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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
- 61
- 62
- 63
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Here we get to find out what happened to a certain uncle; and Draco sorts out his feelings about the Debt.

Warning for lemon at the end.

62. The Point of No Return
Vernon Dursley woke up feeling rather groggy, but otherwise generally all right. It actually came a bit of a shock; after his outburst, he had been led away into a rather uncomfortable stone room in what were obviously the dungeons of Malfoy Manor. His captor had then ignored him entirely, except that at one point one of those horrid house-elves had given him bread and water. At first he had left it alone; he didn't put it past them to poison him. But eventually he had felt so hungry that he had braved it, and eaten a few crumbs of bread and some sips of water. As he had eventually drifted asleep, he had wondered if he would ever see another dawn.
But here he was. Not that he had any idea where 'here' was, and to be honest, he wasn't particularly anxious to find out. But whatever he was lying on was certainly not the cold, hard stone he had fallen asleep on. He felt around gingerly, not quite game to open his eyes just yet. To his very great surprise, nothing hurt; he was bruised, yes, but his bones didn't appear to be broken, and he couldn't feel any blood. By touch he could tell that he was lying on a narrow cot. It wasn't the nicest bed Vernon Dursley had ever lain on, but it wasn't particularly uncomfortable.
He decided he had to risk it, and opened his eyes. What he saw surprised him. It was a rather pleasant room. Small, yes, and not particularly well-furnished; but it was warm and clean and pleasing to the eye. Given that he had been expecting to find himself shackled to a bed in a dungeon of some sort, it wasn't bad at all.
He stood up and stretched. He found he was still wearing the clothes he had left Privet Drive in the day before; though as soon as he thought that he realised that he really had no idea what day it was. He had no way of knowing how long he had been unconscious; it could have been yesterday, or a week ago, that he stood in that parlor and heard the freak say "I never want to see him again". The words, and the icy tone of disdain, played through his mind. He had expected them to be the last thing he ever heard; but apparently Malloy, or Malfoy, or whatever he called himself, had other ideas.
He wondered just exactly what he had let himself in for. And exactly how much he was going to regret finding out.

"Ah! Mr Dursley! You are awake at last!" an altogether too cheerful voice said.
He turned to see a tall, thin, grey man, with pale blue eyes, standing in the doorway.
"Allow me to introduce myself," he said. "My name is Johann Ries, and I am the Director in charge of this orphanage."
Vernon snorted. "Orphanage? What orphanage?"
The other man looked at him quizzically. "Really? Did Mr Malfoy not explain?"
"He told me nothing," Vernon replied. "All I know is …"
"Oh dear," the other man exclaimed, cutting Vernon off in a way that made it clear that he wasn't interested in anything he could tell him. "You'd better come to my office I suppose."
With that, the man turned sharply and, without any other word or sign, walked swiftly down the corridor. Vernon gaped; but realised immediately that the man expected him to follow him; and really there was nothing else to do.

It came as something of a surprise to Vernon that Mr Ries's office was furnished in the same style as his room had been. Just what was going on? Surely he was going to be punished; he couldn't imagine Malfoy treating him nicely, not with how cosy he and his family had been to the freak…
No sooner was the word in his head than a sharp pain seared through his head. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that he yelped in pain and stumbled to his knees. He looked at Ries, to find a stern, disapproving look on his face.
"Mr Dursley, I will explain things to you presently, but it is quite clear to me that I must begin by telling you not to think ill of your nephew ever again. What you have just felt is a small fraction of the pain that awaits you if you continue to do so. In particular, I must strongly suggest that you do not ever again us the word 'freak' to describe him, even in your thoughts. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir," Vernon said, gasping for breath.
"Good," the man said, a rather nasty smile playing on his face. He was secretly pleased that Vernon had called him 'sir'; apparently he had begun to grasp the severity of his position. Good. "Now, please, do sit down."
He pointed to a rather uncomfortable looking chair across from his desk; Vernon got up from his knees, with some difficulty, and sat in it. The chair was every bit as uncomfortable as it looked. Ries, meanwhile, sat behind his desk, placing his elbows on it and steepling his fingers.
"This place, Mr Dursley, is an orphanage. Originally it was set up by the Muggle, that is to say, the non-Magical, world; we have taken it over."
"By 'we' you mean?" Vernon asked.
"The Ministry of Magic; though the finance came from Mr Malfoy, of course. There are very many young wizards whose parents were killed during the Magical War that your nephew ended; this property has been obtained in order to house them and train them, away from the prying eyes of the Muggle world."
"My nephew ended a war?" Vernon asked.
"You really don't pay attention, do you, Mr Dursley? Yes, there was a war; the main protagonist being a nasty bit of work who called himself Lord Voldemort."
As he said this, he touched a globe on his desk, and a three-dimensional image appeared over the blotter on his desk. An image of a man dressed in black, his face whiter than a skull, his eyes an impossibly livid scarlet, his nose as flat as a snake's snout with slits for nostrils. Vernon shuddered. His nephew had fought this man? And won?
"Voldemort it was who killed your brother- and sister-in-law, and gave young Harry the scar he bears. He also attacked him when he was eleven, twelve, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, and during this last year, until they dueled finally in May, and Harry killed him. So you see, your nephew, whom you despise, is a remarkably powerful young man. And, frankly, most of the Wizarding world would do anything for him."
Ries could see something like comprehension dawning on the other man's face. A little legilimens showed him that the man had never taken his nephew seriously; but he was beginning to. Too late! The die was cast, now.
"So, anyway, as to your situation here. This orphanage will house magical children who know something of the Muggle world; some of them know nothing of the Magical world at all. So we will be introducing them to magic rather gradually and carefully; and it was decided that as part of that, we would have a Muggle caretaker and grounds man. This rather echoes the situation at Hogwarts, the school they will be attending the September after they turn eleven, where the caretaker is a squib."
"A what?" Vernon asked.
"A squib. A non-magical child of magical parents."
"And that works well?" Vernon asked. He couldn't imagine how a squib would feel about working in a magical school; it sounded cruel.
"Yes," the man said, with a smirk. "Well, perhaps not so well for the squib. But then, he is there of his own free will. His wife died in childbirth and he applied for the post initially so he could be near his magical son. Unfortunately, the son was killed in the First Magical War, which is the one in which your nephew got his famous scar. And then the squib decided there was really no point in going anywhere else, and stayed on.
"But your case is a little different. You see, Mr Dursley, you really have no choice. Oh, you could go back to the Muggle world, where you would be tried for child abuse; and, I assure you, you would be found guilty, and go to jail for a very long time, and not one minute of it would be pleasant. But really, you made that choice when you said you wanted Mr Potter's protection. So let's not beat around the bush, or pretend that things could ever be different for you. This is your new home, Dursley. This is where you live; and you will do what I tell you to."
"Or?" Vernon asked, with a last shred of defiance.
The other just stared at him, then smirked.
"There is no 'or'," he replied. "Follow me, and I will introduce you to our charges, and your duties."
"Wait," Vernon said, "what about Petunia?"
"She is being accommodated elsewhere," Ries replied. "Now, come."

