We Are Legend

It took Harry a whole bloody hour to convince Malfoy to leave the house in human shape and get dinner at a Muggle restaurant. And he absolutely refused to walk the few blocks over to Tufnell Park. "You have to be mental to go out there at night," he declared and perhaps he was right. But Harry had lived in this neighbourhood for so long, he couldn't imagine packs of werewolves roaming the streets, attacking anybody, wizard or Muggle, who dared to take a stroll by the light of the moon.

When they Apparated in a side alley near Aunt Timila's place, they almost stumbled upon a Muggle couple making out between the trash bins. Malfoy at once put the hood of his robes over his head, he looked ready to Disapparate on the spot. Harry took him by the hand and pulled him out onto Dartmouth Park Hill. There was no traffic, which Harry took as a lucky sign. He had an inkling that Malfoy would bolt, if one of the huge, petroleum-driven trucks came clattering down the street.

Tufnell Park was one of the last few Muggle areas outside of the Ghetto. The Death Eaters from Islington loved to hang out in the Boston Arms. The proprietor, known to everybody as Old Paddy, was a half-blood wizard with enough clout to protect Muggles and Muggle-born still living in the neighbourhood. It helped, too, that Flash Man had cast a Disillusionment Charm on the establishments that were frequented by the members of the resistance movement, Muggle and wizard alike. But neither Flash Man nor Old Paddy had been able to prevent the Death Eater raid of Muggle businesses three weeks ago. When Harry had come to Dartmouth Park Hill that night, the stench of leaking gas and melted plastic had been thick amidst the wet fog. Aunt Timila's restaurant had been burned to the ground, the Dark Mark still glowing an eerie pale green in the sky above the street when Harry had taken the woman to number twelve, Grimmauld Place, for the night. It had been the first and only time he had seen Aunt Timila cry.

A little bell tinkled as Harry opened the door of the small diner. Aunt Timila had opened it shortly after the failed Portkeying mission in the White City warehouse. She and Harry had never spoken again about her leaving London, and she stubbornly ignored all his hints about other refugee treks going up to Hogwarts. When he and Malfoy stepped into the dimly lit diner, there were three more guests, a Muggle couple at the window table, and a wizard who scanned through an old copy of the Prophet, waiting for his take-away. A deliciously spicy smell came from the dishes on display in the glass-covered containers at the counter. Aunt Timila, dressed in a bright pink sari, looked up and waved with a chopping knife, her usual busy welcome. There was a short pause in her movement when she saw that he was not alone, but she went back to chopping onions at once. She had never seen Malfoy in the warehouse, only knew that the Blue Phoenix had saved her life because Harry had told her so. She had burned candles with wicks soaked in ghee and camphor, giving her thanks to Agni, the God of fire.

Harry went to his usual table in the corner furthest from the door, dropped his backpack onto the broad wooden bench by the wall. Malfoy, who had followed Harry closely, hesitated a moment, then pulled off his robes and folded them over the back of the chair. Harry couldn't imagine that Malfoy had ever eaten in a fast food restaurant, and the concept of self-service was the exact opposite of what Malfoy had been brought up to expect from the world. He didn't move to sit, though, but looked around cautiously. The red candles everywhere, the green jade Buddha beside the cashier, the silent birds in the big copper cage near the half-opened backdoor to the yard – he took it all in, while keeping a close eye on the door and the windows. Securing the area, like an Auror, Harry realised. Then Malfoy's gaze fell on the garishly coloured poster of a phoenix rising, a fiery vision above a spring in a sun-lit green valley. His lips twitched in a way that Harry knew was a smile.

"Now let's see," Aunt Timila counted the Knuts the wizard had paid for his take-away, "you had pork not that long ago, the Lamb Thali with Goda Masala yesterday. Chicken Miravna today, Harry, what do you say? I got fresh coriander and savory from the black market over at the old prison."

She looked up from the small pile of money, flashed him a grin.

"Sounds good, Auntie," Harry said.

"And what will it be for your shy young friend?"

