Never A Memory

Again, I would like to express my undying gratitude to all of you. This fic was a blast to write and a lot of it was because you were so encouraging and helpful. Nearly four hundred reviews and not a single flame. That says something about this site and all those who participate in it. Thank you.

Much love,
Gloria



~The Order of Merlin~

Minister Scrimgeour was, frankly, rather surprised to see Auror Harry James Potter in his office only a mere week after the exorcism. The Healers at St. Mungo's had made it explicitly clear they wanted Potter to remain in the hospital for at least a month for observation--though, in the Minister's opinion, it was more for St. Mungo's benefit than Potter's. The Healer's had never seen anything like this before: A Wizard healing a gaping, lethal chest wound with naught but the raw magic that connected them through the Horcrux Scar.

Despite his ordeal, and the most obvious need for rest, Harry Potter stood in his doorway, swaying slightly on his feet, with dark smudges under his bright green eyes positively causing them to gleam in the darkness, and holding a slip of parchment in his trembling right hand.

The Minister clasped his fingers in front of him, nodding for the young Auror to come in. Harry closed the door quietly behind him and approached the Minister's desk, bringing with him the scent of ancient burnt offerings in temples, deep within the forests of Greece, the vaulted ceilings open to the twinkling stars.

"What is that?" Scrimgeour inquired softly, knowing in a tiny part of his soul that the answer would leave him pondering for days. "I smelled it in your hospital room too."

"Pine," Harry answered quietly, his beryl gaze gleaming in the shadows that surrounded them. "Frankincense..." Harry's gaze wandered, staring into some abysmal void Scrimgeour could not see. "Sandalwood...and something else. It rolls off Draco in waves and sticks to anything he touches for a time."

"Oh?" Scrimgeour raised a brow. Harry did not have the grace to blush. His beryl gaze deepened, became darker, and yet seemed to gleam ever brighter. "Why?"

Harry did not answer right away. He looked incredibly tired. "I asked Father Alt the same question, Minister. I did not like his answer."

"What was his answer?"

"He said many who touch the Face of God come away engulfed with the scent of flowers."

"It is not the scent of flow--"

"I know, Minister," Harry Potter said, his eyes flashing in the darkness of his office. The hour was late and the shadows long. "Remember that he is Draco Malfoy and not St. Francis of Assisi."

Indeed; this would be something he would ponder for days. Scrimgeour eyed the parchment clenched in the Auror's right hand. "What is this all about, Potter?"

"I came here out of respect," the young Auror said after a moment's pause. "In light of the Ministry's...recent politics." He lifted the parchment. "I have here a letter of resignation--"

"Potter--"

"I'll hex it to pieces, if you wish it," Harry continued, his eyes mirroring that which burns within missionaries. "But you must know: I plan to remain with Draco Malfoy."

Harry paused. "The choice is yours, Minister. I will stay, if you'll have me."

Silence stretched between them as the shadows grew ever-longer in the Minister's office. Finally, Scrimgeour responded.

"I have a hundred reasons to fire you, Auror--and one day, I'll have a thousand. But you are one of my best. So, until that day comes, your private life is none of the Ministry's concern. I will be happy to see you remain as a crucial part of my Auror's Division."

Harry searched the Minister's gaze before lifting the parchment and then, palm upward, uncurling his fingers. In a blaze of yellow-green, the parchment caught fire and burnt swiftly to a billion pieces of ash.

It was easy to forget that Harry Potter had long ago harnessed the ability to channel his magic without the use of a wand because he did not often put it on display. However, right in that moment, the Minister of Magic thought that Harry Potter looked like an avenged angel, dark and powerful and true. Scrimgeour shuddered at the thought of what power Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy would wield as a pair, together at one another's side.

Well and so, the Wizarding World could use a solemn hero or two. They would do just fine.

"Now I have a favor to ask," Harry said, his voice blunt while his demeanor remained bone-weary.

"You're asking favors now?" Technically, it was rhetorical and he didn't expect an answer.

Harry gave him an explanation anyway. "We both know that within weeks, most will forget how close we came to the End of Days. It will become a fairy tale...and that is something we are all powerless against."

Scrimgeour peered up into his bright, burning gaze. "I'm listening, Auror."

