Princes in Exile

This chapter was written by literaryspell.


Harry heaved a sigh and pushed back from his desk. Neville had long since headed home, leaving Harry to catch up on work that didn’t need to be done for days. It wasn’t that he was the overachieving type—far from it. He just didn’t particularly relish going home some days. If he got there after it was already dark, it didn’t seem as… lonely. It was perfectly acceptable to be alone in one's flat after dark. When it was still light out, that was when Harry felt uncomfortable, like he should have friends over or that he shouldn't be in that early at all. He was still young, after all.

The problem was that he didn’t have it in him to go out with his friends as much as he used to. He had neither the energy nor the desire. Once a week was the most he could manage, and even then, he was slipping out before midnight, giving excuses that didn’t match the reality of his sad life.

Glancing outside, he saw that he had at least another half hour before the sun set. The evening shift had already started—Harry could hear them outside his door. Harry envied their built-in excuse to never have to go home in daylight to an empty house.

Just as he was starting to pack up his briefcase, there was a knock on his door.

"Come in," he said, grateful for the last distraction.

"Auror Potter, Lucius Malfoy is here to see you," said the bright-faced young man who'd poked his head inside the door.

Harry twitched—he hadn’t been sure whether he could trust Luna's 'source' who'd claimed to have seen the two Malfoy men Apparate just beyond the gates of the Manor. The source had apparently been sleeping off a rough night—on the side of the road—so Harry hadn’t let himself get his hopes up too high.

Not that he actually hoped for Malfoy's return—either Malfoy. Just… there was unfinished business there, and it had always bothered him.

"Show him in, Greer." Harry straightened his robes and made a half-hearted attempt to do the same to his hair.

When Lucius walked in, Harry couldn’t help but shake his head. Seven years and the man hadn’t lost an inch of his imperiousness.

"Potter," he said, inclining his head. He looked pointedly at one of the chairs in front of Harry's desk as if he doubted Harry would have gotten around to offering him a seat.

"Malfoy," Harry returned, nodding and waiting for Lucius to settle. "Back in London, then?"

"Evidently," Lucius drawled. Then he sighed and it was like someone had cancelled a Glamour—he looked very weary, exhausted, even. "I've come to turn myself in."

Harry's hand went unerringly to his holly wand. "What have you done?"

"I'm a Death Eater. I escaped justice. I assume there's no statute of limitations on such a thing."

Confused, Harry frowned. "You're confessing to being a Death Eater?"

"Yes, yes," Lucius said as if bored with the proceedings.

Harry hated to disappoint, but he needed clarification. "We already knew that."

"All I ask is that Draco be given some leniency. I'm sure I have names for crimes you weren’t even aware of. I'll give you my testimony in exchange for Draco's freedom."

It seemed that Lucius Malfoy didn’t know he was already a free man, as was his son.

Harry's testimony on behalf of the Malfoy family had been met with mixed response. Hermione had been proud of him, Ron furious, and the public confused. He hadn’t bothered clearing it up to the public—they didn’t have to know how broken and lost the Malfoys had looked in the Great Hall after Voldemort's defeat. Had the public seen that, there would be no question as to what was most important to the Malfoys—each other. Exiling them together was the best thing for everyone.

Except the Malfoys hadn’t bothered to pick up a Daily Prophet in all their years away.

"What names and what crimes?" Harry asked, not willing to give away his hand if he could solve some old cases in the meantime.

Lucius beckoned for the legal pad on his desk. Harry handed it over, along with a ballpoint pen. Quills were just not feasible when one had as much paperwork as Harry did, and Harry didn’t care if Lucius glared at the pen like it had mocked his pretentious outfit or questioned his lineage.

For the next twenty minutes, just enough time for the sun to settle beyond the horizon, Lucius Malfoy wrote out names, dates, places, and crimes. Harry watched with increasing glee as the sheet of paper filled. Even if they'd already solved half those crimes, the rest would be enough to significantly dwindle the unsolved crimes file.

Lucius' pen began to slow and finally scratch to a stop. With a decisive nod, Lucius handed the pad back to Harry and dropped the pen onto his desk with disdain.

Harry made Lucius wait as he went over the list. Merlin, there was enough there to practically shut down the cold case department altogether! They wouldn’t be pleased with the additional work, but it would be more than worth it.

"This is impressive," Harry said, magically copying the file and having one sent directly to cold cases.

"Yes, well, those were busy times. Can we get on with this?"

"Of course." Harry paused. "You're free to go."

"What?" Lucius snapped, seeming to think he was being toyed with.

