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Disclaimer: Based on JK Rowling's Harry Potter works, the full canon except the DH epilogue. No infringement intended and not for profit.
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---- This story is based on a prompt provided by lothy on LJ.
---- Latin incantation and translation provided by fabula_rasa on LJ
---- Owned banner art by quill_lumos on LJ
---- Thanks to my LJ friends snakeling, clauclauclaudia, triomakesmehot, hogwartshoney, flippedaussie and quill_lumos for all the beta help!

"Mr Malfoy," said Harry in an even, almost monotone voice. Normally he would stand to greet a visitor, would offer to shake hands, but then, he didn't normally have former Death Eaters coming into his office at Magical Law Enforcement. In fact, when Harry had seen the appointment appear on his daily agenda the day before, he'd assumed that either parchment or quill--probably both--would need to be replaced.

He just hadn't had time to request new, yet.

"Mr Potter," said Lucius Malfoy, eyes watchfully narrowed.

Harry looked him over, searching for signs that the man had been in Azkaban for most of the previous three years. Any sign, but he found precious little. Lucius' long hair was streaked with grey, now, and although he stood with the same proud bearing as before, he looked ever so slightly stooped.

Wishful thinking, maybe, Harry thought. He always had believed that Voldemort's willing servants had received obscenely light sentences. Those who could claim they'd acted under duress if not Imperius had been treated even more leniently, given brief spells of house arrests in most cases. An outrage, as Molly Weasley had said.

But clearly, the wizarding world had wanted to forget the past and move on. With Voldemort dead, there'd been little public will to treat the Death Eaters with the harshness they deserved.

Or perhaps, Harry thought darkly, the world had wanted to forget because so many of those doing the forgetting had been colluders, themselves.

Harry didn't ask Lucius Malfoy to sit down. He wanted this over with, and the man out of his office, as soon as possible. "What brings you to the Auror division, Mr Malfoy?"

"I think you know perfectly well what brings me here."

Cold, every word. The only problem was, Harry didn't know. "I have better things to do than play guessing games with you, Malfoy. Either spit it out or get out of my office. Are you reporting a crime, or lodging a complaint against one of my Aurors, or--"

"You," interrupted Malfoy. "I'm lodging a complaint against you."

Harry waved his wand to summon a scroll of parchment. "Well, then, there's the form. Please fill it out in the antechamber. When it's complete it will appear in my inbox." Harry indicated a wicker basket overflowing with various bits of business he had waiting. "I'll get to it when time permits."

Malfoy didn't even glance at the scroll unrolling itself on Harry's desk. "This isn't Ministry business, Potter."

"Then either state your complaint plainly, or get out of my office. I don't really care which."

Malfoy's lips twisted. "No, you wouldn't. And you've no intention of alleviating my son's suffering, have you?"

Harry stared the other wizard down. "Why would I give two straws about it?"

"You obviously don't," spat Malfoy. "Waste of time coming here. I told my wife it would be. If Draco dies it'll be on your head."

Harry clenched his teeth. "Draco, in my opinion, is a complete waste of magic. But if someone has cursed him, you can be sure that the matter will be fully investigated, no matter my personal view of you and yours."

"Of mine? That's rich, coming from you."

Now Harry was both annoyed and baffled, never a good combination. He didn't try to keep the exasperation from his voice. "Malfoy, what are you going on about? Whatever's happening to your son has nothing to do with me."

Lucius Malfoy went utterly still for a long moment, like he was weighing his words, or perhaps his options. In the end, though, he said only one short thing. "Forget I came."

With a whirl of cape, he was gone, and Harry was left listening to the tap of a cane retreating down the corridor's inlaid tile floor.

Harry did forget that Lucius Malfoy had come by. Or at least, he put it out of his mind. What was it to him if Draco Malfoy was "suffering," as his father had put it?

As far as Harry was concerned, the entire conversation was probably part of some plot or scheme. He wasn't letting himself get drawn into it. Most likely, Draco was absolutely fine. And in on it, whatever it was.

Harry had dinner with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny that evening. It was his usual Friday night routine, and he enjoyed it as he always did, but he couldn't help but feel, just slightly, that he was falling into a rut. A steak ordered medium-rare, with black coffee for dessert . . . Ginny's gentle smile across the table . . . Ron asking, not completely in jest, when they were going to set a date . . . Harry putting him off with a laugh while Ginny hid her disappointment . . .

It was like he'd lived through it a hundred times, and had nothing to look forward to except a hundred more. Perhaps if he would just set a date, he'd begin to feel differently. But something was holding him back. He wasn't sure what.

Or perhaps more precisely, he just wasn't sure.

Ginny slept over as she did every Friday night, but that, too, just seemed like another part of the pattern. When she flooed back to Bill and Fleur's, it was almost a relief. Harry knew he should propose soon, after all. They more-or-less had an understanding that he would, once he felt ready for such a momentous step.

But Harry was starting to wonder if he'd ever feel ready, or if there was just something wrong with him. What had happened to the thrill of being with her, of feeling like he'd explode in agony if he didn't kiss her? He hadn't really felt anything like that, not since he was sixteen. Oh, perhaps he'd felt a glimmer of it again the next year, but even then he'd known it was a pale shadow of what he'd felt the year before. And anyway, even that shadow was gone, now. He was twenty-one years old, and all he really felt for her was a strong affection.

Everyone said that love mellowed and aged over time, that falling in love was something different from the kind of love that lasted a lifetime, but should Harry's feelings have mellowed so quickly? Ron and Hermione still looked at each other like they found excitement in each other's eyes.

But with Ginny, Harry felt like he was just going through the motions.

Even in bed.

But then again, sleeping with her never had been the mind-blowing experience he'd been expecting. He didn't blame her for that. If anything, he figured there was something wrong with him. He'd lived most of his life as the unknowing host for part of an evil wizard's soul, and if that wasn't enough, he'd walked straight into his own death, and come back again.

If he couldn't feel things deeply, after that, Harry thought that was only to be expected.

She left Saturday morning after breakfast, as usual, and once she was gone, Harry settled into his favourite armchair and switched on some soft jazz.

Unfortunately, his peace and quiet didn't last long. An owl began tapping its beak against the study window. An owl he didn't recognise. Harry ignored it for a while, since anything truly important from work would have arrived by Floo, but after a few minutes he began to feel sorry for the bird, which was clearly going to sit on the sill all day if he didn't let it in.

The owl came swooping in, dropping its letter atop Harry's lap. Proof enough, if Harry needed it these days, that there was nothing dark or cursed in it; if that were the case, the owl could never have crossed his wards.

Before he could reach forward to open it, however, the letter unfolded itself and dissolved into a wavery mist. Inside it, he could see the figure of Narcissa Malfoy preparing to speak. Harry almost swept the whole thing off his lap, but one thing caught his attention enough to keep him motionless: Draco's mother was on her knees, her hands raised slightly and clasped before her as if in prayer.

"Harry Potter," she said, her voice cracking with desperation, "Draco has been failing worse, ever since my husband came to see you. It is as if the binding you've uncovered has come to know you will not claim him. He is my son, my only son, my flesh and blood. He lies near death now, and you have put him there. I beg you now, I beg you on bended knee, to finish what you have begun. I helped you once, helped you conceal your state of life so you could complete your great work--"

Ha, thought Harry. You helped me only so you could find out if your son was still alive.

"Will you not now help my son live instead of die? Lucius says there must be another way, a way around, a way out, but I know he is mistaken, and any more delay will be too much. I beg you, Harry Potter . . . claim my son."

Harry blinked. Draco Malfoy might be dying; he neither knew nor cared very much, but Harry certainly hadn't done a thing to cause it. Finish what you have begun . . . binding you've uncovered . . . none of it made much sense at all. Especially not those last three words.

He absently summoned some owl treats for the bird, and tried to tell himself that it wasn't his problem. Because it truly wasn't. They were wrong about it having anything to do with him.

He knew they were, but he couldn't get the image of Narcissa Malfoy kneeling out of his mind. She had helped him just before his final duel with Voldemort. She'd done it for selfish reasons of her own, but she had done it.

And he was an Auror, in charge of the whole department ever since Shacklebolt had left it permanently to stand for Minister, and it really did sound like somebody had cursed Draco Malfoy. With something very nasty. Strange that his father had been right there in the office and hadn't properly reported it, but Harry's oath as an Auror wouldn't let him overlook a crime just because the victim's parents were taking a very strange approach to it.

Sighing, Harry scribbled out a reply to Narcissa and yelled Malfoy Manor as he tossed it, along with powder, into the Floo.

He didn't use owls these days, not if he could help it.

The reply to his letter came within seconds, but what was even more surprising was what it said.

No, of course the Manor is not warded at present. I am expecting you. Come now.

So, Harry did.

The whirling journey through the Floo Network didn't give him enough time to prepare himself for a visit to the Malfoy's ancestral estate. His last memory of the place was a dreadful one of a painfully swollen face, and Hermione's terrible screams, and then afterwards, having to bury Dobby.

About the only good thing to come out of it had been Wormtail strangling himself. One less Death Eater to deal with during the battle at Hogwarts.

Another memory surfaced, though, as Harry stepped out into a drawing room about half as large as his entire house. Draco, refusing to identify him. Or, nearly refusing, saying he couldn't be sure. And not all of that could be attributed to the swelling obscuring Harry's scar and features; Draco had only reluctantly confirmed Ron and Hermione's identities, the way Harry remembered it.

But then, he hadn't done a thing to help any of them after that, so perhaps he'd just been off his game. After all, Draco had been paler than usual and looking quite ill, really, as if the life of a Death Eater wasn't everything he'd been expecting.

"Mr Potter," gasped Narcissa, her robes looking like she hadn't changed in days. "Upstairs, please. There isn't much time."

Harry's wand was at the ready. Of course it was; he was no fool. But Narcissa seemed frantic rather than scheming, and her blue eyes looked strangely defeated as she beckoned for Harry to follow her.

Harry kept his wand out, all the same.

She hurried down a hallway and up a gracefully curving set of stairs, then opened the third door at the top of the landing, and waved as though to usher him inside.

There, curled up on his side on an enormous bed, lay Draco Malfoy. He was naked and panting, his lips nearly colourless, sweat running off him in rivulets as he grasped the sheets beneath him and moaned.

And kneeling at his bedside was his father, one hand stroking over Draco's hair, which was lank and damp.

"For God's sake, cover him," bit out Harry, turning his eyes away. He'd never liked Draco, but that didn't mean he wanted to see him this way.

"He can't bear it," said Lucius wearily, standing up. "Narcissa, I thought I told you that Mr Potter doesn't know what this is all about. Why have you brought him here?"

"Why do you think, Lucius?" Narcissa didn't look defeated then; she strode forward like a lioness defending her young. "He's Draco's only hope. You know that!"

"As long as he doesn't know what he's done, there may be another way out!"

"I don't know what either one of you is talking about," Harry cut in. "And I don't know what's wrong with you, either. Your son belongs at St. Mungo's. Let's just get him there, and then you can tell me who might have had any reason to curse him. Probably a long list, but--"

"You really are as thick as Severus always said."

"Lucius!" said Narcissa, raising her voice.