~*~


“And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.”

~ Excerpt from The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock, poem by T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)


Janarius’ Java in Knockturn Alley…
Five months later…
***

Draco Malfoy took a sip of his cappuccino, making a face as he swallowed the hot, bitter fluid. The former Slytherin Prince of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had never been overly fond of coffee, but it was early, and he was bored; and the frothy brew served as a welcome jolt back to reality as he pored over a fascinating poem by his favorite Squib poet in a shadowy back corner of Janarius’ Java coffee shop.

Draco had always been enthralled by T.S. Eliot’s prose, though he could never really put a finger on why. And, despite putting the dark lyrical poignancy of The Waste Land aside indefinitely, Draco was freshly engrossed by this particular Love Song; perhaps because it didn’t really seem like a love song at all. There was a bitterness to this tale, and, moreover, a weariness and a resigned quality to it which Draco Malfoy felt deep within his bones. And yet, beyond the bitterness and the resignation, there was a definite shadow of wry hope. And that, too, Draco could relate to.

Draco frowned over his book as a dozen teenagers stumbled through the entrance of the café, laughing, joking, and positively reeking of Quidditch leather and sweat.

Not the clean, crisp smell Draco often found lingering on Harry’s skin, but a morbid, acrid stench of filthy, putrid cow hide.

Draco was appalled, watching over the rim of his book as a flustered Janarius made his way over to them to get their drink orders. He motioned for the Wizard with one lazy flick of his wrist. Janarius paused, mid-stride, before changing directions and approaching Draco’s isolated, shadowy corner.

Draco told the café owner to tell them he would pay for their drinks if they would graciously quiet themselves. As Janarius left his table to inform them, Draco realized they must be Hogwarts students. It was the week before Christmas and they were out on holiday, practicing Quidditch during their time off. Still, no self-respecting Wizard, under-age or no, would present themselves in Knockturn Alley in such a manner.

Draco watched as Janarius relayed his message and one particular boy turned to gaze in his direction. Draco smiled, a flash of dangerous white teeth in the darkness. One creature recognizes another.

The boy approached him with the cockiness and swagger of the privileged. Draco knew who he was.

Pantheras Parkinson, son of Porphyrius Parkinson, who is the brother of Pandora Parkinson. Thus, Pansy Parkinson’s cousin.

Pantheras took a seat, uninvited, at Draco’s table. Draco leveled him with his piercing gray eyes, knowing this boy could not see his features in the dark. Pantheras definitely held the stamp of the Parkinson lineage. Blue-black, glossy hair, that fell in waves rather than curls, deep, sapphire eyes rimmed with lush, dark lashes long enough to be a girl’s, and pale, smooth skin the color of new cream…but, no, this boy was not beautiful. Not yet. His limbs were long and colt-like, having not yet been fully grown into, his mouth seemed awkward on his face, but Draco knew, one day, it would behold a cruel smile made for pleasure and wickedness, and his movements were an echo of grace, rather than the real thing. One day, he would be beautiful. One day, but not this day.

That being said, Draco knew, without a doubt, that this boy, this Pantheras Parkinson, had taken the long vacant seat of his throne as Slytherin Prince. Draco’s smile deepened, his eyes becoming dark and knowing. One creature recognizes another.

“Who are you,” Pantheras inquired, his voice deceptively soft, a strange lilt to his words that Draco tried to place, “to imply that we are too loud?”

Draco, his eyes never leaving the boy’s face, waited for Janarius to give the boy his coffee, before speaking.

“C’est impoli pour s’asseoir sans l’invitation, Pantheras,” Draco replied, suddenly remembering that Porphyrius had moved his family to France during Voldemort’s rise to power. That was the lilt he had heard in the boys voice. English exposed to fluent French for far too long. “Did Porphyrius never teach you that?”

Pantheras smirked. “You know my father?”

Draco gazed at him, but did not answer. He did not need to.

Pantheras glanced down at the manuscript he was reading. His lip curled. “Being a Muggle-lover could get you killed in these parts, Wizard,” the boy said, gesturing to his book.