She reached for a rose-patterned plate, started to fill it with a dish of bright green herbs and fried pieces of chicken. All the time she never once looked at Malfoy. Harry wondered why she would call him shy, then noticed that Malfoy stood very close to him, certainly closer than a mere acquaintance would stand, half hiding behind Harry's body. His grey eyes followed Aunt Timila's every move. And God, he did look young with his hair open and the blue shirt. And slightly intimidated, too, for all Harry could tell. He knew the feeling. Aunt Timila, for all her motherly appearances, could do that to you.

He turned his head towards Malfoy. "Um, I never asked … you do eat human food, don't you? What would you like?"

Malfoy's chest was warm at Harry's shoulder. "I don't eat meat," he said. "And it all smells wonderful." He sounded hungry and so startlingly, everyday human that Harry couldn't help but lean back against him for a moment.

There were crinkles around Aunt Timila's mouth as she spooned cucumber raita and jackfruit chutney on the side of Harry's plate. "You should try the Tahiri Biryani then," she said, and Harry could only marvel at her sharp hearing. He and Malfoy had spoken very softly. "Made fresh this morning. With my very own sauteed mushrooms, and that's better than what you were served at those posh Ayurveda restaurants back when there still were posh restaurants in London." She looked up, addressing Malfoy directly for the first time. There was a challenge in her voice, and Harry felt Malfoy's body stiffen. He should have expected this, of course. Malfoy with his odd white-blond hair and the conservative wizarding attire looked pure-blood all through. He had the shirtsleeves closed tight around his wrists, on a warm July night. To someone as suspicious as Aunt Timila this could only mean that he was hiding the Dark Mark.

"It sounds delicious, Madam. I'd love to try your Biryani." Malfoy's voice, utterly charming, giving away nothing. And Madam? Aunt Timila's brown eyes glinted with hidden amusement. No one had ever called her Madam, Harry was certain. Not in this life.

"Well, then," she said, reaching for another rose-patterned plate. "You boys sit down. I'll bring you the food. A beer, Flash Man?" She forked golden-brown mushrooms onto the plate.

"Make it two," Harry said.

*

They didn't stop after two beers. Aunt Timila warmed a bit towards Malfoy, once he had finished the generous helping of her Biryani, soybean salad, raita, papadum bread, even the almond kulfi she brought them for dessert. Harry thought he heard her grumble something like "At least he appreciates good food," as she carried away the empty plates.

Malfoy stared after her, then turned back to Harry with a sigh of relief. "You found your true mother, Potter," he said. "Merlin, I feel like I was just presented to the new in-laws. Does she do this to every one of your boyfriends?"

"There haven't been that many boyfriends," Harry said, a warm thrill in his stomach because Malfoy, in roundabout Malfoy fashion, had called himself his boyfriend. "They were Muggles, and she was exceptionally nice to them." He looked over to Aunt Timila who was getting another take-away ready for a girl who'd come in a couple of minutes ago. Their eyes met, and she turned away quickly. She was paying close attention to him and Malfoy. Harry cast a Muffliato. "Don't hold it against her. She thinks you're a Death Eater."

"She is one clever woman, Potter." Malfoy was rubbing lightly over his wrist. "I am a Death Eater."

"But you are also the Blue Phoenix, who saved this clever woman's life."

There was no answer. Malfoy kept rubbing his wrist, and Harry wondered whether Voldemort was Summoning him again. But he sensed nothing from the link except a faint restlessness. Perhaps the Dark Lord was asleep. Harry felt sleepy, too, and oddly happy with the good food in his belly, the malty taste of beer in his throat and Malfoy here with him and close. He stretched his legs under the table and brushed against Malfoy's boots as he did so. "Are you all right?" he asked softly, as Malfoy responded by pressing his knee against Harry's leg.

Malfoy nodded. "Just thinking …" He held out his left hand.

Harry took it at once, aware that while Aunt Timila could no longer listen in on their conversation, she could still see them touching. Well, let her see him touch the Dark Mark, let her see that he didn't care. There was so much more to this man. Malfoy. He wrapped his fingers around Malfoy's wrist, felt the warm skin underneath the thin fabric. Malfoy's pulse was beating softly against his palm. The small wounds from his bites burned at Harry's side where his shirt brushed against them. He remembered the sensation of silk gliding over his naked chest, Malfoy's choked voice – want you –, his body on top of Harry taut with a need so strong that he'd broken Harry's skin with his teeth. Draco Malfoy lost all control over his Animagus form …

"Malfoy," he said, then realised that the other man was watching him closely.