"My son, my son and heir, my bloodline!" Lucius bared his teeth. "I won't see it all his."

"Then you'll see your own son dead!"

Harry's Auror instincts would normally kick into full swing, hearing words like those, but this time, he could tell they weren't meant as a threat. They were nothing but the simple truth. Not that he understood, really.

"If you won't take him to St. Mungo's, I will," he said, stepping forward to scoop Draco into his arms. The minute he touched him, Harry's alarm spiked. Draco was burning up with fever.

"He's not been cursed," insisted Narcissa, stepping in front of Harry to block the door. "Don't you understand yet? He doesn't need a healer, he needs you!"

"You're barmy, all of you." Remembering her letter, remembering how she'd said the Manor wasn't warded at all just then, Harry focused himself so he could spin around--

"No!" shouted Lucius hoarsely, rushing across the room to grab Harry by the sleeve.

Disgusted, Harry shook him off, but his concentration had been broken.

"No magic," said Narcissa, falling to her knees right in front of Harry. "He couldn't bear so much as conjured ice to cool him. Apparition or the Floo will kill him, the state he's in. You must claim him!"

He doesn't need a healer, he needs you . . .

Harry hadn't believed that; how could he? Now, though, he could begin to see that it was true. The naked body in his arms was warm now, not blazing hot, and Draco was beginning to breathe more deeply. Fuck, thought Harry, shaking his head. He didn't know what was going on, but it seemed clear by then that Draco's illness, whatever it might be, was somehow connected to him.

And what was also clear was that he hadn't had his wand at the ready for a while, now. Lucius and Narcissa didn't seem to have noticed. They had eyes only for Draco.

"He's better when I'm holding him," said Harry, sighing. "Can I sit somewhere? Maybe you could explain. Did someone perform a curse linking us, or-- how did you know it was linked to me, of all people? Or did you just think of his worst enemy as the most likely prospect?"

"There's no curse, Mr Potter." By then, Lucius was sounding somewhat resigned. "Please, sit."

Harry sank into the chair he'd pointed at, cradling Draco on his lap. Pretty awkward, really, with Draco naked as the day he was born and both his parents looking on. "Maybe he could tolerate a sheet or something, now," said Harry, swallowing. He didn't think he'd ever felt this uncomfortable.

Instead of summoning one, Narcissa walked to a tall cabinet and fetched a fresh sheet out. Harry took that to mean that she was dead serious about how Draco was reacting to magic at present. "You must do it," she said quietly, unfurling the sheet before pressing the edge of it into Harry's hand.

The pale blue fabric was so light and fine it seemed woven of nothing more substantial than air. As Harry draped it across the man in his lap, Draco shifted closer to Harry, almost snuggling up to him. His laboured breathing eased still more, until he seemed relaxed and sleeping.

Lucius and Narcissa sat down side by side on Draco's bed, their expressions ranging from guarded to tortured as Harry watched. "Well?" he finally asked. "Are you going to explain? Because I can't sit here holding him forever, you know. When I let go is he going to start to get worse, again?"

"Yes." Lucius' jaw clenched. "I was hoping to avoid this. At first there was no hope, of course. I was convinced you'd done this deliberately and were drawing it out for your own pleasure. But then it seemed you didn't know what you'd done, which I thought might grant us time to find some other solution, any other solution. It seems not, however. There is nothing else to be done, now."

"Nothing else but what?"

As Lucius made an impatient noise, Narcissa reached out to clasp one of his hands in both of her own. "Strength, my dearest. For Draco."

Lucius lifted his wife's hands to his lips, then dropped them and looked at Harry. "Narcissa is right. If our son is to live at all, you must claim him. It is simple, Mr Potter. Your family, you see, has always owned mine."

Harry had always known that Lucius Malfoy was insane, but he'd never had such good proof of it before. And considering the things the older wizard had done in both the first and second Voldemort wars, that was really saying something.

"Excuse me?"

Lucius sighed, his long hair swaying as he glanced to the side. Narcissa gave him a tiny nod. "It's quite true, I assure you," he resumed after a moment. "Though perhaps always is an exaggeration. The spell must have begun at some point, I suppose."

"My family has always owned yours," Harry repeated. The statement was too bizarre to be any kind of joke or trick, and Lucius certainly seemed in deadly earnest, but Harry still couldn't credit what he was hearing. "Are you trying to say that I own both of you, too?"

Lucius flinched, even as his gaze met Harry's. "The Potters own the Malfoys; my wife is a Black."

"But you think I own you?"

"Your father would have, if he'd been aware of the situation at any point before I was bonded for life to Narcissa. My life is tied to hers, now, which places it beyond the reach of Res mea es."

"Res mea es?"

"The ownership spell."

Suddenly Draco's weight in his arms seemed heavier, as it struck Harry just what claim my son must mean, to these people. Ownership? Harry's mouth went dry with shock. He licked his lips to try to get rid of the feeling, and thought back over what Lucius had explained.

"So Draco just needs to get married, then. Is he seeing someone?"

"He can't marry anyone, not now that you're aware of the situation. He'd die before he took the first vow."

Harry glared. "Then why did you tell me? You should have married him off at the first sign of this coming on!"

"I tried not to tell you, if you recall. When it seemed you were in ignorance I tried to keep you that way." Lucius closed his eyes. "But it was clear from when he first sickened that you must have learned something of your right to him, even if you weren't aware of it. Your knowledge made the dormant spell inside him flare to life. Some part of him knows, now, that he was always meant to be yours. And that he isn't . . . it is killing him, Mr Potter. You must claim him as Narcissa has said."

"Why didn't you marry him off years ago if you knew something like this could happen?" asked Harry, his hands on Draco tightening.

Lucius' eyes opened to narrow slits. "I tried, believe me."

Harry scoffed. "You're telling me that Draco couldn't bring himself to pick a girl, even knowing the alternative could be to be claimed by me?"

"He's no idea about Res mea es."

"What the hell kind of father are you?"

"What kind of wizard are you, Mr Potter? Not one well-versed in generational spells, evidently. No one can inform him about Res mea es in any way, until he's married with a son of his own, or he's passed from my control to yours."

"Oh. Like Fidelius, sort of?"

Lucius didn't reply, but his silence was answer enough.

Harry sighed again. "All right, I understand, I think. Though I have to say that I didn't know about my rights, or whatever, so I've no idea what made the spell inside him flare up like this. Look, though. The Ministry has some pretty damned good resources on just about everything magical, so if you'll bring me some parchment I'll start writing letters and get the ball rolling on how we figure this out. And I'll damned well sit here holding your son until we have a solution, if that's what it takes to keep him alive."

Narcissa wrung her hands. "He's improving only because you're here to claim him, or so the magic thinks. He'll begin to slip away again if it seems that's not the case."

"How can you know a thing like that?"

Lucius' lips formed a straight line as he spoke through clenched teeth. "Some ancestor of yours buried all knowledge of Res mea es, but my family has kept that knowledge alive, against just such a day as this, when the spell might come to life. It's been five hundred years since any member of my bloodline has been claimed, but we knew it could happen again someday. We know how this enchantment behaves."

All right, Harry could see the logic in that. The Malfoys were interested in self-preservation above all things, after all. That they'd keep having children, even with a threat like this hanging over the family line, was proof in itself, wasn't it? Actually, that thought made Harry feel kind of sick. "Wait. Now that I know, if Draco has any children, is the spell going to affect them, too?"

"They shall be your slaves," whispered Narcissa, her eyes filling with tears. "As shall he, if you will only claim him. But it must be. I can't see him die, Mr Potter. And you . . ." she wiped at her face, dragging strands of long hair through her tears. "You are only a half-blood and hardly worthy of him, but I have heard it said that you are good--"

"Quiet, Narcissa," ordered Lucius, shaking his head.

Harry blew out a breath. "I still can't believe you knew about this, all this time, and never did anything to try to . . . I don't know! There must have been something you could have done about it!"

"So speaks the boy hero," said Lucius, slight mockery lacing his tones. "I did what I could. I told the boy to befriend you, so that in case this ever came to light you might be . . . kindly disposed toward him. But of course Draco couldn't manage even that task. And when the Dark Lord returned we threw the full weight of our family's influence behind him, because you were the last of your bloodline, and if you had died without issue we would be set free . . ."

Harry's memory flashed back to the last time he'd been in Malfoy Manor. "It wasn't all about me."

"No," admitted Lucius. "But we had more reason than most to want you dead. Instead, you've won. Everything, it seems."

"I didn't want this." Harry sighed. "All I ever wanted was to be left alone, Mr Malfoy. Look, I wouldn't trust you or your wife to do it, but why don't I get someone from the Ministry over here to memory-charm me? Afterwards, I won't remember whatever it was that started all this. And then we can all just go on as before, all right?"

"It's not about what you know, now," hissed Lucius. "The spell inside him knows, and it can't be quieted with a memory-charm. It can bear no magic performed on him or near him, not even yours, until the spell is satisfied that he himself is yours."

"Until he's claimed." Harry bit his lip. "Well, I can't do that. It's . . . it's obscene. It can't even be legal, in this day and age--"

"Magic knows no day and age. You would kill him, then? You, who slew the Dark Lord without ever once even casting a killing spell?"

"I just can't believe those are the only two choices. He feels a lot better now," said Harry, trying for a reasonable tone. "I don't think he's got a fever at all any longer, and--" Suddenly realising just how cool Draco had grown, Harry gulped.

Narcissa correctly read the small noise, and rushed at once to Harry's side, where she laid a hand on her son's forehead and gasped. "How long will you delay?" she railed at Harry. "He's dying, even now!"

Unfortunately, Harry could see that she was right. There was no more time to discuss and question, and certainly no time to research Res mea es so they might unravel it. Draco's skin was becoming more chilled with each second that passed, like the spell inside him was giving up.

Giving up on Harry, but Draco was the one who would have to pay the price.

Too many deaths already, Harry thought. He couldn't add one more to the list he carried in his head, not even Draco's. He didn't know what Res mea es might lead to, or what it might require, but there was no time to debate all that, not now. They'd have to work it out later, and hope for the best.

Harry looked up into Narcissa's face, wracked with worry, and then glanced at Lucius' features, wracked with something else. Grief, looked like.

"I'll claim him." Harry cleared his throat. "How do I . . . what do I . . ."

Narcissa picked up Harry's hand and slipped it beneath the sheet, positioning it to rest on Draco's chest, directly above his heart. Then she let it go. "Now all you need to do is say it," she said, very gently, as if afraid that Draco was balanced on a cliff's edge, and too much noise might push him off.

"I claim you," Harry said, the words thick in his throat.

Narcissa shook her head. "Res mea es, et ream meam vindico."

Harry's stomach churned, just slightly. His Latin wasn't perfect, but he knew enough to understand that with that, he'd be calling Draco Malfoy a thing. Making him a thing, perhaps. But there was nothing else to be done.

Closing his eyes, he said it. "Res mea es, et ream meam vindico."

Beside him, Narcissa collapsed to the floor, weeping openly. Lucius was stone-faced when he knelt beside her and gathered her into his arms.