Draco smiled again. Arrogance and ignorance, all in one pretty little head. How perfect. It seemed that his life had nearly spiraled out of control while the world kept on moving. Draco used to be this boy. “Not today, it won’t,” Draco replied, shifting in his seat to allow a beam of filtered light to fall across his face.

The boy gasped when he saw the lightning bolt scar. His eyes widened as he took in Draco Malfoy’s flaxen hair, cold, gray eyes, and pointed features; a physical stamp of his own lineage; the legacy of Malfoy and Black poured into their last remaining Scion, the true Pureblood, Draconus Lucius Malfoy.

“Here is your bill, Mr. Malfoy,” Janarius murmured, approaching the table once again and handing it to him. Draco accepted it with a curt nod, his eyes still trained on the boy’s face, his piercing gaze boring into the startled, sapphire depths of this new Slytherin Prince.

Abruptly, Pantheras stood to his feet, bowing low at the waist, muttering something about his gratitude for the coffee, and quickly retreated to where his friends were seated. Pantheras spoke to his teammates in a low voice and soon they left, casting apprehensive glances towards Draco’s shadowy corner and significantly less noisily than in which they had arrived.

Draco glanced once at Janarius, who beamed back at him appreciatively, and then peered back down at the document in his hands. “There will be time…”

~*~

Took the path that led to existence…
Into the great unknown…

No Directory Assistance…
Now you’re on your own…

But if you’re looking for a new world…
Just open up your eyes…

Because…
Its not quite paradise…
But it sure feels like home…

Not quite Paradise…
And we were meant to hold on…

It’ll be alright…
No, it’s not quite
Paradise…

Draco undid the clasp at his throat that fastened his traveling robes about his shoulders and handed the cloak to Slightly, who had appeared at her Master’s knee.

“Thank you, Slightly,” Draco said in a tired voice. He wished it would rain. “Has Harry owled yet?”

“Slightly has received an owl from Harry Potter, Master,” Slightly responded solemnly, folding her Master’s cloak over one scrawny arm. “Harry Potter instructed Slightly not make dinner. Harry Potter instructed Slightly to tell Master that he will be home at sundown.”

Home. That word never failed to tug a wry smile from the corner of Draco’s mouth. “Thank you, Slightly. Are my dress robes prepared?”

“Yes, Master. Slightly has them pressed and ready in Master’s bedroom.”

“Thank you,” Draco repeated, rubbing his palm against his eyes. “That will be all.”

With a crack, Slightly disappeared, leaving Draco Malfoy standing in the foyer of his new home.

Home indeed.

For the first few weeks after Harry Potter’s recovery, Draco Malfoy had all but disappeared within Gringotts vaults, poring over his inheritance and making certain adjustments. True to his word, Draco sold Malfoy Manor and sent the funds to Molly and Arthur Weasley with the contact information of a trusted financial planner but with no explanation. At first, Molly had adamantly refused, attempting to send the money back. When Harry Potter had caught wind of this through his partner, Ronald Weasley, the young Auror had gone straightaway to the Burrow to explain Draco’s wishes, knowing full well that Draco was stubborn and even more stubborn when it came to explaining himself.

Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger married on the twenty-second of November and Harry had forced Draco to attend the ceremony. Hermione had proved to be quite a vision in white, but had spoiled the image by bursting into tears when Draco presented them with her wedding gift: The Malfoy Library. By this time, Draco’s strange generosity to the Weasley’s had been well-spread and met with a certain degree of scrutiny and, so too, had his penchant for refusing to explain why. So, Hermione had proceeded to throw herself at the Malfoy Scion, wrapping him in a suffocating embrace, and sobbing words of thanks. Draco Malfoy had had the grace to return the embrace, if not the fervor. If Draco remembered correctly, they would have returned from their honeymoon last week.

Maximus Cure had disappeared from the Ministry the day of the exorcism and had not been heard from since. Most assumed Blaise Zabini had something to do with it, but the charming, golden-eyed Pureblood was never convicted and a formal pardon for his actions during and after the war was scheduled for the following month of May. Harry gave up drilling Draco for clues to Cure’s location after about a month, finally deciding that even if the former Slytherin Prince actually did know, he would never say. It frustrated the young Auror, but Harry came to the conclusion that he may not even have the heart to arrest the wily outlaw even if he did find him. For some evasive reason, they were all quite fond of Maximus Cure.