"Something's on your mind." Malfoy rubbed the side of Harry's hand with his thumb. His arm on the table lay in a crooked angle, not bent all the way at the damaged elbow.

"Your phoenix –" Harry started, then broke off. No more euphemisms. Draco Malfoy, Draco the phoenix. They were the same being, either human- or bird-shaped, but one body and one soul. An Animagus was not a creature separate from the wizard, not a split-off identity. "Draco. Draco the phoenix. What does he want when you sleep with me?"

Malfoy looked at Harry, those grey eyes considering him. "You've heard of Newt Scamander?"

"Of course. The author of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. He was high up there on Hagrid's shit list, because he started the Ban on Experimental Breeding. God, remember how Hagrid went on and on about how dragon-breeding should be legalised in Britain." The alcohol was buzzing through Harry's body, he always talked too much when he was getting pissed. And he should stop with the drinking, but really, he hadn't felt that relaxed, that safe, in a very long time.

An amused smile played around Malfoy's mouth. "Funny that you should mention the Ban."

"Yeah? Why?" Harry reached for the beer bottle with his left, took one gulp. Malfoy's hand in his felt too good to let go of it.

Malfoy shrugged. "The phoenix's sexual passion," he said with the air of quoting from a book, "is solely for the continuation of its kind. It is a solitary beast, hermaphroditic in nature, all its desires are directed towards its brood." He paused, perhaps waiting for some kind of reaction from Harry. When none was forthcoming – and what should he say to that? – Malfoy continued. "Scamander became some kind of an expert on the phoenix in his old age. I was lucky to find the fifty-eighth edition of Fantastic Beasts, the last one. In a Muggle bookshop, of all places." He watched Harry from half-closed eyes, his posture strangely poised between his hand, holding on to Harry even harder than before, and his body that was leaned back in the chair, cautiously, as if he was expecting a blow or something.

All its desires are directed towards its brood? "Um, I don't understand … what does it mean?" Certainly Malfoy's words couldn't imply what Harry was thinking.

"It means," Malfoy said with his most casual, most matter-of-fact voice, "that phoenix wants an egg."

"An …?" The nest. The way Malfoy had stared at the phoenix's nest in the tower. Harry tried to remember whether he had ever seen a nest in Dumbledore's jumbled headmaster's office. There had been Fawkes's wooden perch, the Pensieve, the fragile tables with the odd silver instruments. No nest. "You built that nest up in St Paul's?"

Malfoy nodded. "A phoenix's nest. Made from cinnamon twigs." Still that casual tone, but Harry felt the cold sweat in Malfoy's palm. He eyed Harry carefully, clearly expecting a response now.

"Fawkes," Harry said slowly. "There was no nest in Dumbledore's office."

Dumbledore, Fawkes – that was safe, firm ground. Both were dead, had been human and beast. No Animagus confusion of identities. No messy, confused desires, Harry couldn't help thinking.

"Fawkes was an exception in every way," Malfoy stated coolly. "He killed himself, long before his time. Without an egg, he didn't need a nest. Nothing like this should ever have happened. The phoenix is extinct now. All that is left is my Animagus form." He sounded bitter, but his eyes were on Harry, asking him to understand all that he did not say. "Their bond must have been immensely powerful, if Fawkes could not live without Dumbledore. That's what Scamander meant when he wrote that no one but him ever domesticated a phoenix. It's not possible. Fawkes stayed with Dumbledore because he chose to do so. And he followed him, when Dumbledore went behind the veil."

Malfoy stopped, a grudging respect for their old headmaster showing in his face. Harry remembered the Ministry of Magic, a fiery bird swooping from the ceiling, right between the Killing Curse and Dumbledore, swallowing the jet of green light whole. Such loyalty could not be bought by magic or even gratitude. Love was what made you sacrifice your life, in the blink of a moment, without a second thought. Harry had known this in his flesh ever since the day Voldemort had put his mark on him. He leaned closer, set his elbows on the table and took Malfoy's hand in both of his, stroking his long fingers.