Looking at the pair of them, Harry knew that they could never hurt him again, and not just because he probably held Draco's life in his hands, now. No, there was more to it. There was magic at play, spinning 'round him, binding him with silken cords to Draco most of all, but in a lesser way, to them.

He didn't own them, not as he could tell he now owned Draco, but they were still constrained by the spell, to respect Harry's claim. To do nothing to obstruct it. And above all, to never stand against Harry again, in any way.

Draco was warming now. Unconscious still, but growing stronger every second. Harry could feel his heart beating, could feel the movement of his chest as he breathed. He would wake up soon, and someone would have to tell him, someone would have to explain . . .

Explain what, exactly?

With a sinking feeling, then, Harry realised that he literally had no idea what he'd just got himself into.

Draco might be Harry's alone, now, but the Malfoys had said that it was probably too soon for their son to be subjected to any magic, so for the moment, he remained at Malfoy Manor.

Two things about that struck Harry as very odd. First, the diffident, almost deferential way the suggestion had been made, and second, the presumption that Harry would have any intention otherwise. God knew, he didn't want Draco in his home.

The Malfoys seemed to assume he would, or perhaps that he would have to.

Well, they could deal with all that once they were certain that Draco would at least recover, Harry decided. That seemed far from assured. Harry had been sitting at Draco's bedside for over an hour now, staring at him, but apart from some low muttering in his sleep, he seemed unchanged.

Well, apart from that and from the markings that had appeared on both his wrists. Finely drawn intertwining lines now encircled them, the image something like a sketched chain, only instead of links, there was merely the suggestion of them. Stylized chains, perhaps, forged from dark green ink.

"The sign of Res mea es," said Lucius in a shaking voice, reaching out as if to trace the marks, or perhaps merely to pat his son's limp hand. He drew back without actually touching Draco, though.

Harry felt something inside him twist. It wasn't pity, exactly. He didn't really know what it was. Certainly, his opinion of Lucius wasn't likely to improve. The fact that the man loved his son didn't lessen any of his crimes, and it certainly didn't change the fact that in Harry's view, he should be in Azkaban for another twenty years, at least.

And Draco with him, even though the Ministry had proclaimed "extenuating circumstances" in his case and had doled out nothing worse than house arrest for six months. Narcissa had got house arrest for a year.

A slap on the wrist if Harry had ever seen one. And a slap in the face to all the good people who had died in the war, and all the others who were suffering from it still, like little Teddy Lupin, who'd lost his parents before he'd ever had a real chance to know them.

Harry knew what that was like.

So no, Harry didn't feel sorry for the likes of Lucius Malfoy, not even now, watching his face contort with distress as he pulled his hand back without touching Draco. But neither did he want to make the man's suffering over Res mea es any worse.

"He's still your son, you know," said Harry quietly, sitting back. "That hasn't changed. That won't change, Mr Malfoy. No matter what."

"You misunderstand," said Lucius wearily. "I know he's still my son and always will be. But I can't touch him, not for some time. No one can. He'll need to become . . . acclimated to you, first."

Harry didn't like the sound of that. "How long will that take?"

"Six months, perhaps a year? It varies. And too, after five centuries asleep, the spell may be more demanding than is usual."

"Of me?"

"Of him." Lucius gave him a derisive glance. "You are the master, Mr Potter; he, the slave. He can demand nothing of you. Nor will the spell."

"Good," said Harry, relieved. "I'll leave him here with you, then, and we can all pretend this never happened. Nobody has to know. Er . . . perhaps a glamour for his wrists. If you can't use magic on him then I'll be glad to do that--"

"You can leave him here if you wish," said Lucius coldly. "He is yours to do with as you please, and you need have no thought at all for his own needs, if such is your desire. That he will wither and die may be of no concern to you--"

"Oh, for God's sake," said Harry, jumping up from his chair. "If I wanted him to wither and die, I wouldn't have claimed him at all, so don't talk like I'm trying to do him any harm. Just say what you're trying to say!"

"It is difficult, Mr Potter," said Narcissa from where she sat on Draco's bed. Near enough to touch, but never touching, Harry realised now. "If we attempt to direct or control your use of him, he is the one who will be punished for it."

Use of him. Harry swallowed. "Punished, how?"

"Slow strangulation is the usual means," said Lucius without expression. "Though it will cease once we give up any attempt to command your use of him."

Again, that phrase. Harry wished they would stop saying it. Harry didn't care what he'd had to incant earlier; Draco wasn't a thing, and he wasn't going to be used, whatever they meant by that.

"Is this just you, or anybody?"

Both Draco's parents looked at him blankly.

"Is Draco going to be punished if Hermione tells me what to do with him?"

"No, certainly not." Lucius actually looked disgusted. "Generational magic, Mr Potter. Your low-born friends form no part of his direct line."

"Fine," snapped Harry. "And you can't tell me what to do, I understand. Can you at least tell me what to expect from this Res mea es? I guess you mean that Draco has to live with me? Until he's acclimated, like you said?"

"He doesn't have to, but it will kill him not to. To live apart mocks your claim," Narcissa gently explained.

"So six months to a year," said Harry. It sounded awful, but he could probably put up with Draco for that long. If he really had to . . .

"Your claim is lifelong, though you may of course choose to disregard it at any time."

"Oh, God. You mean he has to live with me from now on?" Harry felt like he was reeling. "Then what was that about getting acclimated?"

Lucius spoke harshly. "Once the spell has settled into his flesh, an embrace from his mother isn't likely to kill him. Until then, it very well may. Of course, as it's entirely up to you whether you'll permit us ever to clap eyes on him again--"

If there was one thing Harry didn't appreciate being laid at his door, it was the idea that he'd ever, ever, keep a son away from parents who obviously loved him. "Shut up," he said, his voice low and fierce. "Don't judge me by your own disgusting standards. Just shut up."

To his vast surprise, Lucius did.

Harry took a deep breath to calm himself, but it didn't help very much. Draco had to live with him, forever? Harry was never going to be quit of the stupid git? Backing up to the wall, Harry closed his eyes briefly and didn't bother trying to hide how unwelcome that news was. "What happened to the spell demanding nothing from me?"

"It does demand nothing," said Lucius, his chair scraping the floor as he stood up. He didn't approach Harry, though, but merely turned to face him, his expression shuttered. "You're at liberty to let him die."

"Isn't that mincing words?"

"The presumption of Res mea es is that a man claiming a slave would actually desire to keep that slave alive to serve his needs."

Harry twisted his lips. "I think the point I'm trying to discover is what you said about Draco's needs. Don't let anybody touch him, fine--"

"He will not be harmed if you touch him," Narcissa interrupted.

Harry gave her an incredulous look, which she returned with a sad one. Very weird, all of this, but he wasn't going to get sidetracked. "And he's going to have to live with me, got it. What else will he need? And don't say again that you can't tell me what to do. I'm sure you can figure out how to word advice that won't strangle him."

Lucius nodded. "Pray remember what I said before, about the magic perhaps being stronger after five hundred years asleep."

"Yeah. Whatever you say might just be the start. But we'd better start somewhere." Sighing, Harry waved for Lucius to go on.

"He will need to be commanded, especially at first, to even the simplest tasks. He will not be able to perform the usual necessities of life without your consent. He will--"

"Wait. What necessities of life?"

Narcissa's eyes filled with tears again, looking haunted when she raised her gaze to Harry's. "He won't eat unless you tell him to." A sob caught on her teeth. "You will be good to him, won't you? You will think of him at every meal, and--"

"Narcissa!" barked Lucius.

She instantly fell silent, but not because she was the type to heed her husband's word as law. No . . . she was clearly thinking of Draco, and going slightly green at the realisation that she'd come so close to telling Harry what to do with him. "Forgive my presumption," she said after a moment, choking back another sob. "He is yours."

"I'll be good to him," said Harry, feeling absolutely awful for her. He couldn't remotely imagine what this must be like. It sounded like Draco was going to be utterly dependent on his good will, but of course these people had very little reason to suppose Harry would have much of that, when it came to Draco. After all, he had spoken out about the need for more severe punishments, after the war. He'd even used Draco Malfoy's house arrest as an example. And the Malfoys were the kind of people, no doubt, who would be cruel and vengeful if the tables were turned.

So she probably thought she had very good reason to fear for her son. That explained Lucius' earlier remark, too, the one about Harry never letting Draco see his parents, ever again. It was just the sort of thing Lucius would likely do if a young man he disliked had fallen into his power.

But Harry, of course, wasn't Lucius. Wasn't a bit like him.

"Look, I do know I'm not the Ministry," Harry told them both. "I'm just one man, and yes, I was annoyed when the Ministry didn't listen to me about what to do with Death Eaters after the war. But that was their call, and I've accepted it. I'm an Auror now. That means I'm sworn to uphold the Ministry's justice, not mete out my own."

They stared at him like he was speaking a foreign language.

"Let's just get through this," said Harry, impatient by then. "I promise I won't let him starve, all right? He doesn't need my permission to breathe or for his heart to beat, obviously. So, he'll need help just with voluntary actions, then?"

"Of a sort," said Narcissa, calmer by then. "He won't sleep unless you command it, though his body will give way from sheer exhaustion after long enough. He won't bathe, or brush his hair, or clean his teeth. In short, he won't expend the least amount of energy caring for himself instead of you, unless you insist on it. And you must--" Swallowing, she began again. "He will need someone to anticipate his requirements in this regard. He will be manifestly unable to make demands of you, Mr Potter. He will need to be near you, in order that he may serve you."

"I can't just tell him to let me know what he needs?"

"In time, perhaps, when the spell has settled. At first, not at all."

Harry grimaced, but accepted that. What else was he going to do? "And how near is near?" A horrible thought occurred to him. "Will he need to come to work with me?"

"Not if he can be at your side during other times each day."

All right, Harry could probably work with that. He didn't like it, but he could work with it. "What if I don't particularly want him to serve me?"

Lucius spoke in a hard voice. "As I said, all choice is yours."

Which meant, Harry presumed, that Draco was going to need to serve him. Ugh. Harry really couldn't imagine it. In fact, his first thought was that Draco would rather die than put up with any of this. Although . . . probably not. The Malfoys had that self-preservation obsession, and Draco was no exception.

Well, they'd figure it out, he supposed. Somehow. Not much choice at this point, no matter how Lucius liked to phrase things.

"Anything else?"

Narcissa's voice came hesitantly. "The fact that he owes you his life already may play a role, in all these things. Or that you have been enemies for almost half your lives. Or as we said, the spell's long remission. Lucius' family has kept the knowledge of Res mea es alive, in case this day ever came, but in truth, that knowledge is limited by time and circumstance."

Great. Just great. "Can I read the records, then?"

Lucius regarded him rather balefully. "Records? Written records? Are you so daft as to think that my forebears would risk there being any such to be discovered? Word of our shame has passed father to son in whispers only, ever since the need to be claimed came to a mysterious end some five centuries past!"

"Sheesh. Just asking." Harry pushed off from the wall and looked around, thinking. "What do you know of this mysterious end? How did the spell ever go underground? If one Potter could do it, maybe I can, too."

"Rumour has it that one of your ancestors destroyed all evidence of the spell and then killed himself, without passing any knowledge along to his newborn heir."

"Oh, well that's out, then."