Draco Malfoy had personally escorted Father Ernst Alt back to Germany. At the end of it, Alt had looked kindly at the Malfoy Scion and kissed his brow, murmuring something in Aramaic Draco did not understand. Draco had promised to teach himself the dead language simply to translate those final words. The priest had laughed and embraced him, accepting the letter of gratitude Draco had written to the Vatican that he was quite sure Alt would never deliver. Technically, Alt wasn’t allowed to perform an exorcism without the Vatican’s consent. However, they both knew the letter was Draco’s way of silently thanking the priest for his efforts, without whom, Draco Malfoy would surely have lost his soul.

The Parkinsons and the Zabinis worked diligently to aid Draco Malfoy in re-establishing himself within Pureblood circles; though, if truth be told, the Malfoy Scion had enough prestige to last twenty lifetimes after destroying Lord Voldemort, surviving American Muggles, outwitting Ministry Officials to release Harry Potter from further scrutiny as an incompetent Auror, and resisting the alleged Son of Lucifer.

Whether Maul, the Black Tulpa that had attempted to posses his body, was the Son of Lucifer or not, Draco Malfoy would never say. The Malfoy Scion would not even speak the demon’s name. Maul had left a dark shadow forever etched onto his soul, had caused a wound to crack open and bleed anew. There was never a day when he didn’t sorely wish for rain or the scent of beeswax. There wasn’t a single moment when he didn’t yearn for the peaceful oblivion of endless nothingness, for the blaze of ceaseless white. There was never a time where he watched the sun dawn bright and clear over the horizon and wished it were the first day of spring, imagining he could feel his mother’s cool embrace and her soft lullaby whispering in his ear.

Yes, Maul had indeed left His handprint on his soul; and for that, he would never give Him such respect as to say His name, or to claim He was the Son of the Devil himself. Maul didn’t deserve a single thought in Draco’s mind, and he refused to give Him one.

However, when all was said and done, it took months of endless dinner parties and informal celebrations for Draco to be able to walk into a room without setting a brushfire of whispers in his wake. But Draco Malfoy had braved the worst of the storm until it had subsided. Now, Wizards and Witches, Pureblood or no, avert their eyes in his presence, whether out of fear or respect, he was never sure. And whenever he looked away, awe shone through their lowered lashes like some morbid beacon.

Often, Draco would attempt to convince Harry to come with him as he danced the endless waltz of the Socialite, but Harry only conceded a time or two. If there was one thing that made Harry more uncomfortable than standing on ceremony, Draco had yet to figure it out. However, when he did come, Draco always felt that he could walk through any brushfire of whispers, no matter the annoying admiration, no matter the hushed tones of awe. With Harry Potter at his side, Draco always felt safe, always felt protected. Harry would always stare back at the sea of faces with those blazing green eyes of his, daring anyone to judge, daring anyone to say it wasn’t right, and they would always shrink back from it and hold their tongue. Always.

Draco supposed it was from a lifetime of weathering the press, that resilience of his.

The Daily Prophet had been the harshest on Harry Potter; especially after it became evident they were buying a house together. The scandal, sadly, wasn’t over, despite the warring opinions of Harry Potter’s heroism and Harry Potter’s lack of morals. However, Harry Potter, being Harry Potter, ignored it with such gravitas and stoicism that Draco held a new-found respect for his lover.

They bought Trysthold Manor on the twelfth of September, when the trees were just beginning to turn and the forest around the large house looked as if it were afire. Draco had picked it because of the land it sat on, knowing it would be perfect for Harry. Acre upon acre of fields and forests offered plenty of flying room for a restless Harry Potter when he returned from a day at the Auror’s Division. Harry had agreed on it when he saw the manor itself was large and luxurious enough to sate most of Draco’s needs. For the first month, it was just a house. By the second month, it had become a home.