Harry sighed and leant forward on his elbows. "I don't know where you went," he began, "but you might have thought to have the Prophet forwarded. You, your wife, and your son were cleared of charges with the caveat that you leave England for seven years. Your exile ended approximately four months ago. You're very lucky you didn’t decide to come back earlier—you would have been arrested and put in Azkaban without trial."

Lucius' face was white and his hands were unforgiving on the arms of the chair. "That's it, then?" he whispered. He looked almost lost, and Harry wanted to feel sorry for him, but then the haughty mask slipped back down and Harry forgot feeling anything but exasperation.

"That's it," Harry confirmed, sitting back in his chair.

Without another word, Lucius rose and turned to leave. Harry cleared his throat and stood as well.

"Mr. Malfoy," he said, waiting for Lucius to face him. "Someone will have to come by the Manor to alter the wards back. They were changed to inform us if you returned before your sentence was over, and we don't need to get an alarm every time one of you enters your own property."

Lucius nodded, looking tired. "I have a few errands to run, but my son will receive you."

For some reason, the turn of phrase made a blush stain Harry's cheeks. "All right, then. Don't get into any trouble," he warned. He'd put up with enough fallback from defending the Malfoys in the first place—he didn’t want them making a fool of him by falling back into their old ways.

A moment saw Lucius ready to snarl something surely vicious, but he schooled his features and gave a tight nod.

After he left, Harry snorted. A thank-you was evidently too much to ask for.

Harry packed up and put on his gloves. A curl of warmth in his stomach had him remembering when Hermione and Ron had given them to him, two Christmases ago at the Burrow. He'd always worried that, with them being married, he'd feel like a third wheel. The truth was the exact opposite. He never felt more at home than with his friends, and he hoped Ron would feel the same way after Harry made him go to the Manor to tidy up the wards.

Until he remembered that Ron—and everyone else—had long gone home. He was the only person on his shift still in the office. He could ask one of the evening shift Aurors to take care of it, but he hated asking favours, which was what it would be as he was the same rank as they were.

He thought about leaving it for the next day, but the thought of coming in to a desk full of ward-breach memos made him shiver. He'd probably end up doing it tomorrow, anyway. Better to just get it over with.

The wand. Harry's eyes widened. With Draco back in London, he could return the hawthorn wand finally. That last bit of unfinished business would be nicely wrapped up and he could get on with his life.

Walking through the building, Harry used Draco's wand no less than four times. His own sat in its holster, unused since he'd returned from active duty. In the office and at home, he very rarely used his own wand. He didn’t want to give up the second, more precise wand. It channelled his power so much more efficiently. He couldn’t say when his own wand had stopped reacting favourably to him, but it was after he'd killed Voldemort.

Decision made—or at least delayed—Harry sheathed Draco's wand and withdrew his own. Let Draco think he'd burned it or something. Harry needed it. That was all there was to it.

With a sigh of one who truly did not want to do what he was about to do, Harry reached the Apparition point and turned on the spot, letting the uncomfortable pressure—it had never gotten better no matter how often he did it—take him to the gates of the once-resplendent Malfoy Manor.

No white peacocks met his gaze this time. What once had been an ostentatious show of wealth and disregard of care for cost or modesty was now a near-shambles. Ivy had wormed its way up the entire west side, crawling across the front like it planned on devouring the entire thing, inhabitants notwithstanding. The garden was overrun and looked wild and dead at the same time. As he approached, he saw that the paint on the front door looked weathered. Seven years had done a lot of damage. He wondered if the same was true of Draco himself.

Harry knocked. He waited. He wondered if the Malfoys still employed house-elves and if not, how they got along without them. He knew they could afford them—their fortune was intact, as far as he knew, which would be a good thing because they would be hard-pressed to find work and would hardly be accepted back into the social fold as if no time had passed. Some transgressions were more difficult to move past; some people preferred to forget.

To his surprise, Draco himself opened the door. His shocked silence allowed Harry to get a good look at him—he looked… good. The years, wherever they'd been spent, had been kind. His hair looked even lighter, passing the boundary from pale blond to almost white, and his skin had lost a touch of its pallor. He'd been somewhere warm, then, Harry surmised. And he was wearing…

"You're dressed like a Muggle!"

Draco's eyes, which had been wide, narrowed. "What are you doing here?" he said in a low voice that was almost trembling with rage.

Taking a step back out of self-preservation, Harry coughed—not nervously, of course; he was a bloody Auror for Merlin's sake! "I have to change the wards." Harry remembered that if Lucius hadn’t known about the exile, Draco must not, either. "You're a free man, Malfoy," he said, trying for kind and ending somewhere between sarcasm and almost accusatory.

"Yes, I know," Draco said snidely.

Shrugging, Harry said, "Well, the wards are geared to warn us about your return, and I need to fix them so we don't get inundated with memos telling us to go arrest you already."