The rest of the day had passed in a blur. He met the fifteen children who were already in the orphanage, and was told that more were being found and arriving every day. He privately thought that they all looked like delinquents; and the way they looked at him certainly didn't hold out any friendliness. But he was an adult, they were children, he would make it clear who was boss soon enough.
He was shown the cupboard that housed all the cleaning supplies, and told to set to with them; he spent a couple of hours cleaning floors and scrubbing walls, after which he was exhausted, and decided to go to his room for a lie-down.
And that's when everything went to pot. The children swarmed round him; and when he told them to get out of his way, they just laughed at him and dragged him off course.
"Children!" a voice called, one he had not heard before. But it was an adult voice, and a potential ally. "Dinnertime!"
They ran off immediately, and it occurred to Vernon that the Director hadn't said anything about meals; so he followed them, to find a large dining room, where the children were being fed a meal that made his mouth water: corned beef with mashed potato, and cabbage, and steamed green beans, and onion sauce; and the delectable smell of a caramel tart for afters.
But when he got to the servery hatch, the woman behind it, the one who had called the children, looked at him with a strange mixture of pity and disdain.
"Sorry, Dursley, there's no meat for you," she said, handing him a small loaf of bread with some limp cabbage and a small pitcher of water.
He almost cried as he sat down to eat the meagre food he had been given; but he couldn't even finish the cabbage. It seemed that his stomach was still very sensitive; but it was beginning to dawn on him that what he had thought was food poisoning was almost certainly some form of spell that was still on him. And that thought made a lot of things fall into place in his mind. He looked around to see the children happily eating their meals without a care in the world; they didn't even notice him.
He couldn't bear it. He had once been a Director of a prosperous firm. Every builder in the South-East of England had known his name and sought his approval. And now here he was, desperate to be noticed by children. He couldn't face any more, and left the dining hall, seeking the solace of his room.
He found the room easily enough; but he could not enter. The door opened just fine; but he could not step into the room.
"Ah," said the Director's voice behind him, with a slightly apologetic tone. "I'm afraid you might find it difficult to enter the room until your duties are finished."
He turned around to confront the man; but he was already three quarters of the way down the corridor, and turned out of sight before Vernon could speak.
Defeated, exhausted, Vernon returned to the cupboard. That opened easily enough for him, and he had no trouble entering it; and when he did, he saw an old, lumpy mattress hidden in the corner, with a threadbare blanket on it. And no pillow.
Vernon's second night at the orphanage was a lot less comfortable than the first.