Draco smiled to himself and strode towards the curving staircase that led to the west wing and to their bedroom. Draco ran his hand through his hair and thought he would take a bath before Harry came home. He hadn’t seen him in nearly a week because of some mission the Ministry had sent him on and Draco missed him terribly. Tonight, the Ministry was holding some sort of award ceremony for the Auror’s Division and Draco had received the invitation on Wednesday. Thinking it was because they were going to give his lover yet another bar to decorate his Auror’s robes, he had accepted. Draco had yet to see Harry really get his due as an Auror--because, really, Harry Potter was quite good at what he did for a living--so he was not going to miss this chance. Draco only hoped Harry was up to it. Harry was often bone-weary when he came home from long missions.

~*~

Tomorrow’s an allusion…
Yesterday’s a dream…
Today is absolution…

But you got to let it be…

If you’re looking for the answer…
It’s right before your eyes…

Although it’s…
Not Quite Paradise…
It sure looks like home…
Not quite Paradise…
And we are not alone…

It’ll be alright…
No, it’s not quite…
Paradise…

Though the water grown tepid and the numerous candles burned lower and lower, dripping wax in long, long lines down the sides of the expansive bathtub, Draco’s skin was warm and flush from his lengthy soak and opted to stay in the water a little longer. Sweat beaded his pale forehead, tinged a light pink from the heat, and trickled down the side of his face. The flickering light from the dozens of candles surrounding him swam in his gaze.

Draco closed his eyes and submerged himself fully in the cooling water, attempting to drown out the sound of his mother’s lullaby. He floated, seeming weightless, his platinum locks swirling around his face and neck in a teasing caress.

His chest began to burn, his lungs timidly requesting air. Draco straightened his back, allowing his head and shoulders to surface. Keeping his eyes closed, he breathed in deeply through his nose...and smiled. The scent of freshly oiled, clean, Quidditch leather.

Draco opened his eyes and peered up at Harry Potter through wet lashes.

He stood there, leaning slightly on the doorframe, with arms crossed and a look in his eyes that was grave and musing. Draco did not bother pressing into his lover’s thoughts; he knew what he must look like. The bathroom was dark and the flickering flames from the candles danced light upon his glistening skin.

Draco rose, dripping, from the bath, accepting the towel Harry handed him. He could feel his lover’s eyes on him as he dried off and wrapped himself in a bathrobe. When Draco finally turned his gaze back to Harry’s face, his brilliant green eyes seemed to be searching for something.

Draco let him search, standing perfectly still and relaxed under Harry’s unwavering gaze.

There was a new virtue Draco had found in Harry during these past five months that the former Slytherin Prince had not previously been aware of: Patience.

They both wore physical scars, no one could gainsay that. Draco Malfoy held the mark of the Horcrux Scar, which he had forcibly taken from the Boy-Who-Lived to simultaneously defeat Voldemort and save Harry Potter from certain death. The same scar, in fact, that had proved to save their lives again and again.

Harry Potter bore a scar that divided the length of his torso. It began at the Auror’s hip and curved up his center to end in a jagged point where the right side of his collarbone met the vein in his throat. This scar Draco had personally given him. First, when he had consented—and, some would say, manipulated—to Harry Potter braving his spheres of magic to battle Maul, Sword to demon-claw. And, second, when Draco used the might of the Horcrux Scar to heal the gaping wound in his chest that Maul had dealt him before Harry succeeded in casting the Black Tulpa from said spheres.

However, the scars they bore, the scars most forgot about or held a complete ignorance of, were the deep-rooted ones that still lay fresh upon their hearts and souls. The scars that no one could see but them. The scars that hurt the most.

Whatever Maul had spoken to Harry during their battle still haunted the young Auror’s dreams. Some of it, they had spoken of. The rest, Harry kept to himself. Draco loved him enough to respect that, and did not pry. The Hearing had not seemed to daunt the young Auror, but Draco knew the malicious stares some gave him at the Ministry still bothered him. These things, too, were spoken of in private.

However, the one scar that burned Harry’s heart the most, the one he seldom spoke of, was the scar dealt to him by Cruent Mantle. There was a part of Draco that understood. Draco understood the pain in Pansy Parkinson’s deep, blue eyes whenever she looked his way when she thought Draco wasn’t paying attention. Draco understood the need to understand the truth and the bitter cruelty of knowing he never would; especially when Draco thought of his father and wondered if the man ever really did love him. That being said, there was a definite part Draco did not understand. And this part was left for Harry to work out on his own. Sometimes, there are demons only you can deal with. This was one such demon.