Malfoy's eyes were on Harry's ring finger, on the small band where the skin was still lighter from wearing his wedding ring all those years. No trace of rings showed on Malfoy's hands, not on the one Harry was holding nor on the other one wrapped around the beer bottle. Very softly Malfoy said, "So you see, Potter: Dumbledore's mercy was not for me, but for Fawkes. Or rather, for the phoenix. And I'll be damned if I know why he chose me."

Dumbledore's mercy … The old wizard's intentions had never been easy to understand, or even to guess at. You will be able to save more than one life, his voice echoed in Harry's mind. Dumbledore had always been a great believer in catching two birds with one stone. He, of course, would have called it fate. And perhaps it was. Dumbledore could not have foreseen that when Fawkes turned Draco Malfoy into a phoenix Animagus, he had given Harry a powerful ally who, in a couple of hours, retrieved the Horcrux which Harry had searched for years and years. Still –

"But chosen for what, Malfoy? Laying an egg, breeding a phoenix? I mean …" Easy, Harry, easy, Hermione's voice cut in, and Harry noticed, too, the way Malfoy tensed up. In Harry's hands, his fingers were trembling. Easy then … "I mean, you're a bloke, with all the blokey equipment attached to the right places. I can attest to that." He tried for a chuckle, and it sounded convincing enough, like all of this was some kind of absurd, abstract discussion. But it wasn't. The Blue Phoenix was the last of its kind. And Harry had seen the longing in Malfoy's face when he had looked at that empty nest.

A responding chuckle. Too thin and high, but a chuckle nonetheless. Malfoy's fingers kept trembling, but he seemed to appreciate Harry's attempt at humour. "The most unlikely of choices for the job, definitely," he said. "I'm pants at anything to do with breeding. Merlin, I couldn't even get it up for Astoria."

"You must have once." Scorpius. That graceful, quiet, gentle boy. Malfoy's son.

Harry hadn't expected Malfoy to react so strongly, not after all those years. But he practically yanked his hand from Harry's, almost pushed the beer bottle over, then grabbed it and pressed it to his body, like a buoy in a stormy sea. His face was an open book – hopeless pain, and not lessened a bit with time, a wound that opened and bled at the slightest scratch. And as much as Harry regretted to have ripped that wound open now, he was oddly thankful that Malfoy trusted him enough to see it.

"Do you know how he was killed? It never made it into the papers." The bitterness in Malfoy's voice was sharp one moment, then he quickly turned away, stared over to the counter where the girl was paying her take-away. "He was barely seventeen." A toneless whisper, so very soft, when Malfoy's thumb was rubbing the neck of the beer bottle firmly, just as he had rubbed Harry's hand before.

"Of course I know." Harry's voice had gone hoarse, too. It had been the worst time in his life, that first crazy killing year after Voldemort had come back. A stray Muggle troop, trained by Aurors, had derailed the Hogwarts Express and executed all adult children of known Death Eaters. Their information had come from the Ministry's files. Those bloody confidential files on Death Eaters' families. Harry had left the Auror Office, had concentrated all his efforts on finding the Horcrux. It had seemed the quickest, the easiest way to destroy Voldemort back then, with Hermione still at his side. "Shit, Malfoy," he whispered, "how could I not know? Scorpius and Al were friends in school. Remember Al, my boy?"

Al, who had founded Sanctuary after Voldemort's victory. Who had rebuilt Hogwarts from the ruins that Voldemort left, after he had finally found the Resurrection Stone in the ashes of the Forbidden Forest. Voldemort had been busy creating his army of Inferi, while Al had convinced Harry to use his magic to fortify the new castle. Sanctuary. Harry had become Flash Man in those days, had found his calling, guiding refugees out of London, which was rapidly turning into a Dark City of despair.

He looked up to see Malfoy stare at him with eyes shining way too bright. "Albus Severus …" Malfoy pronounced Al's full name slowly, as if he said it for the very first time. "I had forgotten that they were friends." He swallowed, moved one hand across his eyes. "It was … I … I wasn't myself after Scorpius died." A shadow had fallen on his face, his voice had grown hesitant. They had arrived at the things that Malfoy didn't trust Harry to see.