The following morning he was pulled out of bed at six, and forced to cook breakfast for the children. There was porridge, and sausages and eggs, and toast; but he wasn't invited to eat any of it. He did try; he dipped his finger in the porridge pot, but it only burnt him, and the trace that he got on the finger made him gag. And he was spotted trying to steal a piece of toast; for which he had earned a sharp tap on his hand with the porridge ladle that the woman was holding. In the end he was allowed to eat a burnt crust that one of the girls had left.
The day didn't get any better, nor the next one, nor the one after that. For the first week or so, it seemed he could never catch a break. He worked hard, but the room still wouldn't open for him. There wasn't much more food, but to his surprise, he seemed to be able to cope with the irregular and meagre meals he was getting. The children didn't seem to treat him kindly, but they weren't particularly vicious. Not that is, until one day when a little girl kicked him as he walked past, and the mop in his hand collided with his head, around his left eye socket. There would be a black eye, he was sure of it.
"Marie!" a teacher hissed to her, and he hoped she would get a stern reprimand for her kick. All his hopes deflated when all that was said was, "Nothing that will leave a mark!"
After that it didn't take long for him to work it out. Here he was, sleeping in a cupboard (he never managed to enter the other room again, no matter how much work he did); living off scraps; forced to clean (and no matter how much he did, there was always more); and becoming a play-thing and punching-bag for the children. The parallel was inescapable: the freak – and a sharp twinge of pain went through his body as he thought the word, so he changed it at once - Potter had slept in a cupboard, lived off scraps, cleaned, been pounded every day by Dudley and his gang. And why? Because of him. It was hard to keep his anger with the wizards, his sense of outrage at his treatment, when his conscience was telling him how much he deserved it.
The children gave him hell: almost every day he got beaten up, and when he mentioned it to the staff, they laughed it off as "childhood exuberance". He sustained broken bones every other day; but there was no point in reporting them because they seemed to heal mysteriously by themselves. But it seemed that only the things the children did that hampered his doing his job were healed; some of his hair was pulled out and did not grow back, and he was given a black eye that didn't heal for days. He went to the Director about this, and was told that it was a particularly exuberant child, and the Director would have a word. Vernon's description was a lot less polite, and earnt him another sharp round of pain. And the child in question didn't stop attacking him; though all of them did seem to leave his face and hair alone after that, so perhaps something had been said.
He thought at first that he was being shown some compassion at last; but a couple of days later he worked it out: it was that hissed warning again. 'Nothing that will leave a mark.' He had always been chary of leaving marks on Harry's face, too, in case anyone saw them.
No, there was no compassion, no feeling for him at all. He went through his days in a stupor: being punched and kicked; blocking when he could; eating what he could; sleeping as much as he could, even though the mattress made everything hurt, Occasionally, just occasionally, there would be a small piece of meat left out for him, or he'd manage a shower with a minute of hot water; but in some ways these rare treats just made things worse by underlining how bad his day-to-day life was.
He was in his own private Hell, and he knew it. But that wasn't the worst thing. No, the worst thing was that he deserved it. The treatment he was being given was determined, not by any feelings of the staff or students, but by the standards he had set up himself.
He was being treated as he had treated Harry. And he had never intended Harry to escape; so there was no way out for him. He had nothing, no-one. Grunnings had fired him; Malloy had turned on him; Dudley had left the Dursley family altogether; and he had no idea where Petunia was.
For a while, here at the orphanage, he had had some hope that he might move on. Escape, somehow, or get out. Surely they couldn't keep him here forever? There were laws against this sort of thing!
But these – wizards (he knew better than to go anywhere near the word 'freak', now) – they didn't care for the laws he knew, that was clear. They had their own rules.
That day at Malfoy Manor, when he had spoken in anger to Harry, that had been more than a mistake.
It had been the point of no return.
And he knew that too.

Friday 31 July 1998
"Oh – oh – ohhhh!"
Harry came awake very suddenly. For the first time in a while, Draco's body was not wrapped around him; he smiled as he thought how soppy it was that his snarky Slytherin fiancé seemed to treat him like his own personal teddy bear. At the same time, he missed the special warmth of his lover; until he felt the pressure lower down and realised exactly where Draco was and what he was doing. It seemed that his birthday celebrations were beginning with a bang. Or, more accurately, a blow …
"Draco! Oh! More! Oh!" and then, becoming incoherent with pleasure, he tugged on the blond hair by way of a warning, which only seemed to serve to make Draco redouble his efforts; and then, in a blinding flash of ecstasy, it was all over.
"That .. was amazing!" Harry said, once he got his voice back under control.
Draco looked up. "Naturally," he said, with a trademark Malfoy smirk and complete lack of humility, as he made his way up the bed on hands and knees, and finally gripped Harry in a bear hug and kissed him all over his face.
"Happy birthday, Harry," he said at last.

They had lain together cuddling for twenty minutes or so, when Harry pulled himself up into a sitting position.
"Well, I suppose we have to get up and doing, or we'll miss breakfast."
"Oh no," Draco replied. He had heard about Neville's breakfast the day before, and was determined not to be out-done. "We're having our own special breakfast. Kreacher!"
As Draco called for him, the house-elf appeared, together with a table set for two.
"Kreacher is wishing Master Harry Potter a very happy birthday," he croaked. "Kreacher is hoping his cooking is being up to standard."
"Thank you, Kreacher, I'm sure it will be," Harry replied, being careful to present a grave and respectful face to the elf.
"Come on then," Draco said, pulling him out of bed as Kreacher vanished away. He lifted the large cloche in the middle of the table. "These pancakes aren't going to eat themselves, you know."