Now, Draco…Maul had not lied, the demon had indeed left His handprint on his soul. Yes, there was that constant yearning for the scent of fresh rain and beeswax, for brilliant white, and the comfort of a mother’s lullaby, but there was also the shadow that was engrained deep within him.

No longer was it a coiled snake hissing quietly in the center of his being, but it was a definite presence, a lingering afterthought of apathy, guilt, and grief. Contending with this shadow often pushed Draco into fits of depression, until a rainstorm or Harry Potter himself would forcibly jolt him out of it.

However, Harry Potter was patient. He would sooth, give space when it was needed, a sunny smile, and a plate of burned eggs—whatever it took. Most of all, Harry was there. He had become, gratefully, the one constant in Draco Malfoy’s life. The one who Draco’s sneer and snarl did not spurn or force away. Harry Potter was the one who remained the bright thought in his mind, the center of his best memories, and the one who reminded Draco of who he really was.

Once, after a long night of lovemaking, Draco had asked why. Harry, surprisingly, had responded: “The scent of pine, Draco. And sandalwood. And frankincense. And something…else.” Then he had smiled and fallen asleep.

To this day, Draco had no idea what he had meant.

Somehow, however, Draco found that it didn’t matter. Not really.

Harry’s gaze shifted, the shadow lifted from the green of his eyes, making them seem brighter. Harry smiled.

Harry made a small movement with his hand and Draco went to him. Their kiss was long and thoughtful. They didn’t have to say “I missed you.” To them, it was an obvious thing.

“You’re coming, right?” Harry asked as they parted.

He wanted to go? Draco said instead: “Of course.”

Harry kissed him again. “I need to shower. I’ll be ready in five.”

~*~

Somewhere from edge of time…
Where the blue sky is stale…
And words don’t rhyme…
I’ll call you up and say…
We made it okay…

They arrived at the Ministry ten minutes after seven, snowflakes from the blizzard outside still clinging to their dark robes. Harry had taken quite longer than five minutes to get ready.

And still, Draco mused, he manages to look as if he combed his hair with a sock.

The ceremony, apparently, had been awaiting their arrival to begin. There was a small stage with a modest podium surrounded by hundreds of rounded, clothed tables. Seated at the tables were Ministry Officials, Division Heads, the entire Auror’s Division, the press, and an odd assortment of other people. Hermione and Ron Weasley were there, seated with the rest of the Weasley family near the stage. The Zabinis were there, and, so too, were the Parkinsons. Draco spotted Pantheras and sent him a mocking nod of his head. His face reddened, but the new Slytherin Prince nodded back.

An echo of grace, rather than the real thing.

Luna Lovegood sat near Madame Comfrey and Headmistress McGonagall. His godfather was there too. If it weren’t for this particular table, Draco Malfoy would never have become suspicious.

Harry smiled at him again and led them to their table. Draco narrowed his eyes, the fact that Harry Potter knew exactly where it was that they were to be seated not at all lost on him.

Minister Scrimgeour approached the podium and began to speak. Draco, who was attempting to level Harry Potter with his eyes, turned finally to listen.

“Four years ago, the Wizarding World was nearly engulfed under the oppression of a mad tyrant called Lord Voldemort,” Scrimgeour began. “After his defeat, we experienced an uneasy peace wherein the Ministry of Magic worked diligently to rebuild our society, create ties with the Muggle World as a decent foreign policy, and bring justice to remnants of the Dark Lord’s terrible army.

“Out of the ashes of that war sprung a new threat. A Prophecy was brought to our awareness and, with it, a Host marked for the possession by the Black Tulpa, who had given Lord Voldemort the secret to the Seven Keys of Immortality and thereby aided the Dark Lord in his rise and fall of ultimate power over our world.

“This Tulpa was bound to spur the End of Days into motion and, if He had succeeded, we would have been powerless against it.”