"And it would not save our son," Narcissa added, glaring at her husband before returning her gaze to Harry. "He dies with you, now."

More than anything else, that piece of information made Harry feel like he really was connected to the prat. More bloody wonderful news.

"Can Draco still use a wand?"

"In your service. Not against you."

Harry's nostrils flared. He hadn't been worried about Draco trying to duel him. After everything that had happened in the war, he doubted Draco would even have the nerve.

The sleeping figure on the bed began to shift, and the single sheet that covered him slipped down to reveal him to the waist. Harry looked away, even though he'd seen it all just a short while before. So what if Draco Malfoy had pale skin the shade of moonglow, or if the sparse hairs on his belly darkened to a golden tone, somewhere near his groin? He shouldn't even have noticed those things, and definitely shouldn't be thinking about them, now.

Harry fixed his gaze on both Draco's parents. "So . . . I think it's probably almost time. Er . . . would you like to tell your son what's been done to him? Or should I?"

Narcissa looked like the question itself pained her. Her voice, when she answered, was a low rasp. "Your choice, Mr Potter. We can decide nothing, any longer. He is utterly yours."

Well, if it was a choice at all, that must mean that Draco didn't have to hear it from Harry. Which suited Harry just fine. Let them discuss it as a family. He'd just as soon not watch Draco have hysterics, or see him start crying or something. That once, in the bathroom that time, had been enough.

"I'll wait outside, then," he said, walking to the door.

Narcissa's soft voice followed him. "He may need you at any moment."

Which was her way, Harry supposed, of telling him not to go far. Harry nodded to show he'd understood, and then he closed the door behind him and sank down to crouch, his back against the wall. God, he needed a stiff drink, and a couple days' sleep, and some advice from somebody who knew more than the Malfoys seemed to.

But more than any of that, he needed to talk to Ginny.

Harry thought about sending his Patronus to Ginny, with some sort of message, but he couldn't think how to word it. And anyway, this was the sort of thing he'd have to explain in person, but it just felt wrong, somehow, to have done all this, to have claimed Draco Malfoy like that, without even giving a single thought to Ginny, until afterwards.

So no wonder he wanted to talk to her at once, now. He ought to have done that first of all. But no, no . . . Draco had been dying. Perhaps if Harry had never touched him, Draco might have been able to hang onto life long enough for Harry to have that conversation with Ginny, though God only knows what he would have said to her.

But Harry hadn't thought of Ginny. Instead, he'd picked Draco up without thinking beyond the fact that he needed to get him to St. Mungo's, and the rest had all flowed forth from that. Draco's life had been hanging by a thread, once the spell had picked up on the fact that Harry was there, possibly to claim him, and after that, what choice had Harry had?

Was Ginny going to see things that way, though? She'd lost a brother in the war, and what could Draco Malfoy be but a reminder of that? Not to mention that Draco was apparently going to need a fair bit of Harry's time and attention, at least at first.

And worst of all would be the fact that Ginny had been hinting lately that she'd like to move in with Harry, and Harry had always refused, saying he wasn't ready to share his private domain quite yet. Now, when she found out that Harry had agreed to share it with Draco Malfoy, of all people . . . Harry couldn't imagine what she was going to say, but he didn't expect it to be anything very pleasant.

Harry sighed, rose to his feet, and started to pace the hallway.

He tried not to hear the hushed voices on the other side of the wall, tried not to think about how Draco must be taking this kind of news. The more he tried not to think about that, though, the more he did, and the conclusions Harry started coming to were damned depressing.

Namely, that he was one hell of a selfish bastard, feeling sorry for himself over what Ginny might say. Harry didn't have much of a problem, did he? Not compared to Draco, who hadn't done anything to deserve a fate like this. He'd been a Death Eater, yeah, and he'd hurt people along the way, and he'd tried to kill Dumbledore, but to Harry's knowledge, he never actually had killed anyone. When it came right down to it, Draco hadn't been able to.

Five years in Azkaban, that had been Harry's personal opinion of what Draco's sentence should have been. Five years . . . or seven, when he thought about the way Ron had ended up poisoned and had nearly died. But this? Harry would never have countenanced anything as barbaric as enslavement, even for a limited term. Let alone for life!

But then, Harry had grown up in Muggle Britain, so of course slavery would never have occurred to him at all. The wizarding world was a lot more barbaric in outlook, in Harry's opinion. When a kind, grandfatherly figure could be scheming all along, looking to Harry to become a pig for the slaughter, as Snape had put it . . . yeah, it really shouldn't surprise him that slavery spells existed. Just look at house-elves.

Small step from that to wizards, wasn't it? Even if such spells weren't in common use. What was all too common was to think of some wizards as less than human. Look at the enormous amount of damage Voldemort had been able to do, in such a short time, rounding up Muggleborns? He'd had a lot of help, a lot of supporters, a hell of a lot of people willing to go along with that, instead of stand up for what was right and decent--

"Mr Potter," Narcissa's soft voice broke into his thoughts. Harry had the feeling she'd been standing there for a while, watching him pace. That idea was slightly creepy, since as an Auror he knew well enough to always be on his guard. Especially in a place like this, with people like these . . .

But no, they couldn't act against him now. Harry knew he hadn't mistaken what the Res mea es spell had done, when it came to him and Draco's parents.

"We . . . we have explained," Narcissa said, haltingly. Harry figured she was trying to figure out a way to tell him to come along, without actually telling him what to do. "He . . . he understands, but he is not himself, he is deep in shock . . ."

Please don't be angry if Draco says something unpardonably rude to you, Harry thought she meant. Which only went to show, didn't it, how well Narcissa Malfoy knew her only son.

Perhaps she'd meant exactly what she'd said, though, because when Harry followed her inside the bedroom, Draco truly didn't look terribly well. He was too pale by far, his eyes glittering brightly, as if he was fevered still. Or perhaps they looked that way because they were slightly ringed with red.

Oh, God. Draco had been crying. Or at the very least, trying hard not to.

He stared straight at Harry for one second, his gaze almost blank, and then he was looking down, his fingers moving restlessly against the blue sheet bunched around his hips. It was still his only covering, and seeing that, Harry couldn't help but ask himself what was wrong with these people. Had they never heard of pyjamas, or at least a nightshirt?

"Mrs Malfoy, could you give him something to wear?" asked Harry, throwing her what he hoped was a meaningful look.

Narcissa nodded quickly and fetched a nightshirt from a drawer, but she handed it to Harry, not Draco. To avoid touching him, perhaps?

Harry had an awful thought then, of Draco sitting there struggling not to cry when he was told his fate, and his parents looking on, unable to so much as hold his hand to comfort him.

"Here," said Harry, coming over to the bedside. The chair he'd used before was still there, but Draco looked so fragile, almost broken, really, that Harry sat on the bed instead, just alongside the other man's hip. He held out the folded nightshirt, and for a moment Draco simply stared at it. Then he raised a questioning glance to Harry.

Like a child, almost. Seeking direction.

Harry had a clearer picture, then, of what acclimated might really mean. Draco had to learn how to read Harry's gestures and moods, perhaps learn how to interpret his tone of voice . . .

"Go on, then, take it," said Harry, very gently.

Draco did, but all he did was hold it loosely on his lap, his gaze trained downwards once again.

Harry didn't know what was wrong with him. So far, he hadn't said a single word. No protest, let alone an insult, no scathing Potter dripping from his tongue. And that one glance upwards . . . there hadn't been any rancour in it. No hatred. Did he not remember his life before? Did he not know Harry?

Or was he simply too far gone into shock to cope with anything but the demands of the spell, just now?

Harry swallowed back a sigh, and asked his question in the very kindest voice he could muster. "Can you dress yourself? Or do you need my help?"

Another questioning glance, though that one looked somewhat startled, too. "I can. Yes. Me. Myself."

His speech seemed strangely disconnected, like he was having trouble stringing words into sentences. And yet despite what he'd said, he still sat holding the nightshirt in his hands, as if he'd yet to understand what Harry wanted.

He won't expend the least amount of energy caring for himself, unless you insist on it . . .

Harry gave a brisk nod, understanding more now, about what that really meant in practice. "Please do put that on, then."

Draco pulled the garment over his head and wriggled his arms through the holes, then pulled it down over his hips as Harry averted his gaze. There was something oddly childlike about his motions, though they'd been coordinated enough. Puzzling, really. All of this.

As soon as Draco was wearing the nightshirt, he resumed looking down again, this time appearing to stare at the green lines inked around his wrists.

Did he even know what they were, what they stood for? Harry was beginning to doubt it. Annoyed, he glanced over to where Draco's parents were standing, a short distance away. Narcissa looked wracked with grief; Lucius, in contrast, was stoic.

"You didn't mention the amnesia," said Harry.

It was Draco's father who managed to speak, though, his voice so hoarse that Harry heard through it to the truth: Lucius might not show it, but he was in as much pain as his wife. Every bit.

"There's no amnesia. He simply doesn't know you."

Harry gaped. "That's not amnesia?"

"He doesn't know you in this context and he doesn't know what to expect. The spell is keeping him docile for the moment. For his own safety. His memories are . . . muted, we think."

"For how long?"

"Until he feels more settled." Lucius cleared his throat. "Far be it from me to control your use of him, Mr Potter, but he might begin that process sooner if you would grant him a name."

It hit Harry then, like a tonne of bricks, that ever since he'd laid his hand on Draco's heart and claimed him, neither Lucius nor Narcissa had uttered the word Draco. Not once. He, him, my son, our son . . . but never his name. Harry had said it, but they, apparently, could not.

Not until Harry made it official.

"You're Draco," he said, turning back to the man lying quiet and calm on the bed. "Do you remember that much? Your name is Draco. Draco Malfoy."

Another glance, very brief. "I, yes. I remember, Master."

Harry could do without that; the word reminded him of Voldemort. Of too many visions, Death Eaters on their knees, that word always dripping from their lips. No doubt Draco had used the word before, for that matter; he'd been a Death Eater, after all.

"Call me Harry, all right?"

"Yes, Master."

"Harry."

Draco turned chalk white and spoke through chattering teeth. "Harry, Master."

Harry could deduce well enough what all that meant. The slavery spell was telling Draco to do one thing, and Harry was telling him to do another, and Draco didn't know yet which command to obey. Or perhaps, he didn't know Harry well enough to trust he wouldn't be punished, now.

It would probably all settle, Harry thought. And until it did, he'd just have to put up with the occasional Master, it seemed. No matter that the word made him feel sick inside.

"That's fine," he said, keeping his voice low and soothing. It seemed to have the desired effect; Draco stopped looking like he was expecting to be hexed. "Now, you're going to come and live with me at my house. Did your parents explain that?"

Draco mutely nodded.

In the background, Narcissa made a sobbing noise.

"Do you feel up to flooing, then? We don't have to go quite yet if you still feel ill."

"I . . ." Draco cleared his throat, his voice rasping when he resumed. "I floo, serve you, Master."

Which didn't really answer the question of whether he felt up to it, Harry noticed. But perhaps Draco couldn't answer such a thing, just yet. The spell might not let him think of himself, after all.