Harry found the whole day truly amazing. It was his best birthday ever. Mind you, it didn't have to try very hard, he thought regretfully; his seventeenth birthday had been spent mourning the loss of Hedwig and Mad-Eye; the ones before that, with the Dursleys, were all best forgotten.
But it seemed that everyone was determined to make this a birthday he would want to remember. As promised, Ron had organised a Quidditch tournament, with Harry the Seeker for the Orange team and Draco the Seeker for the Purple team. And if the spectators had expected them to go easy on one another, they were in for a surprise. Draco pushed Harry as far as he could, never letting him out of his sight, tailing him, making him battle for space and air of his own; until suddenly Draco found himself a couple of yards behind his lover as Harry did one of his impossible dives. He pulled out level two feet above the pitch.
"A Wronsky feint!" the commentator roared, echoing the thought of the crowd that Harry was just testing Draco. But they were wrong; as Harry came up from his dive, he held aloft the Golden Snitch, and the fans erupted into cheering. Even Draco couldn't keep the smile off his face as he flew down to hover next to Harry.
"That was brilliant!" he said breathlessly.
"Of course," Harry replied with a grin of his own, and leaned over to kiss the blond. "Thank you for a wonderful game."

Harry's birthday lunch at Hogwarts was a huge event. It being a Wizarding holiday, Headmistress McGonagall had invited the families of the eighth year students to come to lunch, and by the looks of it all of them had said yes. There were also a few students from other years; Ginny came with her mum and dad, of course, but she also brought Luna Lovegood along, much to Harry's delight.
The house-elves had clearly gone all out to impress. Neville's birthday party had been at dinner the night before, and the cake had been a pile of chocolate profiteroles, cleverly clumped together in a very passable imitation of a Mimbulus mimbletonia. Harry had wondered how on Earth they would top that. He found the answer as he walked into the Great Hall: there was the table set out ready with all his favourite food, and in the middle, the cake: a huge construction of chocolate logs, shaped exactly like his old Firebolt broom.
"Brilliant!" he said, bursting into laughter. "That's really amazing! Whose idea was it?"
Flitwick blushed rather red. "Well, Harry," he said, "we all know how much you love flying, so it seemed rather obvious!"
Harry smiled. It might be obvious; but it was fantastic. He loved it.
There being so many people there, the lunch was set out as a buffet, with lots of little tables. Flitwick explained that the idea was to go to the table often, and each time they came back to sit at a different place, to make sure they got to chat with lots of people rather than sitting in a fixed seat and only talking to the same ones. Harry was rather pleased with this idea; while he loved his friends and their families, he didn't really have a lot to say to them.
Apolline Delacour was the first person to sit next to him.
"It eez lovely to see you again, 'Arry," she said happily.
Harry smiled. "And to see you," he said, with some warmth. "Narcissa asked me to give you her best regards."
"Oh, 'ow charming!" the Frenchwoman replied. "You must send her mine in return. I 'ear you were in Paris, you 'ad a fun time, yes?"
And with very little prompting, Harry found himself happily chatting about the Sunday he had spent in Paris. Apolline listened attentively, steered him adroitly, offered some suggestions of her own favourite places that he must visit next time, and gave him her Floo address.
"You will come and visit, you and Draco, whenever you are free, yes?" she said.
"We should be delighted," a familiar voice said behind Harry, and he looked up into the silver eyes of his fiancé.
"Hello!" he said. "I wondered where you'd got to."
"I have been discussing the mating habits of wrackspurts," Draco deadpanned.
"Wrackspurts?" Apolline asked, clearly dumbfounded. "What are 'wrackspurts', please?"
Harry smiled at her. "Creatures that have been discovered by our dear friend Luna Lovegood," he said. "Apparently they float into people's ears and make their brains go fuzzy."
"Ah!" said Apolline knowingly. "We have eccentrics like that too."
Harry laughed at the ease with which Apolline seemed to have sussed out Luna.
"Please excuse us," Draco said. "Harry needs to eat, and circulate."
"But of course," the Frenchwoman replied. "Do look us up if you are in Paris, please."
They assured her that they would, and went back to the buffet table, where Draco really did force Harry to take more food.
"You don't eat enough," he said when Harry started to complain. "The house-elves have noticed. Kreacher mentioned it to me yesterday after Neville's birthday party."
"What?" Harry said. This sounded most unlike a house-elf, even Kreacher at his grumpiest. "He actually said I don't eat enough?"
Draco chuckled. "No, his actual words were 'please be making sure Master Harry tries all the foods tomorrow as we are being trying to give him all his favourites and he is not always having a full plate' or something like that. But it amounted to, 'you don't eat enough'. And also, different dishes were made by different elves, and I think they are trying to outdo one another to have your favourite dish. Winky made this, I think."
Harry looked down. Draco had placed a fair-sized portion of lasagne on his plate, together with a clump of garlic bread, and he did have to admit that it made his mouth water. They sat with Neville and Augusta Longbottom this time, and she grilled Harry a little about the Muggle Studies course. Draco smirked and refused to be helpful at all; Harry had chosen to sit with her, he could sort it out, he decided.
And so the lunch went on. By keeping the portions small, Draco managed to get Harry to try nearly every dish, which took a total of seven visits to the buffet table; in the course of the hour or so it took to do so, they managed to chat to pretty much all of the people that they didn't see on a regular basis. When Harry finished the last dish he had taken – a rather nice Chicken Chasseur which Draco declared to be his favourite of the dishes on offer – Winky popped up to take his plate.
"Is Master Harry Potter being finished?" she asked.
"Yes, thank you Winky, that was all amazingly good food. I've eaten too much!" he groaned.
Winky looked delighted. "Winky is happy to see Master Harry Potter is well fed!" she replied. "Which dish is Master Harry Potter thinking is his favourite?"
"Ooh," said Harry. "It's hard to pick a favourite. But I did enjoy the lasagne very much."
Winky puffed up in pride. "Winky is being making the lasagne!" she said. "Winky is being very proud Master Harry Potter is liking her dish?"
"You made that?" Harry said, with just the right note of surprise. "Will you make it for me again?"
The poor creature looked completely overcome at this. "Of course Master Harry Potter! Winky is being so happy!" She took his plate and popped away.
"It's a good thing she left," Draco drawled. "I thought she was about to burst with pride. Shameless, Potter, shameless."
"I learnt from the best, Malfoy," Harry rejoined, with a smirk.
Their banter was interrupted by the Headmistress requesting their attention.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she said, "we're not going to have speeches; I'm just going to invite Mr Potter to come and cut the cake, and then coffee and cake will be served out on the lawn."
Harry, relieved that there were to be no speeches, happily got up and took the proffered knife. He made the required incision in the cake, and it was then whisked away by the house-elves to be cut up into slices.
"Ah-ah, Potter," Draco said at his elbow. "You touched the plate with the knife. That means you have to kiss the nearest blond."
"You made that up!" Harry retorted.
"So?" Draco asked archly. And indeed, made-up or not, Harry did as he was told he had to, to many squeals of delight.