The time after Scorpius died – it must have been the time when Malfoy had made his choice, when he joined the Death Eaters' group that had poisoned all of Muggle London. When he chose the Dark for better or worse. Dumbledore's mercy? Harry had a pretty good idea why the old wizard would have chosen Malfoy, even if Malfoy couldn't see it. There had been a promise still to be fulfilled, and it was Dumbledore who had given it on the Astronomy Tower, to a very scared, very desperate boy. Harry held out his hands again, asking Malfoy without words to take them.

Malfoy didn't move, he kept rubbing at the bottle. The red paper around its neck was almost entirely gone, only a frazzled golden fringe was left.

"Draco," Harry said softly, using the name deliberately. He needed to feel Malfoy close to ask Draco what he had to know.

There was a clink of glass on wood when Malfoy put the beer back on the table. He leaned forward, stroked Harry's hands and forearms. They were close now, with only the small table between them, and Harry was tempted to just lean over and kiss the other man. He didn't, though, just wrapped his fingers around Malfoy's wrists.

"What did you –" he started, then was lost for words. God, how could he ask that? "When you … bit me, earlier, in the library," he whispered, "what did … why did you do that?" All desire is directed towards the brood. But when Malfoy had said that he wanted him, he had been Draco, too, Harry was certain of it. Draco the phoenix who dreamed of Harry as another phoenix, about him being his mate. Draco, who desired Harry like one bloke desired another.

"I don't know," Malfoy said softly, his eyes full of that fearful caution. "I … I just wanted to be with you, wanted –," and Harry knew he was going to say it, heard Malfoy's voice go husky even before he uttered the words, "– wanted to fuck you so badly."

Malfoy's words were reaching straight down to Harry's cock, and he brought Malfoy's fingertips to his mouth, kissed them one after the other, as gently as he could. Malfoy watched him, a small smile on his lips, pleased and surprised. "You …" He shook his head, blond strands falling into his eyes. "It felt like fucking, biting you. Like it was the most natural thing. I didn't even know I was going for your skin, until you cried out." A finger touched Harry's lips, traced his cheekbone. "I never meant to hurt you."

"You didn't." Harry shifted, so that his shirt brushed across the wounds at his side, wanting to feel again that burning sensation. He had been hurt before. This pain was something else altogether.

There was a movement at the counter, and Harry saw Aunt Timila wave at him, asking him without words if it was okay to interrupt. A small tray with three shot glasses, filled with a clear red-golden liquid, stood in front of her. Malfoy turned, following Harry's gaze. He withdrew his hands immediately, returned his right back to the safe place around the bottle's neck.

Harry nodded towards Aunt Timila, ended the Muffliato-Spell. He watched as Malfoy finished his beer in one long gulp, the movement in the smooth curve of his throat, the way his chest rose underneath the blue silk as he leaned back his head. Malfoy.

Aunt Timila bustled over to them, set one shot glass down in front of Malfoy and one in front of Harry. Malfoy flinched when she touched his shoulder, and Harry had to suppress a grin when Aunt Timila patted Malfoy's hand in a gesture obviously meant to reassure him. She sat down on the bench beside Harry, raised her own glass. "Indian plum liquor, the very best. Imported illegally, of course." She grinned at both of them. "Death to Voldemort and his bloody Death Eaters." Her voice had gone sharp and serious. Playing with fire, his brave Auntie was, her words a challenge to Malfoy as much as evidence of her trust in Harry.

Harry raised the glass and said, "Death to Voldemort." It was the usual toast among members of the resistance movement, had been ever since the Destruction of Tower Bridge.

Malfoy raised his glass, too, and it suddenly struck Harry that he was one of the few people who knew that when Voldemort died, Harry would die, too. They drank the syrupy liquor, and Aunt Timila seemed satisfied, even though Malfoy had not repeated the words of the toast.

"So," she said, eyeing Malfoy curiously, "this is the reason for your cheerful mood these last days, Harry. Does he have a name?"

"Draco," Harry said, "his name's Draco."

"Hmm." Aunt Timila sipped at her liquor. "A good pure-blood name, I suppose." She leaned closer to Harry, her head at his shoulder. "Isn't he a bit young for you?" Her stage-whisper was meant for Malfoy's ears as well, who smirked into the plum liquor, damn the git.

"Actually," Harry said, "we're the same age."