The Minister paused. “However, the Auror’s Division and, in fact, much of the Ministry as an entirety, with the aid of the fine Wizards and Witches teaching our students at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was able to thwart this Maul, the Black Tulpa and prevent its dark vision from coming into fruition under the command of Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. And with the aid of Father Ernst Alt, we were able to exorcise this demon back to Hell.”

At this point, Draco expected applause. But, no; even as he looked around, the room remained quiet and attentive and Harry, seated beside him, continued to smile.

“After five months, sadly, this epic tale has already been re-constructed into some kind of over-exposed myth,” Scrimgeour continued. “We knew this would, inevitably, happen. It is the way of things. But we remember. And this tale, so real to those seated here, will always be evermore than memory.

“Five months ago, a week after the successful exorcism, an Auror approached me, his demeanor heavy with this knowledge.

“He claimed there was an even bigger tale; a mightier tale that should never be forgotten.”

Draco raised a fair brow and glanced towards Ronald Weasley, assuming this was who the Minister meant.

“This tale was of a boy who fought against a great tyrant and was forgotten. It was a tale about a man who fought against an even greater tyrant and was, again, forgotten. In truth, people recognize him and whisper in awe. But their awe springs from seeds of disbelief and half-truths. They could never believe the lengths to which this man had gone nor the demons he had fought against and prevailed.”

Draco had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. This was getting a bit dramatized.

“Tonight, we honor the tale. Tonight we honor the boy who defeated Lord Voldemort—“

Wait. Draco narrowed his eyes.

“Tonight we honor the man who resisted the Black Tulpa with dignity and poise. Tonight we honor the incredible magic he possesses and the honor with which he uses it. Tonight, we wish to award Draco Malfoy the Order of Merlin.”

Draco blinked slowly as a deafening eruption of applause and cheering sounded around him and rang off the walls. Harry, damn him, was still smiling at him; only, now, his eyes were laughing as well.

Somewhere in the back of your mind…
When you see your dream has come to life…
And the world just fades away…
You’ll know its okay...

It’s going to be okay…

“Tonight was supposed to be about you,” Draco hissed. “How long have you known about this?!”

Harry laughed his deep rich laugh. “Suck it up, you pansy. You deserve this.”

“But—“

“Get your arse up there.”

Draco rose on shaking legs and had to fight to keep an outwardly calm demeanor—something that was usually as natural to him as breathing but now seemed to evade him. Few things surprised Draco Malfoy, but when they do—and they sometimes do--the shock never lingers. He smiled graciously and it was gone. He approached the podium.

He gazed out at the sea of faces smiling and cheering back up at him and felt that dry, bittersweet, resigned, and wry hope he discovered in the Love Song sitting in Janarius’ Java that morning well up in him. Someone placed a gold chain with a large, circular medallion hanging from it around his neck and he smiled again, this one less gracious and more bemused.

His piercing grey eyes sought and found Pantheras Parkinson, who stared up at him with something akin to worship. The world really did seem to move on, if he kept pace with it or not.

In light of his ordeal, it seemed like some cruel parody, a joke at his expense. But then, there would be time. There would be time, there would be time.

Draco glanced over to Harry, whose brilliant green eyes had turned soft. A terrible, wonderful love shone forth from them like a beacon and Draco knew Harry felt it too. A cruel parody, a joke at their expense.

But they would keep up; they could keep pace with the world. All they needed was a little time. And there would be time. Plenty of it.

Draco felt a true, honest smile twist his lips and he had to suppress the urge to laugh.

Now, Draco Malfoy had himself the Order of Merlin.

Eat that, Lucius.

Ha! It certainly was not a blaze of ceaseless white or the cool embrace of his mother’s arms. He definitely couldn’t smell rain or beeswax, or even hear his mother’s soft lullaby. No, it wasn’t quite Paradise.

But it would certainly, definitely, most undoubtedly do.

He could spend a lifetime in Harry Potter’s arms. He could choose to be happy. If he could resist the Son of Lucifer, he could assuredly do that.

Someone was saying something to him, but a pair of brilliant green eyes drowned out everything else. Draco stepped down from the podium and walked on sure legs towards Harry Potter. Upon reaching him, Draco placed his hands on either side of his face, tipped the Auror’s head back, and kissed him for all he was worth.

Harry laughed against his mouth and embraced Draco tightly, the Order of Merlin trapped between them.