Harry drew his wand, only to see Draco cringe, backing up as far as the bed would allow, his face flung to one side, his teeth chattering again. "No, it's fine," Harry said, lowering his wand and moving slowly as he reached for an empty glass on the table beside the bed. "Aguamenti, you see?" Water slowly filled the glass. "I thought you sounded thirsty, that's all."

He held out the glass to Draco, remembering after a second to add, "Drink a little."

Draco did. One sip.

"You can have more." Harry tucked his wand away, and was relieved to see Draco tilting the glass again.

While Draco drank, Harry turned around to face the Malfoys. They looked pretty torn up; even Lucius' stoic face was slipping. Harry tried not to think about what this must be like for them. He had enough on his mind just figuring out how to handle Draco. "Do you think it's safe for him to floo? Or would Apparating be better?"

Narcissa turned her face against her husband's robes, her hands twisting in them as a muffled wail reached Harry's ears.

Draco's ears, too, obviously. A noise of splintering glass had Harry spinning back around to see that the glass of water had shattered. Draco's nightshirt was splashed, and his hand was bleeding.

Worse, his face had gone that chalk-white shade again, like he was expecting punishment.

This time, Harry thought to reassure Draco before drawing his wand. "It's all right," he said. "Just a little accidental magic. It's happened to me, too. I'm just going to banish the shards of glass, Draco. You might feel a little bit of a tingle. Evanesco . . . there, you see?"

Draco sniffled a little, and nodded, and sat there apparently unaware that his hand was still oozing blood.

Well, the days when Harry couldn't handle that himself were long gone; Auror training had included a pretty rigorous course of first-aid spells. Harry used his wand again, then picked up Draco's hand to look at it more closely. No, no more cuts or scratches; he looked all right.

Draco relaxed, his body shifting closer to where Harry was sitting.

Craning his neck again, Harry looked at Draco's parents, but especially at his mother. Narcissa looked like she might collapse at any moment, but she wasn't making noises now; all her agony was held tightly inside after what she'd seen it do to Draco.

"I'll take good care of him," Harry said, mostly because he didn't know what else to say. He'd wanted to see Narcissa in Azkaban, but he'd never wanted to personally slam the cell door in her face. This . . . he was hurting her, terribly. And even if she'd basically asked him to, because it was Draco's only chance, Harry still didn't like doing it. "Really, I will. You don't need to worry about him. Either of you," he added as an afterthought. "Er . . . Apparition or floo, then? You never did answer."

"Either should be fine, Mr Potter." Lucius waved a hand toward a bureau. "Draco's things are in the top drawer, if you wish them. His wand is there." The man's face went even more rigid. "His new wand, I should say."

Draco's things? When Harry went to look, there was nothing in the drawer but a change of clothes, neatly folded, with a slender birch wand lying alongside. "Doesn't he have anything else?"

"He was visiting us when . . . when it happened. Everything else is at his house. Your house, now. The wards there will all recognise you as their master."

"Master," said Draco from the bed, nodding.

Harry hid his sigh, and bundled Draco's things together, tucking them under one arm as he walked back to the bed. Since treating Draco like a child seemed to be the best thing at the moment, Harry smiled at him, as kindly as he could manage. "Stand up, then, Draco. We're going home, but you can come back here for visits if you like. Doesn't that sound nice?"

Draco nodded, though he looked a bit confused as to whether he really thought he should.

Since the walk back down to the Malfoy's Floo was fairly long, and Draco didn't look very steady on his feet, Harry opted for Apparition. Pulling Draco against him, he looked into his grey eyes for a moment. "Now, hang on tight. All right, then?"

Draco wrapped his arms around Harry and pressed his whole body up against him as Harry spun around.

Harry felt better as soon as he was back home and away from the Malfoys. They might not be able to make demands about how he treated their son, but Narcissa could say a lot with her eyes alone, and knowing how much all this was hurting her . . . Harry didn't need to think about it any longer. He had problems enough of his own.

Draco was still clinging to him, hanging on as if for dear life, which made Harry wonder if Apparating had frightened him. Perhaps his memories of learning to do it were muted?

Carefully disentangling himself, Harry sank down into his favourite chair, wishing he had a time-turner. He'd go back and undo whatever had caused all this, whatever had . . .

But then, that would be fairly difficult, given that he didn't know what had woken up the dormant spell. He'd have to figure that out, and then see if there wasn't any way out of this mess. Maybe if he knew why one of his ancestors had cast the enslavement spell in the first place, he'd be able to come up with some sort of counter to it.

When Harry glanced up, it was to see Draco still standing in the middle of the room, swaying on his feet, the nightshirt hanging to his knees. Oh, God.

Jumping up, Harry fetched the bundle he'd dropped beside the chair, and told Draco to follow him down the hall. A short walk later, he opened the door to his guest room. Thank goodness he kept it clean and well-supplied. Waste of time, he'd often thought it, since he didn't have many overnight guests apart from Ginny, who slept in his own bed. Now though, it meant that getting Draco settled in would be considerably simpler.

Harry set the bundle on the bed, then waved a hand to indicate the room. "You'll sleep in here and keep your things in here, Draco." He opened another door. "And here's your bathroom. There's shampoo in the shower stall and toothpaste in the cabinet. Well, really, you can make free with anything you see."

Draco nodded, but Harry was frankly worried about the vacant look in his eyes. Especially after the things Narcissa had said. So, probably best to make sure Draco understood. Something simple, first. Something Harry wouldn't mind watching him do.

"Do you remember how to clean your teeth?"

Another nod. The silence was getting old, which was an odd thought, since in years past Harry would have given anything to shut Draco up. But then, perhaps it was better not to have to hear Master all that often, either.

"All right then. I want you to clean your teeth. Everything you should need is in that mirrored cabinet." Harry pointed.

Draco obediently opened it, then reached for a toothbrush, still boxed. His hand hovered over it, his gaze drifting to Harry's as if to check that it was truly permitted. Harry gave him an encouraging nod, though privately he was thinking that it was a good thing all this had happened on the weekend, when Harry had plenty of time.

Draco repeated the process with each item he took from the cabinet. Toothpaste, floss, mouthwash, a small plastic tumbler . . . he kept looking to Harry for permission, every time. After Draco had everything he needed assembled, though, he went ahead and cleaned his teeth with no further difficulty. Actually, did such a thorough job at it that Harry's eyes widened. He didn't know if Draco usually spent ten full minutes brushing and flossing and such, or if the slavery spell was making him a little compulsive, seeing that Harry had commanded the activity.

Probably the former, Harry decided. It would explain why Draco's teeth were such a sparkling white, not a filling in sight. And to think, Harry had always assumed that stuck-up purebloods like the Malfoys probably groomed themselves using magic.

Once Draco was finished, Harry felt like he was on firmer ground. A little, at least. It occurred to him that Draco wasn't the only one who needed to settle, so to speak. Harry was blindly feeling his own way forward, too.

"All right, good," said Harry. "Now, all these things are yours to use, do you understand? I want you to clean your teeth every night before you go to bed, and every morning when you get up. Can you remember that?"

"Yes, Harry Master."

Harry hid his grimace. "Good, good. The next thing is, I think you need a shower." He opened the stall and this time was more direct about Draco helping himself. "I want you to shower every morning and use all these things. Shampoo, conditioner, soap, washcloth." As he spoke, Harry fetched each item and thrust it into Draco's hands. "Oh, and afterwards, here's a brush and comb." He piled those into Draco's hands, too. "You can use them too, all right? But put them down now, because before you shower you should use the loo."

Harry took one of Draco's hands and placed it atop the toilet roll. "You remember what to do, right? Whenever you need to relieve yourself, I want you to come in here and do it. You understand? I want you to stay clean."

Draco nodded. "Clean for Harry Master."

Time to find out how well Draco could follow instructions, then, without Harry being there to reassure him. "All right, then. Right now, I want you to use the loo, and have a shower where you use all those things I showed you, and then afterwards I want you to comb your hair and come back out to your bedroom and get dressed. In the clothes I put on your bed. No more nightshirt. Can you manage all that?"

Draco's nod that time was very solemn. "Draco serve Harry Master."

Harry sucked in a sharp breath. He might be able to put up with Master for a while if Draco needed to say it, but he didn't think he could stand listening to Draco talk about himself in the third person. Too much a reminder of Dobby. "I," he corrected. "Say 'I'. Don't say Draco."

"Name is forbidden?"

Harry hardly wanted to agree to that. "No. Your name isn't forbidden. But just try to say I."

"I." Draco drew the syllable out, like he was working very hard to try, just as Harry had said.

Shaking his head, Harry let the matter drop. "I'll come and get you in a little bit, once you're clean and dressed. And then we'll have some lunch, all right?" Another thought occurred to him. "You remember how I gave you water, before? Anytime you're thirsty you can help yourself to more from the tap. Here, or in the kitchen. And help yourself to any glass or cup, Draco. It's not a problem."

Draco looked confused, but Harry figured it would just take more time for him to understand that he could make himself at home. "I'll see you in a bit, then," said Harry, closing the bathroom door behind him as he left.

He stood in the guest room for a few minutes, listening to make sure that Draco was doing as Harry had requested. It felt a bit creepy, but better that than end up with a real problem like Draco not understanding that he could use the loo. Everything seemed in order, though. When Harry heard the shower switch on, he breathed a sigh of relief and headed out to prepare them both something to eat.

Everything wasn't quite in order, Harry found out twenty minutes later when he went back to check on Draco. He'd thought he'd done a fairly good job explaining everything and making sure that Draco knew he could use whatever he needed, but he'd forgotten one thing.

A towel.

There were several dark blue fluffy ones hanging on the rail, but Draco obviously hadn't touched them. When Harry knocked briefly and then went into the guest room, it was to see Draco standing in the middle of the floor, dressed but with his clothes strangely askew, his hair combed straight back from his forehead, but still dripping wet.

There was a trail of water on the floor from the bathroom to where Draco was standing. Obviously, he hadn't dried himself at all.

Harry almost drew his wand to cast a drying charm, but then he spotted Draco's wand, still lying untouched on the quilt that covered the bed. Better to have him do it, probably. Besides, maybe doing magic would help him settle faster. Worth a try, anyway.

"Get your wand, Draco. Now, look. You've made a mess, you see? Anytime you make a mess, you need to clear it up. Go on . . . you remember how to cast spells, don't you?"

No problem there. Draco made short work of the water soaking into the carpet, and then, taking Harry's words at face value, he walked into the bathroom and cast several spells in there, as well, until the room looked like it hadn't been used that morning.

Harry was frankly surprised that the other man had known the range of cleaning charms he'd just demonstrated. Didn't the Malfoys have elves to see to all that?

Draco had a house of his own, though. Perhaps he didn't have an elf, there.

It took Harry a moment to realise that for all Draco had taken care of the mess in the room, he hadn't done anything for himself. He clearly wouldn't, unless Harry insisted. "Dry yourself, too. Your clothes, your skin, your hair. I want you to--" Take pride in your appearance, Harry had been going to say, but he suspected Draco wouldn't understand the concept just now. "I want you to look presentable," he said instead. "So whenever you finish a shower you need to dry yourself with a towel--"

Draco shrugged off his robe and began unbuttoning his shirt.