Following the luncheon, Draco told Harry they needed to pack a trunk for the weekend.
"Oh!" said Harry. "Where will we be staying?"
"That, my love, is my little secret," Draco replied. And nothing Harry could say would get any more out of him.
Once they had packed their bags, shrunk and pocketed them, Draco took Harry to the Headmistress's office.
"Ah, Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy," she said in warm greeting. "In good time, too, I see. Well done, Mr Malfoy."
"Huh?" Harry asked. "Why do you assume it's Draco?"
McGonagall fixed him with a stare. "We've been through this before, Mr Potter," she replied. "Now, are you ready to go?"
"Yes, ma'am!" he replied.
"And do you know where you're going?" she asked.
"Er, no," he replied, a touch less enthusiastically.
"I thought not. First, I'm afraid, there is to be a reception for you at the Ministry; then we will be going elsewhere to celebrate with your family and friends."
Harry groaned inwardly, but kept his face neutral. He could put up with a reception. He'd better get used to it, he supposed; there were probably going to be many more to come over the years.

In the event, the Ministry reception wasn't too awful. Draco, Kingsley and Arthur made sure that at least two of them were present at all times. Most of the long-standing members of the Wizengamot were there, as well as a variety of senior staff from the Ministry, and they circulated the room, meeting people and exchanging pleasantries. Kingsley said at one point that they had invited all the heads of department, and for the first time in living memory all of them had turned up at an afternoon tea.
"You should feel honoured, Harry," Kingsley told him as he handed him a cup of tea, "normally half of them only turn up if there's free alcohol."
"I bet," said Harry rather quietly, "that you wish half of them hadn't turned up."
Kingsley roared with laughter. "Touché," he replied.
"Mr Potter," an urbane voice rang out, as a tall, dark, well-dressed man came up to him. "Anton Rosier. Delighted to make your acquaintance."
"And I yours, Mr Rosier," Harry replied, shaking the outstretched hand. The man had a wolfish smile and a too-firm handshake, and Harry distrusted him on sight. "I take it you are related to Mrs Malfoy?"
"Yes indeed," the man replied, obviously impressed. "How clever of you to remember that her mother was a Rosier. Narcissa and I are distant cousins – I forget how far back the common ancestor goes. But I bore you. I may say I have been watching your career with interest, particularly recently."
"Anton is the Acting Head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation," Kingsley supplied. "As such, he takes an active interest in the students from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and the Durmstrang Institute on behalf of the Ministry. And of course you know Galatea Merrythought?"
"Of course," Harry replied, relieved as Kingsley effortlessly pulled the witch into the group. "How are you, Professor? You missed the lunch today?"
"I'm very well, thank you, Mr Potter," Galatea replied. "As I was coming to this gathering, I felt it rather greedy of me to attend both. Libatius agreed with me, so we lunched together and came here."
She turned to Rosier. "And how are you, Anton? Still single?"
This was evidently a long-standing discussion, as Rosier scowled and contented himself with saying, "yes indeed, ma'am."
"I fear your standards are too high, young man," she riposted. "Come, let me introduce you to my niece. I'm sure she would be delighted to make your acquaintance."
And with that, she practically dragged the Acting Head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation away as though he were a naughty boy.
Kingsley watched as Merrythought led Rosier away, his eyes blazing with admiration. He turned back to Harry.
"A formidable woman, that," he said.
"Yeah," Harry replied. "Does she like him?"
Kingsley had unwisely taken a sip of tea, and this question caused it to explode out of his nose. He dabbed his face with a napkin before answering, "Merlin no! She hates him cordially. And I suspect the feeling is mutual. No, Harry, I'm sure she worked out that you'd had enough of the – ah – pleasure of Mr Rosier's company, and has nobly taken him away."
He looked around the room, beckoned Arthur and Draco close, and then dropped his voice.
"I think you've talked to everyone you need to. Now might be a good time to disappear."
They didn't need a second invitation; scarcely a minute later, Harry and Draco found themselves in Arthur's office.
"Thank God that's over," the Deputy Minister said. "Right. Now, we are going to apparate to the next venue."
Draco drew in a sharp breath. "Um, sir, I'm not really allowed to apparate."
"On this occasion, Draco," the Deputy Minister said, "as you are both travelling with me, I think we can make an exception."