One door closed, another opened. Such was the way of things.

The air smelled of pine and Quidditch leather. And it made sense.

Somehow.

But it’s not quite Paradise…
But it sure feels like home…

Not quite paradise…
We can make this place our own…

Not quite paradise…
We were meant to hold on…

Not quite paradise…
We don’t have to be alone…

We can make this place our own…

~*~

The End.

***

Lyrics from Not Quite Paradise by Bliss

C’est impoli pour s’asseoir sans l’invitation (French) means “It is rude to seat yourself without an invitation.”

A/N:

Mylor: Thank you! I hope you enjoyed the update!



Lilith: *shivers* Actually, I have half a mind to post-pone the Epilogue to see exactly what you'll do with that whip....*clears throat* Anyway...You have no idea how close I came to adding in "Lillith", as in the First Woman, into Lullaby and calling Maul "home". I came soooo close. Eventually, I decided against it, even though it would have really fit perfectly with the whole "Mother" theme I had going. There were an insane amount of pros and cons, but I won't bore you with my scars. I'm ecstatic that you agreed with and appreciated Draco's hesitation. I felt that it would be, by far, the most difficult decision Draco had to make in this story. I, too, am glad he chose to come back. Thank you for your review and I hope you enjoyed the update!



Dreiad: Thank you so much! It was a pleasure to write! I'm glad you enjoyed it so. I've been pondering some other H/D ideas, but we'll see. I've been playing with the idea of writing a prequal to NAM, focusing on Draco's journey in the Tien Shen Pass. No promises, but I've been thinking about it. Thank you again for your wonderful review!!



MeLaiya: Lol, of course I love ya! Thank you for your beautiful review! I will be taking a short hiatus to work on some other projects, but I'll give a sequal some thought. I wonder if Draco and Harry agreeing to foster a power-hungry Pantheras would be plot-bunny enough for a sequal...

In any case, I sincerely hope you enjoy the update! An Epilogue will follow soon! And thank you again for your review!



Mangacat: Awww, babe, you sound really upset. I hope I didn't depress you with Lullaby. Thank you for reviewing, though! And I hope you enjoyed the update!



QueenBoadicea: Ha ha, I've seen maybe an episode and a half, combined, of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. That was a funny correlation. Yes, I wanted Harry to seem unconcerned with his scar. It...well, Harry has had to contend with visible scars he cannot explain his entire life. It would seem odd to me if he made a big deal about this one. At least he can cover it up with a shirt, lol. Ahh, the press. Harry Potter, sadly, is doomed to have the Daily Prophet consistently writing negative remarks about him. I think that goes without saying. But he's used to it and it will eventually die out...at least until harry gives them something else to gossip about. Thank you for your thoughtful review and I hope you enjoyed the update!



Melha Seraphim: You must be hilarious in rl, each of your reviews makes me laugh out loud. "knee jerk, oh for the love of..." Ha ha. I...attempted to implement the religious cameos in such a way that the reader could decide for his or herself exactly how deep it went. If it was an explosion right out of Revelations, or an Asian-styled myth. In this chapter, I make a point of saying that Draco would never give clarity on whether he though Maul was the Son of Lucifer or not. And, indeed, the only one who really, and truly, believes any of this to have any merit with the world of Christianity is Father Alt himself. Everyone has a different opinion, even if they are evasive in their giving of it. In this way, I think, it was able to be done without the dreadful cliches and the 'knee jerk' reactions, lol. Thank, thank you, thank you for your wonderful review and I hope you enjoyed the update!



mariahs_fantasy: Alright, alright, and Epilogue is in the works. lol, thank you so much for your review and I hope you enjoyed the update!



gage: *sigh* I know...I'm such a sadist when it comes to cliffhangers. Lol, thank you for your review and I hope you enjoyed the update!



paigeey07: I'll give an Epilogue some serious thought. Thank you for your review and I hope you enjoyed the update!



thrnbrooke: Thrnbrooke! How I've missed you! Yes, here is chapter 59. You were, in fact, the only one who inquired after the final chapter. lol, everyone else seems to be intent on the Epilogue. I hope you enjoyed it and thank you so much for your review!