Aunt Timila looked from him to Malfoy in utter disbelief, then rolled her eyes. "Another wizarding thing, I'm certain. I'm not even going to ask."

"I quite like the pepper-and-salt look on him." Malfoy's voice was warm, and Harry was taken aback by the look of open admiration in his eyes. He self-consciously combed his fingers through his hair, as unruly as ever, the grey wisps the only indication that his body did indeed age.

Malfoy surprised him even more when he suddenly turned towards Aunt Timila. "Madam –"

"Oh, no need for formalities, Draco," she said. "Don't know how you address each other up among the high and lofty, but down here it's Aunt Timila." She lightly patted Harry's thigh under the table, a secret signal that while she might not fully approve of his choice, she liked Malfoy well enough.

"Aunt Timila, very well." Malfoy made it sound like some aristocratic title, and Harry hid his smile behind the liquor glass. Malfoy turned towards the counter. "The swifts … would it be all right if I let them out of the cage?" He looked to Aunt Timila who had suddenly gone rigid. Harry sat up and put his glass down. He shot Malfoy a warning glance, asking him silently what he was up to.

"They come every summer," Aunt Timila said, all playfulness gone from her voice. "Out under the eaves in the backyard they have a nest." She sounded defensive, as if she was daring Malfoy to take the birds from her. "For six years now, they have been nesting," she added with a stubborn pride.

"I promise you, they won't fly away."

Aunt Timila reached for Harry's hand under the table, and he assured her with a soft squeeze. She took a deep breath, nodded hesitantly. Malfoy's gaze lingered on her face for another moment, then he raised his right arm and for a second a silver light shimmered around his hand. There was a metallic noise from the birdcage, a soft bird's cry and a wild batting of wings, then two small swifts were fluttering around Malfoy. He held out his hand, and the white-bellied birds landed on his outstretched arm. Aunt Timila made a startled movement, and Harry put his hand on her arm. "He's good with birds," he said, entranced by the strange sight of Malfoy all focused on the fragile creatures. Harry felt magic rolling off him in slow, flickering waves.

"Swifts," Malfoy said quietly, "fly between the worlds. They can pass behind the veil and come back. They carry the messages of the dead." He looked up, over to Aunt Timila. "You shouldn't keep them in a cage. They are born to fly."

Aunt Timila grabbed Harry's hand and held on to him tightly. "Those birds told me that Bibhas made it, that he's well, wherever he is now." She sounded old suddenly, her voice all rough and shaken. Bibhas, her husband. Killed six years ago, his body ripped apart by a stray gang of Inferi. Aunt Timila had appeared at a meeting the next evening, asking for her three daughters to be Portkeyed out of London. Harry had met her that night for the first time.

Malfoy nodded. "They will always come back to you then. I give you my word." He kept looking at Aunt Timila.

"Harry?" She turned to him, and he saw tears in her eyes.

"Shh, Auntie, it's all right." Harry put his arm around her waist, and Aunt Timila leaned against him, looking at the birds perched on Malfoy's arm. "Let them go," he said, and when Aunt Timila nodded, Malfoy released the Spell. The swifts let out soft excited calls and were gone within the blink of an eye, zooming out through the backdoor.

"There's Death Eaters out there, looking for swifts," Aunt Timila said in a tired voice. "They are catching them with nets, in Hyde Park. I didn't want them to get caught."

"They are catching swifts?" Malfoy's voice had gone cold, the steel in it icy. And something else Harry had never heard from him; powerful and dangerous, even more so because underneath Harry sensed, blurry and half-acknowledged, a strange dread.

A sudden memory flashed though his mind, of a short beak ripped off and dark brown feathers strewn over a marble floor. "Voldemort was killing a swift last time we were connected through the link," he said.

Aunt Timila stared at him, her eyes wide open. But Harry looked at Malfoy who had gone paler than he'd ever seen him and wouldn't meet his gaze. His face was turned towards the window when he let go off the glass, deliberately, as if he was afraid to break it. His left hand was slowly clenching into a fist. Harry could tell he was struggling hard to keep down some panic threatening to overcome him. "Malfoy?" he asked. "What is it?"