After the familiar feeling of being pushed through a very tight rubber tube, they arrived in what looked like a brightly-lit meadow. Harry blinked his eyes a few times to get used to the light, and then turned to discover that they were standing right outside the Burrow's front gate. But there was something different about the tumble-down structure. It looked more solid, somehow; the angles of the floors didn't seem as extreme as before, and the roof had clearly been extensively repaired.
"Wow," Harry said, "the old place has been done up! It looks amazing!"
"Oh," Arthur replied mildly, "you haven't seen the best bit yet, Harry. Follow me."
To Harry's surprise, instead of entering through the front door, Arthur walked them round to the kitchen door. As they reached it, Harry could see that something was different; there was a closed marquee covering most of the lawn, but beyond it he could see some other structure. This is new, he thought. He walked on a bit, between the marquee and the house, and as he rounded the far corner he saw in front of him a new building jutting out jauntily from the original house into the space where they had played gnome tennis months ago.
"My goodness!" he said, "you've extended!"
"Happy birthday, Harry!" Molly called from the kitchen door. "Indeed we have! Come inside and see!"
As they entered the kitchen, neither Harry nor Draco escaped a huge hug from the Weasley matriarch; and then Molly led them inside and then proudly through a new pair of doors that had replaced the old, rickety French doors that had led onto the lawn she had always hated. The new doors led into a corridor, off which came four doors to the left, and glass doors to the right which opened onto the garden. She took them down to the last door and took up position outside it.
"Are all these rooms?" Harry asked as he saw the doors. Arthur nodded, and Harry continued, "why so many?"
"Well dear," Molly answered, "the Burrow has always been a bit cramped for space, and the Minister suggested we put on an extension so there would always be room for family."
Arthur snorted. "Suggested? He insisted. So we've shored up the old place and built this little annex. And that enabled us to build what we decided would be the perfect eighteenth birthday present for you."
As Arthur said this, Molly opened the door and led the two young men into a light, airy, spacious room. Harry could see at once that this was wizard space; there was no way that this room could fit into its external dimensions apart from magic.
"Wow," he said. "I love magic!"
"This is your room, Harry," Arthur said, and Harry looked at him, gobsmacked. "Of course, we know that you have your own house, and you share Draco's suite at the Manor; but we wanted to give you this space of your very own in our house as a way of saying to you that you really are both part of our family. We've reset the wards so you can both come and go as you please, and you will always have exclusive use of this room."
"We're also giving you the bed," Molly said. "It's an old Prewett family heirloom, but it's not really to our taste, and we rather thought you might appreciate it more."
Harry looked at the bed which was standing in the middle of the room. It was an enormous, ancient, four-poster bed. The posts were dark oak, turned and beautifully decorated with vine leaves and bunches of grapes. Over the bed was a canopy; it and the drapes around the bed were a deep Prussian blue, with contrasting designs in sky blue. It was, Harry thought, one of the most beautiful pieces of furniture he had ever seen.
"It's lovely, Molly, Arthur," Harry said, rather breathlessly. He was finding it very hard to speak. "Thank you," he said eventually. "This is … incredible. You – you really want to give me this? You're sure?"
"Of course, Harry," Molly said sternly. "You are our son. We're quite sure."
Arthur smiled in agreement. "Now," he said brightly, "we'll leave you to settle in, shall we? We'll be having a little celebration about six, Harry, so Draco will have plenty of time to tell you about the rest of the furnishings."
"Thank you," Harry said, and drew them both into a bone-crushing hug, after which the two Weasleys went back into the original building.
Harry looked at his fiancé. "Alright, spill," he said, mock-sternly. "'The rest of the furnishings'?"
"As Molly and Arthur said, the bed is their gift," Draco replied with a smirk. "But while you were busy on Tuesday, I came over here and set up the rest. This is my birthday gift to you, Harry."
Harry looked around, drinking in the rest of the room. Draco had chosen a cream and blue colour scheme to tone with the bed. On the walls at chest height there was a line of dark brown fleur-de-lis whose colour matched the posts of the bed perfectly, with a vine motif winding through them. He walked around the room to find that it was even bigger than he had first thought. There was a sitting area behind the bed that Draco had furnished with cream leather sofas and an oak coffee table. There was a walk-in robe that already contained half-a-dozen sets of clothing, which he could see at a glance were brand new. There was even an ensuite bathroom, which continued the cream and blue colours, but where the vine leaves had become seaweed, with little sea-horses gamboling through.
The whole thing was truly, breathtakingly, beautiful.
Harry turned to Draco and, not trusting his voice for a moment, wrapped him in a hug.
"Thank you," he said, "it's fantastic. You did all of this?"
"All except the clothes," Draco replied. "They are a gift from my parents."
Harry went back into the wardrobe and scrutinised the clothes. There were dark grey slacks, formal black trousers, and dark blue and dark green shirts that, by the feel, had to be acromantula silk. Everything was beautifully made.
"This must have cost a fortune," Harry said quietly.
Draco wrapped his arms around his fiancé. "Not important," he replied.
Harry turned, and kissed him. "All right," he said. "Thank you. Will you help me choose clothes for tonight?"
"It would be my pleasure," Draco replied, as a bubble of joy burst through him as he realised that Harry had finally accepted that they wanted to spend money on him just because they loved him. And was letting them do it.
He wondered if the grin on his face would last all night.