Gulping, Harry looked away. He didn't want to leave again and find out that Draco had misunderstood something else, so he just sat on the bed and waited. Two peeks later, he saw that Draco was dressed again and was beginning to cast a drying charm over his damp clothes. After that he cast something that unwrinkled them, and then he went back into the bathroom and used the comb again, raking his now-dry hair back with it, even as he used some other spell, one Harry had never heard before, to make it lie flat and sleek.

Then he came back and stood in the same place as before, and looked questioningly at Harry. As if seeking approval.

Well, he certainly looked presentable, Harry thought. In fact, now that his ablutions were over, he looked a lot more presentable than Harry usually did. Must be the clothes. They were well-cut, obviously expensive, and made of fabrics that accentuated Draco's best features, the grey edging of his cloak reflecting the exact shade of his eyes.

Harry hurriedly looked down, but that wasn't much better. Through a part in the elegant robes, he could see how Draco's trousers clung softly to his thighs.

"Harry Master?"

Harry yanked his gaze up again, suddenly aware that he must have been staring. He felt himself colouring, but shrugged the feeling off. Anybody would feel ill-at-ease right about now, after all. It wasn't every day you ended up having to take care of a slave, let alone one who would hate your guts if only he could properly remember you.

"Yes, Draco? Do you need something?"

A blank look, like the question was so meaningless that Draco couldn't even ask what it had meant. Instead, he gestured at himself. "I am presentable, Harry Master?"

"Yes, fine," said Harry, clearing his throat. "Very handsome, Draco. You did a good job."

"I keep clean. I clear up mess. I brush teeth every morning, night. I look presentable--"

Well, at least language was coming more easily to him, though he still sounded rather stilted. "Yes, you do all that."

Draco squeezed his eyes shut, like he was trying to concentrate. "I . . . other duties, Harry Master? What are duties I do to do?"

The last thing Harry wanted was to assign any, but by then he had a feeling that if he didn't, Draco would spend the whole day standing stock still in the middle of his room. Or perhaps, in the middle of whatever room Harry happened to be in.

"We'll talk about them over lunch."

Draco sat where he was told, but then he looked down at his empty plate without seeming to see it. Even when Harry slid some bacon and eggs onto it, all he did was stare, without apparent reaction.

"Not hungry?" Harry served himself, laid the pan aside on a trivet on the sideboard, and sat down. "I didn't think you'd eaten yet today, so I made breakfast."

Again, no reaction, not until Harry said, "Eat, Draco."

Then, he took one small bite of fried egg, chewed it methodically, and swallowed. Well, at least Harry hadn't had to remind him he could use a fork. Remembering what had worked with the water earlier, Harry gave him a friendly smile. "You can have some more. I want you to eat. As much as you like."

A baffled look passed over his face, probably at the last sentence. Quite clearly, Draco didn't know any longer what he liked or wanted, let alone what he needed. Horrifying thought, that if Harry hadn't told him to use the loo, Draco would probably have ended up soiling himself.

Thankfully, he seemed able to learn and follow directions, so Harry just had to hope that over time, as the spell settled, they'd have fewer and fewer incidents of Draco failing to take proper care of himself. But having his memory back was probably the best way to get him to behave normally. Not that Harry really wanted Draco spitting and snarling all the time, but it would be a lot better than seeing him so helpless and dependent.

Since doing magic hadn't seemed to bring back his memory, Harry tried to think of something else that might. "Where did you go to school?"

The question must have sounded completely out of the blue. Draco paused with his fork half-way to his mouth, his eyebrows drawing together like he was trying to figure out if he'd just been accused of something. "I . . . yes, school. I learned."

"Where?" Harry pressed, trying to jog some kind of recollection. He didn't want to mention Hogwarts in case he ended up giving Draco a name he wouldn't otherwise remember, but perhaps asking the wrong question would get the ball rolling. "Out in Wiltshire where your parents live?"

Draco nodded. "Wiltshire. Big house, I lived with my parents."

"And school?"

"Oh." Draco's forehead furrowed into thought. "School. Tutors? Mr Plaht taught a, b, c, and . . . and, somebody else, and . . ."

Harry poured them both some tea and made sure Draco knew he was supposed to drink some, then threw his next question out in a casual tone. "What about wizard school, when you were older? Eleven, maybe?"

"Hogwarts?"

Harry smiled, relieved. "Yes, that's right. You went to Hogwarts. What do you remember about going to school there, Draco?"

Draco's teacup clattered as he set it down. "Flying, potions, charms, herbology, astronomy, defence, divination, magical creatures, transfiguration--"

"You remember quite a lot."

A more definite nod that time, instead of one of his confused ones. "I am well-trained wizard slave, Harry Master. My parents sent me to Hogwarts to learn. For you."

Harry quickly swallowed the tea in his mouth. It was a near thing he hadn't sputtered it. He knew, of course, that what Draco had said was in no way true, but he wondered if Draco realised that. Was he just thinking back to his schooling and making an educated guess? Or had Lucius and Narcissa implied, during their private talk with him, that Draco had been meant for Harry, all along?

Perhaps they'd told him that to make things easier.

Draco started tracing a finger around the inked chains circling his left wrist, and then he raised a stricken gaze to Harry. "I . . . I can't be sure, Harry Master, but I think . . ."

This was it, then. It was all coming back to him, and Draco was remembering his whole history now, all the animosity he'd held towards Harry, and any second now, he'd start yelling or something, and turn back into himself. Harry braced himself, his hands actually clenching the arms of his chair, and briefly wondered if giving Draco back his wand so soon had perhaps been not the best possible thing to do.

If Draco attacked his "Harry Master," would Res mea es punish him with the slow strangulation Lucius had mentioned?

He didn't attack, though. In fact, it seemed like nothing could be further from his mind. Draco suddenly threw himself out of his chair and moved to kneel at Harry's side, his head bowed, his fists clenched in the folds of the robe covering his legs. "I lied, Harry Master, I lied, I lied, I lied! I say something that is not true, I am bad worthless terrible ill-trained wizard slave, I--"

"Quiet," said Harry, relieved when the direct command made Draco stop in mid-sentence. Without planning to, Harry found himself reaching out to touch the top of Draco's head, carding fingers through his hair to rub against his scalp. God, the strands were fine. They flowed like silk through his hand.

Harry abruptly yanked his hand back. "You didn't lie, really, did you? Your parents must have told you that you went to Hogwarts to be trained for me?"

Draco craned his neck up, his eyes rimmed with red. "I did go for you, to learn for you, for service," he insisted, looking like he believed that with all his heart. "But . . ." His voice dropped off to almost nothing. "Was a lie to say I am well-trained wizard slave. I remember better, now. I leave Hogwarts, I never finish, I . . . I am sorry for terrible evil wicked wrong iniquitous lie to Harry Master."

Well, he was remembering; that was worth something. Interesting that a lie would cause so much alarm. That part was definitely the spell at work; the Draco Harry knew wouldn't care a farthing if he lied all day long.

"You didn't really lie, you know," said Harry, stroking Draco's head again. He couldn't seem to resist. Draco clearly needed the comfort. "You're just a little confused because you can't remember everything clearly, just now. Don't worry. You're not in trouble."

Draco didn't nod that time, or speak, or move. He just remained there on his knees, gazing up like Harry was the master of moon and sun and stars, as well as of him.

"Finish your lunch," Harry urged, pushing a little on Draco's shoulder to encourage him to move. Draco actually leaned into the touch, like he needed it. And he couldn't say what he needed, could he? It was up to Harry to figure these things out.

Hmm . . . maybe it had been Harry's hand in his hair that had quieted his wailing, instead of the command to stop talking. Or . . . a little of both.

"Go on, finish your lunch," said Harry, letting his touch linger a moment.

Draco turned his face and kissed Harry's hand. A peck, only. Entirely innocent. But it still made Harry go hot all over. No great wonder, that. He wasn't used to having his childhood nemesis acting so . . . worshipful.

But maybe there was something besides that at play, here, because when Draco took his seat again and obediently resumed eating, it seemed like he had only one thing on his mind. "I am sorry, Harry Master."

Hadn't they just covered this? "You didn't do anything to be sorry for."

"I am most grievously remorseful and repentant to have lied to great good Harry Master--"

Harry made a show of pouring them both more tea. "Forget it. Do you like this blend? I think I used English Breakfast."

Draco's teeth started chattering. "I am sorry sorry sorry regret remorse shame and penitent that I lied lied lied lied lied--"

Harry threw his napkin to the table. "You didn't lie, Draco."

The comment made no difference; but then, neither had the direct command to forget the matter. Again, it seemed that the demands of the slavery spell were more important to Draco, at that moment, than anything Harry could possibly say.

Perhaps touch again. It was all Harry could think of, particularly since Draco looked just a moment away from starting to bang his own head into the table, or something. With a sick, sinking feeling, Harry recognised that for what it was. Whoever had developed Res mea es in the first place had based the enchantment on the ones that bound house-elves to their masters. It wasn't quite the same, but there were marked similarities. This impulse toward self-blame. The desire to speak in the third-person . . .

Reaching out, Harry grabbed both Draco's hands in his own, and squeezed. "Shhh, shhh. Please, Draco. Stop saying that you lied."

Draco did, but his lips kept moving silently, repeating the word.

Harry swallowed and put on his most authoritative voice. "Tell me what's making you want to say that over and over. Tell me, Draco."

Draco's whole face contorted, like he was trying very hard to figure it out. "There is . . . ball of fire, here, in chest," he said, jerking his head strangely downward, since Harry still had a hold of both his hands. "It makes . . . it makes want, it makes need, it says, Draco-slave is bad slave, must beg pardon . . ."

"But you did that and I already pardoned you," said Harry fiercely, trying to get through to Draco. "And you aren't a bad slave."

"Ball of fire hurts, says--" Draco didn't finish the thought, but began shaking his head compulsively, like he was caught between two masters and was going to be torn apart.

"What would stop it?" Harry asked, gripping Draco's hands more tightly. "What would make the ball of fire stop saying that you're a bad slave?"

At that, Draco's gaze snapped up, his features twisting with incredulity. Amazement. Or no . . . it was more as though, in that precise instant, he was finding Harry to be remarkably stupid. "Harry Master punish Draco-slave for lie, of course."

Harry's jaw dropped. "You need to be punished?"

"You are one with needs. I serve needs. I try hard, good slave, say I, keep clean, brush teeth morning and night--"

Clearly, Draco couldn't admit that he needed to be punished. But just as clearly, he did need that; his teeth had never once stopped chattering.

"But the ball of fire in your chest, it won't go away until I punish you?"

Draco didn't answer, but his lips started moving again. Lie lie lie lie lie . . .

Sighing, Harry let go of one of his hands, then lightly slapped it. "Enough? Is the ball of fire gone, then?"

Lie lie lie lie lie.

Something more extreme, then. Lines came to mind, but Harry didn't fancy watching Draco suffer through them, all the while repeating that word. Besides, he had said that the ball of fire inside him hurt. By then, Harry just wanted rid of it.

Pulling back his hand further, Harry slapped Draco's face. Not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to shock, he hoped.

"Is that better, then?"