Crossing his arms over his chest—his stupid, fit chest—Draco raised an arched eyebrow. Harry was sure that if he'd had less breeding he would have been tapping his foot.

"Why would I care what you're inundated with?"

Harry resisted the urge to run his fingers through his hair—but only just. Draco was just as infuriating and snotty as ever. Harry was almost relieved to find that time didn’t change everything.

"I don't care what you care about," you great git, "but I have to do my job and since the wards are technically Auror property, you don't have a choice."

Impotence wasn’t a good look on Draco. His lip curled up in a most ugly fashion. Harry wondered that if he knew how twisted his features were if he'd ever make that face again. Draco did seem like the type to care whether he looked like a ferret with rabies.

"Fine," he snapped. "Get it over with." With that charming permission, Draco stepped back within the house and slammed the door a scant inch from Harry's nose.

"That went well," Harry muttered, glaring as he pushed his glasses up his nose and started with the wards. He wasn’t chuffed about having to knock again and tell Draco that he'd need inside to finish the job, but he hoped the ensuing time would give Draco a chance to collect himself. He'd looked ready for an apoplexy, and Harry didn’t relish having to Side-Along him to St. Mungo's if it came to it.

The wards were extensive because they contained information on every single Death Eater that had been alive at the time of the Malfoy's sentencing. Now all those Death Eaters—every last one, Harry was proud to say—were in Azkaban or either had served or were still serving their Ministry-approved sentences. There were none still on the run; none had gone without judgement. Now the Malfoys were free to entertain as many former Death Eaters as they liked—though the Ministry wouldn’t be best pleased if they did, were they to find out.

When the labour-intensive job was finally finished, Harry knocked again, harder this time. He wasn’t thrilled about having to do the job in the first place, and his wand wasn’t as quick as Draco's would have been with the finer details. He just wanted to get home, have a drink in the dark, think about starting on some paperwork for half an hour or so, and then watch his haphazardly spelled telly for a few hours before bed.

"What now?" Draco barely opened the door enough to see through.

Harry rolled his eyes. "I need inside to finish. The wards were set in there in case you had a way of getting in without triggering the outer wards."

"You are a major inconvenience," Draco informed him, spite making his cultured tone hateful.

Harry said nothing and just waited. After a moment, Draco hissed and yanked the door open, stalking away to stand by the staircase with the most impatient demeanour humanly possible. If Harry actually liked Malfoy, or if he'd been a stranger, he would have been uncomfortable. As it was, he got a sick glee from seeing Draco so put out.

"What do you think you're doing?" Draco snapped as Harry started toward one of the main rooms. He had his hands on his hips and couldn’t look any more hassled.

"My job." Giving in the to urge to roll his eyes and seeing that Draco gave in to his urge to tap his foot, he continued on.

He took his time finishing up. Seeing Draco manage to spit and snarl without even moving a muscle was too good to pass up, even though he did have three hours of sitcoms waiting for him at home.

Moving about the massive house, Harry mentally noted the changes. The manor had lost its opulence but was still decadent enough to remind the Malfoys of their status, or former status, anyway.

Once the last Auror ward had been felled, Harry set about finding Draco. He expected to find him at the foot of the stairs, still stewing in his own powerlessness. Draco wasn’t there, though, and Harry had to search a little before finally finding him in the kitchen. Harry watched as Draco, with his back to him, drained the sink from its bubbly water. There was a squelching noise and then Draco dried his hands on a tea towel before setting it rather daintily on the counter. When he turned, his expressionless face twisted once more into an almost feral anger.

"All done, then," Harry said, walking up to Draco and grinning right in his face. He holstered his wand, tucking it snugly beside Draco's without thinking.

Draco's eyes followed the movement and recognition flared in them, hot enough to scorch. His teeth bared and he lunged forward—

—But Harry had already Apparated away.

Back in the safety of his flat, panting a little, Harry wished that he'd stayed to actually fight Malfoy. He could have used the exercise, not to mention the stress relief of seeing the condescending little wanker bruised and broken. Okay, maybe just bruised. A lot, though.

He had his job to think about, though. As fun as it might have been, getting into a scuffle while on the clock would have been cause for at least a reprimand if not a dismissal.

And the total truth of it was, he just didn’t want to give the bloody wand back.

It wasn’t until he was in his bed, four glasses on gin and way too many hours of television under his belt, that he realised Draco had been doing dishes. Draco Malfoy, paragon of wizardry, probably unable to even get out of bed without magic, had had his arms in soapy water, Muggle jumper sleeves pushed up to his elbows to reveal lean, slick forearms—one unfortunately marred… and no wand in sight.

Sweet sweaty Merlin's sac—Draco Malfoy was living as a Muggle!