By ten to six, Draco had got the two of them ready and they were sitting in the Weasley's front room. Harry had tried to complain about having to get dressed in formal clothes – for Draco insisted that they wore robes - and having to get ready quickly so that they could be early; but Draco had pointed out that his parents were coming, that they would be here on time even if no-one else was, and that as guest of honour he should be there to meet them. Harry didn't really buy the whole argument; but when Lucius and Narcissa came through the Floo bang on six o'clock, the smile on Narcissa's face as she saw him had him convinced in an instant.
"Harry!" she said delightedly, heading straight for him and giving him a kiss on each cheek. "You look wonderful!"
"Thank you, Narcissa," he replied, and Draco had to stifle a snort as Harry all but preened himself in response to the praise. "And thank you for the clothes, they are perfect!"
"Let me see,'" Narcissa demanded, and made Harry turn around on the spot while she fastened a critical eye on him. "Yes," she said when he had finished, "that blue really does work."
Meanwhile, Draco had greeted his father, and the two stood watching the elaborate, and rather familiar, routine in front of them. Without knowing it, both of them were thinking the same thing: rather Harry than me!
"Hello!" said Molly, as she bustled in from the kitchen, "Welcome! Narcissa, Lucius, how lovely to see you! Harry dear, drinks are in the marquee; would you take the Malfoys out, please? We'll be bringing some canapés in a minute."
Harry obediently led his future husband and in-laws out into the garden. Fred and George were there, opening up the marquee ready for use, while Neville was just finishing up spelling his beautiful bell flowers around the walls.
"Harry!" the twins cried as soon as they saw him, "happy birthday, mate!"
"Thanks!" he replied. "Now, Molly said something about drinks?"

Arthur had said a 'little' celebration; but in the event it didn't fit any definition of 'little' that Harry knew. The marquee had dozens of little tables scattered through it, and it wasn't long before it was heaving with people. It seemed to Harry that all of his friends had come, and he took advantage of the fact to chat with people he had not seen for a while. Oliver Wood, he discovered, had been offered a job as Keeper for a German Quidditch team while Puddlemere United was rebuilding itself. It wasn't long before he and Ron got into the inevitable argument about the relative merits of Puddlemere and the Chudley Cannons; Harry quietly excused himself and tiptoed away. He could do without arguments about Quidditch.
"Har!" he heard a small voice say, and he looked down to find Teddy Lupin determinedly crawling towards him.
"Hello Teddy Bear!" he said, and bent down to pick the boy up. "Look at you moving so fast at four months! You'll be running before I know it!"
"I told you that Black babies mature quickly," Andromeda said as she came up to him. "Happy birthday, Harry, it's lovely to see you. Are the studies going well?"
A small pang of guilt went through Harry that he had not spent much time with Andromeda and Teddy recently. But he knew he would be given short shrift if he voiced the idea, so he contented himself with the opening she had given him, and began to discuss the classes they were doing. As he had expected, Andromeda was very interested to learn that Armand Ionescu had been dug out of retirement and was teaching them about mind defenses.
"Take care to learn everything he can teach you," she counseled him, "he is the best there is. It's quite something that he's out of retirement again; I wonder what Agnes Touauld thinks about it?"
"She is two parts mad that he has been talked into it, one part sad that he isn't around at home all day any more, and three parts delighted that he is doing what he loves to do," the healer's voice came behind them as Agnes came up to greet Harry. "And how is my current patient?"
Harry grinned at her. "Doing well, I think," he replied.
"Really," she said drily. "Perhaps I should be the judge of that." And so saying, she drew out her wand and cast a diagnostic spell on him, completely oblivious to the rather shocked faces of the nearby witches and wizards. Pointing a wand at someone at a private party simply wasn't done; but then, Andromeda mused, Agnes had always done things that Weren't Done and got away with them, simply because, like her husband, she was the best there was.
Eventually she put her wand away and showed Harry the parchment she had created. "I agree with you," she said crisply. "You are doing well. Mr Malfoy is good for you. I'd keep him."
"Do you know," said Harry with a twinkle in his eye, "I think I just might."

The party continued through the evening and was ended by the now traditional Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes fireworks at midnight. Harry had to sit down for these; he had carried Teddy practically the entire night and eventually Miriam Granger had noticed him, so his lap was now filled with two sleeping babies.
"You all right there?" Draco asked as he came to sit beside him. Harry looked up at him and gave the question a little thought. Here he was at the Burrow, which now felt more than ever like home now that he had a room of his own, surrounded by friends who were all having a good time and getting on together, regardless of their turbulent history, being slept on by two children who openly loved him, and having this gorgeous man as his fiancé. Was he all right?
"Never better," he replied.