Draco nodded, biting his lip as he looked down. Like the picture of someone who was ashamed to have needed such a thing. "Thank you. I will stop saying, now."

"Good. But if you tell me something by mistake, because you can't remember, it's not a lie. Remember that. Have you had enough to eat?"

Draco immediately pushed his plate away, so quickly that Harry suspected he'd eaten more than he'd wanted, on Harry's command. "When you feel full, you stop eating," explained Harry. "You'll feel ill, otherwise. You can't serve me as well if you feel ill, can you?"

"Ill is unimportant--"

"No, it's important to me." Harry gentled his voice. "I know things are confusing right now, but you're supposed to be learning what I want from you, right?"

"Shower, loo, I, clear up mess,--"

"Yes, exactly. And eat enough to stay strong to serve me, but not so much that you feel ill. I don't want to see you looking ill."

Draco gave a sharp nod at that, as though he'd got it. "And other duties?"

Right . . . Harry had said they would discuss them. Well, at least now he had an idea of something Draco could do that wouldn't be very house-elfish, and that would keep him busy, and possibly content. "I know you left Hogwarts without completing your education, but then later, did you have more tutors again, or go to another school, or anything like that?"

Draco thought that over carefully before replying. "I . . . no . . . I think there was a war on."

Draco had still had plenty of time to complete the seventh-year curriculum and take his N.E.W.T.s, after that, but apparently he hadn't bothered. "Well, I think I'd like you to read up on some of the things you missed, in that case."

"To serve better?"

No, thought Harry, but what he said out loud was, "Yes."

Harry could have done without contacting either one of Draco's parents for a while, but later that afternoon, he ended up having to floo them a letter. He and Draco had spent the time after lunch going through Harry's books, sorting out the ones that covered topics Harry had studied for his own N.E.W.T.s, when he'd done a course of study the year after the war had ended. True, his programme had been a little different, because he'd already been in Auror training at the time. In view of his "special contribution" to the safety of the wizarding world, they'd bent their usual rules. Bent them beyond recognition, actually.

Harry would have objected to that, if he hadn't been aware that they desperately needed trained Aurors as soon as possible.

Now, just a couple more years on, he was actually in charge of the entire department. Not much choice, really. Most of the more experienced Aurors had died in the war. A few had moved up, like Kingsley . . .

Harry's books, then, didn't cover everything a typical N.E.W.T. year might, but they could get Draco started, at any rate.

It was after they'd finished sorting books that the need to contact the Malfoys became apparent. One change of clothes obviously wasn't enough, but when Harry asked Draco for the Floo direction to his house, Draco couldn't remember ever having lived apart from his parents. Well, except for boarding school.

Harry didn't know if that meant that recent memories were harder for him to come by, or if something else was going on.

"All right, then," he said, shrugging the questions away. He could tell they weren't going to be answered any time soon. "Write your parents a letter, then, and ask them about the house."

Draco couldn't seem to comply, though. Oh, he fetched quill, parchment, and ink from the drawer Harry indicated, and he was able to write the date in the corner of the letter--after he asked Harry what the date was--but when he tried to scratch out a salutation, he couldn't force his hand down far enough to connect the quill to the parchment.

Droplets of ink spattered across it as he struggled.

Obviously, Draco wasn't allowed to write to his parents. Not yet, at any rate, not even with Harry's consent.

Before Draco could interpret that some way that would mean he needed to be punished, Harry swept the parchment away and announced that he'd changed his mind; he would prefer to write the letter himself. A couple of quick sentences, that was all he wrote. One to say that Draco was settling in, and another to request the Floo Network address of Draco's house.

The answer came, as before, within seconds. Harry had an awkward moment over that, imagining the Malfoys, or perhaps just Narcissa, waiting by the Floo for any word of her son.

Raven's Crag, the reply read.

Harry showed it to Draco, who just shrugged.

"You can't remember ever living at a place called this?"

"No, Harry Master," Draco said, most solemnly. "But . . ."

"But?"

"Last thing I remember is still during war."

They'd talked a little bit about that, Harry using some of the techniques he'd learned during Auror training -- to get people to run off at the mouth, basically. Amazing what they sometimes said. Draco, though, hadn't said anything terribly interesting. He knew there'd been a war and that it was now over, but he didn't have the faintest clue what side he'd been on. Actually, he didn't know that he'd even picked a side, let alone what anybody had been fighting about. And most definitely, his memory had skipped over the part where Harry had been involved in any of it. The most specific thing that Draco remembered about the war was the fact that he'd left school early because of it.

"Do you remember how to Floo? We can't very well Apparate if neither one of us knows where this Raven's Crag is."

"I floo to school one year. Was, is . . . not a problem, Harry Master."

That was good news, because Harry's Floo wasn't really big enough to fit two at once. "All right. I'll go first, since your father said the wards would think I'm in charge. I'll have to make sure they'll let you in, too. So, you wait five minutes after I leave, and then you follow me. Floo powder's in this bowl, here. You understand you can use it, right? That I want you to? Good, then. So what's the direction, again?"

"Raven's Crag."

"Yes." Harry gave Draco a quick, encouraging smile as he stepped over the hearth stones and threw down a pinch of powder.

Draco's house turned out to be well-named. Situated on a high bluff overlooking the ocean, it looked like it had been forged out of bare rock. The walls were craggy stone with no trace of seams or joins, and the ceiling in the room Harry flooed into was a flat plane of granite.

Lifting his wand, Harry inspected the wards. To his vast surprise, there didn't seem to be any dark magic woven through them. In fact, they were nothing but layers of simple spells; the house wasn't even unplottable.

On the other hand, it might not need to be. When Harry spelled the essence of the place into a hovering orb he'd conjured, so that he could examine the exterior from all directions, he saw that the house was hollowed out from rock. From all points on land, it looked like a hulking great rock, still. The house was only visible from the ocean, and that side boasted a glamour that made it blend into the cliff it sat on.

No front door . . . in fact, no outside doors at all. Only windows, facing a sheer drop down to pounding waves, far below. The only way to enter Raven's Crag would be by Floo or Apparition.

Harry understood, then. Draco's simple wards were enough to keep strangers out. There was no need for anything more dire, because the war was over, the Death Eaters extinguished as an organization, even though quite a few of them still lived.

And too, perhaps Draco's new, birch wand couldn't do any magic that was terribly complex. It might know that its master had been defeated . . .

Harry adjusted the wards to recognise Draco, and then looked around a little bit. All in all, he would describe the house as bare. There was luxurious furniture, but not much of it, and almost nothing in the way of decoration. Just huge expanses of jagged rock, and a couple of times, small paintings which were, strangely, turned to face the wall.

No sign of a house-elf.

Harry cast a time spell and frowned. What was keeping Draco?

Oh, bollocks. Something had evidently gone wrong. Harry focussed himself and then in one quick motion, spun himself back to his modest house in London.

Draco was on hands and knees in the living room, breathing so hard and fast it seemed like he couldn't possibly be drawing any air. His back was arching with each attempt, a high, thin noise of panic lacing the sound of hyperventilation . . .

Harry didn't hesitate. Pointing his wand, he filled Draco's lungs with oxygen, then summoned a calming draught from the kitchen. Dropping down beside Draco, Harry pulled him into an upright kneel and thrust the bottle against his lips. "One swallow, now, to calm you down. Come on . . ."

Draco was wheezing too hard to manage that at first, so Harry rubbed his back, up and down in firm, smooth motions, just as he'd learned in his course on basic healing. It worked; Draco relaxed and started breathing normally. "There now," Harry said, continuing the massage for a moment longer. "A swallow, now."

Draco gulped the potion down, taking, Harry would estimate, considerably more than a single swallow. In fact, a little spilled down the front of his robes when he moved his head in a way that almost upended the bottle.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Harry moved away and, still sitting on the floor, rested his head against the edge of an easy chair.

Draco stayed where he was, kneeling upright, but his expression was becoming distinctly silly. Damn. He had drunk too much of the calming draught.

"Oops," he said, chortling a little as he looked down at the small reddish stain on the front of his robes. "A mess. I clear up mess!"

With that, he had his wand out and was waving it in extravagant loops that had everything to do with showmanship and nothing at all to do with proper spell-casting. "Evanesco!"

The stain remained.

Sighing, Harry cleaned it off himself. "Draco, look at me."

"Harry Master?"

"When I came in, and you were having trouble breathing, did it feel like you were strangling?"

Draco tilted his head to one side, a slightly goofy grin curling his lips. "No, no."

"Then why were you having trouble breathing?"

"Harry Master said to floo to Raven's Crag. I try, I stay here, and Harry Master is waiting. Bad terrible wicked wrong thoughtless selfish Draco-slave to keep his master waiting."

Not this again, thought Harry. He didn't want to have to slap Draco each time some small thing went wrong. But if Draco needed punishment and would suffer worse without it . . .

Clearly, that wasn't the case this time. Draco had burbled all that out in a happy tone, and showed no sign of begging for forgiveness or the like.

The calming draught, thought Harry. It had somehow knocked Draco out of the spell-induced cycle of self-blame and reproach he'd been caught in during lunch.

Harry almost shuddered. Drugging Draco wasn't a hell of a lot better than striking him, and besides, the whole thing reminded him of how Winky had been constantly getting drunk. With some effort, he pushed that thought from his mind. "So, the Floo didn't work for you, you said? Would you try it again so I can see what happens?"

Draco obediently rose to his feet and took Floo powder from the bowl on the mantle. "Where to, Harry Master?"

"Try Raven's Crag."

Draco dropped the powder and called out his destination in a sing-song voice, but all that happened was he ended up with ash scattered across his shoes. "Oops! Mess!" he said again, actually giggling that time.

He started twirling his wand like a baton, in circles that went nowhere.

Harry started to think that maybe Snape had been right about the foolishness of buying ready-made potions instead of brewing your own.

Walking to Draco, he took his wand away before the strange wandwork could lead to an accident. "Try to floo to Malfoy Manor."

"Oooh, time for nice visit with Mummy and Father. Harry Master is good master--"

Draco flung down the powder with unrestrained glee, that time, but with no more result than before. Which didn't mean much about flooing in general; if the spell wouldn't let him write to his parents, it might easily keep him from going to them. Though, that wouldn't explain Raven's Crag.

Obviously disappointed, Draco stood staring at his sooty shoes, two great tears oozing from his eyes.

"I'll take you for a visit soon," Harry promised. "All right? Next week, maybe."

Nodding, Draco wiped at his face, his earlier antics completely extinguished. Hard to imagine him looking so carefree, now. He was the picture of sadness, standing there forlorn in the Floo, looking down at his feet.

Harry handed him a hanky, and gave him a couple of minutes to compose himself. "Can you try another, then? Just one more. I want to figure out what's happening with you and the Floo."

Draco raised his face. "I do, try, anything Harry Master desires. Anything, Master."

Those last two words were delivered in a husky tone.

Harry looked away, suddenly nervous, though he couldn't have said why. Oh well, perhaps it was because if this next test worked, Draco would end up alone in Diagon Alley. Harry got a pinch of powder ready for himself, so he could follow quickly. By then, though, he really didn't think Draco was going anywhere. Not even to a public Floo completely devoid of any wards. "Try Flourish and Blott's."