Malfoy turned his head, his eyes locked with Harry's. "I'm going to use Legilimens on you, Potter. Show me what you see."

At his side, Aunt Timila flinched at the commanding tone of Malfoy's voice. Harry felt the soft nudge, as his Occlumency was broken down by the strength of Malfoy's magic, even before he could lower the mental barrier he always kept up to prevent Voldemort's intrusions. He meant to show Malfoy what had happened earlier this day, when Voldemort had raged because the Blue Phoenix had not appeared. But his mind chose another memory, or perhaps Malfoy had drawn it out, an old one Harry hardly knew he remembered, from perhaps three years ago. From one moment to the next, the light in the diner grew murky, the warmth of Aunt Timila's body beside him left and ... sudden alarm rushes through him, he is drenched in sweat, he is in Voldemort's mind, it is Voldemort's fright that he is feeling ... a bird perched on top of the opened wing of a high window, a tree in bloom reflected in the glass, a peaceful sight, but such terror, he wants to run, to hide, but there's nowhere, nowhere –

The wall was solid and warm against his back, he was panting and holding Malfoy's hands in a death grip. "Too much …" he whispered and then, "Bloody hell! What was he so fucking afraid of?" Malfoy squatted before him, between Harry's legs, and the feel of his body so close calmed Harry down.

"Could you understand what the swift told him?" Malfoy asked.

Harry shook his head. The bird … a swift, he was certain now. But all he had heard was potent, frightful silence.

Malfoy gripped his hands harder, Harry felt the nudge in his mind. Just at the fringe of his consciousness he heard Aunt Timila's anxious voice. "What is happening to him? Stop it, you have to stop it, Draco."

Harry managed, "It's all right, Auntie," then he was back in the red-walled room. But the memory was different now, it was Malfoy's memory of what he had seen in Harry's mind. Voldemort's terror was subdued, pushed aside by Malfoy's presence. The bird's eyes were a deep black; they shimmered like dark pearls. Its legs were so short that its white belly seemed to be touching the window frame. Its tail dipped against the glass in a slow, steady rhythm. And all of a sudden Harry could understand the swift's message from the dead to Voldemort. There were no words, no strange bird language, but the images were clear enough: an overcast sky, rolling fields, a glittering tiara thrown carelessly into the mud, a blue-patterned shirt, a broad face with red cheeks, a wand held in a thick, calloused hand. The wand would have looked entirely out of place if not for the eyes in that simple face – hollow and hungry, intent to get back what had been taken from them. A life for a piece of Voldemort's soul.

As deadly green light flashed through Harry's mind, he heard Malfoy's voice close by, The Dark Lord's nightmares. Harry answered silently, Must be that peasant he killed in Albania, and he felt Malfoy agree. Harry looked up to the swift, which stared down at them, at Voldemort. Reflected in the window was not the blooming tree, but a grey rounded wall belonging to a bigger building with a smaller, cranellated rotunda on top. The building seemed to lead off from the room where Voldemort resided. This was what Malfoy had seen – no memory was quite like the other.

Harry became aware that Aunt Timila was stroking his arm. He meant to break the mental connection when he felt Malfoy lower his defences. Show me this place, his voice said. Harry carefully used Legilimency through their already established bond. He brought up the memories of this afternoon, they were the clearest ever: the low, wide room with the red walls, the gigantic chest, the dragon figurine he'd seen so many times, Cattermole and the woman fleeing through those wide, wooden doors, the dead bodies out in the shadowed hall. He felt Malfoy wanting to press on, like he himself had wanted to, to see what was behind those doors, but there was only darkness.

He opened his eyes, grateful for the warm light of the diner. The food seemed to smell stronger, even more appetising than before. Malfoy was breathing hard, their hands still entwined, resting in Harry's lap. "Voldemort shut down the link," Harry explained. "He never goes out into that hall."

Malfoy let go off Harry's hands and slowly got up. His gaze never left Harry's face. "That is Temple Church," he said in a light, conversational tone that didn't fool Harry for a second. Not when Malfoy's eyes were burning into him, too bright and pleading for something, but Harry had no idea what.

"Malfoy …" Harry moved to keep him close.

But Malfoy stepped back, out of Harry's reach. "It's where Cattermole keeps the Spiteful Child."

*