A little while later, people started to drift off home. Lucius and Narcissa came up to him to say goodnight.
"Molly did offer us a room," Narcissa confessed, "which was very kind; but we felt that we should keep a little distance." In response to his questioning glance she continued, "your friends are lovely, and welcoming, Harry; but the War is still recent, and not everyone can overlook the fact that we were rather deep on the enemy's side. Will you come to dinner tomorrow night – tonight, I suppose it is now?"
"We'd love to," Harry replied. "And thank you again for the clothes."
A little to Harry's surprise, it was Lucius who replied to this. "It was nothing, Harry. It was a joy to be able to give you something, after all you've given us."
And with that, the Malfoys took their leave as Andromeda Tonks and Margaret Granger came up to see him.
"Well," Margaret said with a mischievous glint in her eye, "you'll be staying there tonight by the looks of those two. They look well ensconced."
"I rather think Draco might feel a bit left out," Andromeda said, as she gently lifted her grandson off Harry's lap. "Come on, Teddy, we'll get you to bed. Harry, the Grangers and I have decided to accept Molly's kind offer of accommodation, so we'll see you in the morning. But now these two sleepy-heads need to be in bed."
As she said this, Margaret took Miriam off Harry, who happily stood up and stretched his legs, which had gone rather numb with the weight of two sleeping babies on them.
"Thank you," he said, "both for lending me your children and for taking them back again!"
The two ladies chuckled at this. "Good night, Harry," they chorused, "and happy birthday."

Harry sat on the edge of the bed.
"Thank you," he said at last. "Thank you for the best birthday ever."
"Harry, come to bed? Please?" Draco asked.
The two lay close to one another in the enormous bed. Harry looked up at the canopy, admiring the craftsmanship of the weaving and the carving on the posters, and marveled once again at the incredible love and generosity of the Weasleys. He reached over and cuddled his lover as tight as he could, and Draco could feel a sadness that Harry had been feeling all day long. He had heard the tension in Harry's voice, even as he had thanked Draco for the birthday; and he longed to soothe all the heartache away. After a long, slow, sensual massage, he finally steeled himself to speak.
"Why have you been so sad?" he asked, as gently as he could.
For the longest time, Harry was silent; and then a single sob rose up in him.
"No," he said, mostly to himself, "they don't deserve any more tears."
"They?" Draco asked. "The Dursleys?"
"Yes," Harry replied, and then he told Draco all about it. How his birthday had never been celebrated. How the best he'd ever had was for it to be ignored altogether. That otherwise, he would be given extra chores in 'honour' of the day. How if he got presents, it was a dog biscuit wrapped in used paper, or some grass clippings, or a broken ornament; something to make it clear that they hadn't forgotten the day, they just didn't care.
As he listened, Draco's heart broke again for his poor, abused, gorgeous, lovely fiancé. He gathered himself and finally plucked up the courage he had been lacking for so long and asked Harry to make love to him.
"Are you sure?" Harry asked, and the love and tenderness in his eyes completely bowled Draco over.
"Harry," he replied, breathlessly, "I honestly don't think I have ever been so sure of anything in my life."
It was long, and slow, and sweet. Harry, he decided again, was the most wonderful lover imaginable. Harry took his time, with many kisses, caresses and words of endearment, making sure the blond was absolutely ready. Draco was amazed at how little it hurt; and the joy of his partner inside him hit him far harder than he could have imagined possible. He'd heard people talking about not knowing their own name, and had aways assumed it was just Hufflepuff talk; but now he wasn't so sure.
With Harry inside him, something settled deep within, and he felt, in a way that he had never felt it before, whole, and loved, and sated.
He was home. This was where he belonged. This was what he wanted. For so long, he had been worried that the Debt was forcing him into a submissive role; but now he found that it was really what he wanted himself. Sure, making love to Harry was wonderful, and he would do it again in a heartbeat; but this, having Harry inside him, this was right, like nothing else in his life.
Sometime in their lovemaking, they crossed a line. Harry cried Draco's name in completion, and Draco echoed with Harry's name, and there was no going back, now. They had passed the point of no return; and Harry knew that the Dursleys were really done now. Draco's love had undone all the evil that their lack of love had done; never again could they hurt his heart. He could feel that that space inside him that Ionescu had found was now filled with memories tinged with bright silver; and he was content.
They had passed the point of no return; and Draco knew he never wanted to go back. He had been afraid of losing his independence, his identity. He was afraid the Debt would make him a slave; but now he knew he was Harry's; and that was the most wonderful thing in the world.
Afterwards they lay quietly in each other's arms for a long time. Eventually, Harry drifted off, but rest did not come so quickly to Draco. He lay still and caressed his lover. And then the two of them were suffused by a soft, red light, and he found his heart so full of peace and contentment that he drifted off to the best sleep of his life to date.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

I borrowed (with permission) the idea of the Weasleys giving Harry a room of his own from Lori94, who used it in their story "Ministry Interference" which you can find at https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8559184/1/Ministry-Interference.

Filch's back-story is all mine, however.
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/ . Please indicate which chapter you are reading, as aff doesn't make that clear. I will generally try to reply to posts before posting a new chapter.
The story is betaed by the wonderful BickyMonster, http://members.adult-fanfiction.org/profile.php?no=1296919762, with assistance from ruth_lity. The remaining errors are all my own!
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Returning to Sanity