnished lounge where they enjoyed champagne cocktails in a very private alcove. Then they were taken to their table, and Vernon could feel the alcohol in his body; but it seemed to be filling him with bonhomie; certainly the Malloys laughed at his every joke, and the evening passed in a happy blur.

Dudley and Robin entered the quiet, dark house. Robin had visited him at school, and said they probably should get his things today before the balloon went up. He wasn't quite sure what he meant, but he trusted this wizard, so fell in with his plans.
He trembled a little when Robin apparated them to the doorstep of Number Four, Privet Drive; what if his parents caught them? But, as Robin had said, his parents were not there; and the wizard walked straight up the stairs and into Dudley's room as if he owned the place. He pulled out a tiny trunk from his pocket and waved his wand over it, enlarging it to the size of a coffee table.
"Well," he said, "let's get on with it. Might as well have the lot."
And so saying, there was a little more wand-work, and some muttering that Dudley couldn't make head or tail of; and then everything seemed to leap up in the air and spin around in a riot of motion and colour that quite made the Muggle's head spin. Seconds later, it all poured into the trunk, which shut itself and then shrank back down to the size of a matchbox.
Dudley looked around the room, speechless. Robin really had taken the lot; there was nothing moveable left in the room.
"Won't they get suspicious?" he asked. "There's still tomorrow before I turn eighteen."
Robin smirked. "Oh, I think they'll be worried about other things tomorrow," he replied, as he led them both back out to the corridor. "But, just in case, …"
He turned, and cast an illusion charm on the room, making it look like there was still furniture in it; he also cast an impelling charm on the door. "Now no Muggle will be able to enter the room," he explained; "anyone who tries to will decide they need to do something else, instead. Neat, huh?"
Dudley nodded his head, grinning, as Robin took his arm and apparated them back to Dudley's room at Smeltings Academy.
Magic was wicked!

Vernon couldn't quite seem to remember how the evening had finished. He sat up and looked around; he was, he realised, not home, but in a very well appointed hotel room. There was a note left on the table; it stated simply that the Malloys hoped the Dursleys had enjoyed the night as much as they had, and gave a number to call when they were ready to be taken home.
At this point, Petunia woke up. "I say!" she said. "This is posh!" But Vernon didn't hear her; his stomach trouble was back with a vengeance …

"What is it about that woman that made me take an instant dislike to her, do you think?" Narcissa asked Lucius over the breakfast table.
Lucius thought for a few seconds. Many things sprang to mind; but he decided a little gracious flattery was called for. "I think, my dear, that it is merely that you are so economical. After all, taking an instant dislike to her saves so much time."
Despite herself, Narcissa chuckled at this line.
"How true," she observed drily, passing over the marmalade with a deft wave of her wand.

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