Draco ended up with more ash on his shoes. Sighing, Harry spelled it away. "Well, you obviously can't Floo anywhere. With me, maybe, but not alone." Unfortunately, when Harry thought about that, it made perfect sense. Some sort of measure to keep a slave from escaping, it seemed. Draco probably couldn't Apparate alone, either; Harry decided they would test that later.

For now, though, he wanted to know if the slavery spell was only restricted to magical forms of travel.

It wasn't: Draco couldn't walk beyond the edge of the property, not unless Harry was right beside him. He could wander the garden out back, and could walk down the front drive all the way to the pavement. But when he tried to put one foot on it, or go out through the back gate, it was like an invisible wall sprang up to block him.

Well, perhaps it would all settle. At least he wasn't trapped inside the house; he could go out for a spot of fresh air when he needed to.

Draco didn't take the news nearly as calmly. The moment they returned to the living room, he dropped to his knees, wrapped his arms tightly around himself, and began to rock back and forth. His eyes were closed, his features nothing short of anguished.

Harry's heart broke a little. "Draco . . . it's all right. I'll take you places. Lots of places."

Draco just kept rocking, like a small child seeking comfort and finding none. "Spell is--" Breaking off, he started shaking his head so violently that his slicking spell from earlier came loose. Shoulder-length strands flew back and forth, like a blur.

Harry couldn't bear to watch any longer. Sinking to his own knees beside Draco, he gathered him into a tight hug, rubbing his back again, like before, only this time, Harry was pressed against him while doing it, from the knees up.

And definitely, it had been no coincidence before that touch had seemed to quiet Draco. Harry's touch. Maybe that was why Narcissa had looked so sad when Harry had said that he'd make sure nobody touched Draco, why she'd pointed out that Harry certainly could. She'd known that Draco would need a friendly embrace, now and again.

Draco had sort of leaned into Harry's touch earlier, but now, it was more like he melted into it, his whole body relaxing, his head falling down to rest on Harry's shoulder. Forehead, at first, but then Draco turned his head to lay his cheek there instead. He made a low noise of pleasure, his breathing slow and deep, and gradually, bit by bit, wrapped his arms around Harry.

For a long time, it seemed, they just knelt there together, holding one another, Draco still rocking back and forth, but only slightly, now.

When he actually started to nuzzle Harry's neck, though, his lips scattering small, dry, kisses all across the skin, Harry decided they'd hugged long enough. He wriggled out of Draco's embrace. Bit difficult, that; Draco seemed to be trying to hang on, but his arms dropped as soon as Harry made a real effort to extricate himself.

"You feel better about it, now? I'll take you lots of places; you don't need to worry."

Draco's forehead crinkled. "Not worried. Spell is wrong, that is all."

Harry nodded, thinking this perhaps the first sign he'd seen of the real Draco, buried somewhere in the slavelike persona the spell was forcing onto him. "Of course it's wrong. You shouldn't have to be locked up on my property like that, able to leave only if you're with me, you should be able to go when and where you please--"

"No, I meant . . ." It looked like he was struggling to find words. "Spell is wrong to think that Draco-slave would run away. Draco-slave . . . I never would do such thing. Never, ever, ever. I stay here, serve Harry Master. Always." He made a scoffing noise. "No need magic for to keep me here. I am good slave!"

Harry felt like his heart had suddenly dropped a full twelve inches. Not such a good sign, after all. Draco hadn't been upset at his captivity, he'd only been upset at the implication that he needed bars to keep him in it.

Sighing, Harry handed Draco the birch wand. No doubt about it, he had to stop being so impatient for Draco to recover. All told, it was only his first day at a slave. Lucius, or maybe Narcissa, had said that the process might take months. The spell had to settle, first. Draco had to come to know Harry in this new context, before the magic would let him remember the old one. Probably, the spell had to be sure that Draco wouldn't let his anger and hatred overcome his need to be the "good slave" he kept calling himself.

That would all take time; of course it would. Harry knew that. But still, he couldn't help but hope that a visit to Raven's Crag might jar some sort of memory loose.

"I am good slave?" Draco said again, the words that time clearly a question.

He needed reassurance on that point, obviously. Harry didn't hesitate.

"You are a good slave," he said soothingly, one hand stroking over Draco's fine hair before grasping his elbow to pull him to his feet. "Come now, stand up. I'll Apparate us both to Raven's Crag, now, so you can gather up some clothes and other things."

That time, when Harry opened his arms, he wasn't surprised that Draco stepped willingly into them.

Their visit to Raven's Crag was largely uneventful.

Draco clearly didn't remember the house at all. He didn't even know where his bedroom was, though he did recognise the clothes in the closet as his. With a little more chance to look about, Harry noticed that there weren't any books in the house, which struck him as odd. But then, the place was largely bare of amenities. Not even the kitchen was well-stocked.

All in all, Raven's Crag gave the impression of not having been much lived-in. At least, not lately. When they left, Harry learned that Draco could indeed Apparate on his own, but a few more tests showed that he could only do it if he was returning to Harry's house. Res mea es was willing to let him go home; it just wasn't willing to let him leave again, not alone.

By evening, Harry was feeling exhausted. Caring for a slave was a hell of a lot of work, it turned out. He couldn't help but wonder what kind of daft wizard had even dreamed this up. The idea that Draco had to be told to eat . . . it was so oppressive that all Harry could think was that one of his ancestors, way back, must have been a vindictive sort of bloke.

To say the least.

Then again, maybe the idea was just to start with a blank slate, so you could make for yourself any kind of slave you wanted. Draco did seem . . . kind of blank. Like he was in there, somewhere, but the spell wasn't going to let him come out until he'd learned what Harry wanted from him, and settled into it.

But, at least he was learning, bit by bit. Dinner had been easier than lunch, Draco needing less urging to eat, though Harry did still have to say so. That came as no surprise, of course; but Draco wanting to help with the cooking and the washing up certainly did. He knew the right spells, too; knew ones Harry had never heard of.

As far as Harry was concerned, none of it tallied. Why did Draco not keep a house-elf to see to such things? His family could surely spare one, but there'd been no trace of elf-magic at Raven's Crag; Harry had checked. Why would he have learned the spells to do these chores? And where had he learned them? They formed no part of the Hogwarts curriculum, and Harry certainly couldn't imagine Narcissa Malfoy doing her own housework.

The only part that made sense, when Harry thought about it, was Draco's interest in doing such work, now. It was only his first day as a slave, but he seemed already to have got the idea that Harry didn't want him standing about doing nothing. Since he apparently couldn't imagine expending any effort on his own behalf, he started following Harry and asking if he could be of service. At first, Harry had seriously doubted he could be, of course. What would Draco know of mixing up some salad dressing from a packet?

Well, he knew how to read, and how to summon whatever the directions called for, and he knew an amazing spell that whisked the ingredients into a creamy froth, and he wanted to help, so . . . Harry told himself it wasn't so bad to let him. He didn't like the idea of treating Draco like a house-elf, let alone a slave, but he wasn't really doing that, was he? They both had to eat. Only fair if they both helped cook.

And clear up afterwards as well, since Draco left the table when Harry did, and asked, as before, how he could be of service.

That night, when it was time to sleep, Harry tried to be very clear about what he wanted. He didn't want another towel incident.

He got one, though.

"Now, when I go to my room at night," Harry said, opening the door to the guest room, "you should come here to yours."

"I stay here to wait to serve Harry Master?"

"No," said Harry firmly. "You go to sleep. You should sleep when I do, or a little earlier if you feel like it--"

A look so blank that Harry realised his mistake at once. "If it's night and you start to yawn a lot, that means it's time to go to bed. Now, first, you should make sure you use the loo and then if you're dirty you'll take a shower, right? And dry yourself with a towel, and then you clean your teeth. Then you get dressed for bed. For sleeping, you should wear pyjamas."

Draco had several pairs now; in fact, his drawers were bulging with clothes, with more hung up in the wardrobe.

"Look presentable," he said, gravely.

Harry had a sudden startling vision of Draco wearing the emerald green silk pyjamas they'd fetched, the bottoms riding low on his hips, the top unbuttoned to the waist.

He shook his head to clear it, and thought of saying that it didn't matter if Draco looked presentable at night. On the other hand, he didn't want Draco forming bad habits, either. And there was no telling how long it would be before he could think of himself, a little bit, so Harry forced himself to nod. "And then you go to sleep until morning, so you can be well-rested for the new day."

Thinking everything had been sorted, Harry left Draco to it.

In the middle of the night, Harry woke up to an odd sound. Not quite wind, not quite wail . . . he grabbed his wand and glasses from the night table, and padded downstairs to investigate. The noise was coming from outside and turned out to be a young cat caught in the neighbour's fence. Harry set it on its way, then went back inside.

He almost went straight back to his own room, but since he was up anyway, he decided he might as well look in on Draco, whose room was just a few steps beyond his, in any case.

Oh, no. It was a good thing Harry had kept his wand tip lit. If not, he'd have tripped over Draco, who was sleeping on the floor, right across his open doorway. No blanket to cover him, nor even a sheet. And no pillow, and nothing to separate him from the cold floor except the thin fabric of his pyjamas.

Harry closed his eyes against the sight of him. Sure enough, Draco was wearing the emerald green ones, and they clung to him as much as Harry had thought they would. But at least his top was properly buttoned up.

Presentable, as Draco would say.

Crouching down, Harry shook the sleeping man awake. "Draco, Draco. Wake up!"

He suddenly sat bolt upright. "I can serve you how, Harry Master?"

"Why aren't you using the bed?"

Draco looked around the dark floor, swivelling his head, apparently unable to answer.

"Why are you sleeping here?" tried Harry.

"Oh. Best place. You said to sleep in room. Is best place in room."

"What makes it the best place?"

He knew the answer already, in the instant before Draco spoke. "Closest to Harry Master."

As if that was all that mattered. But of course, it was all that did, to Draco. Hoping to change that, even if just a tiny bit, Harry stretched a hand to Draco's neck and rubbed the tendons on one side. "But don't you have a crick in your neck, now? Doesn't your back ache a bit?"

Draco leaned into Harry's touch, his voice emerging huskily. "Unimportant."

Harry moved his hand away before it got kissed, this time. "Draco, you are important."

That same baffled look, and then a glimmer of understanding. Or, as seemed typical, misunderstanding. "Oh, because good slave important for good service." He actually beamed.

"Yes," said Harry wearily. If it was the only way to get Draco to take care of himself, then so be it. "So, for good service I want you to sleep well, and that happens better when you use the bed. That's your bed." He pointed. "Go on. I don't want to see you sleeping on the floor again."

Draco obediently rose to his feet and padded across the room. Harry almost turned to go back to his own room, but a sudden dark suspicion held him back. Sure enough, what he saw Draco do at the far edge of Harry's Lumos was climb atop the bed instead of getting into it.

Sighing, Harry made his way across the room. "Up," he said, giving Draco's hand a bit of a yank since the man was almost asleep again, already.

Draco stumbled to his feet and spoke in a slurred voice. "I can serve you how--"

Harry's temper was never at its best at two o'clock in the morning, but he managed not to actually yell. "You can bloody well sleep in the bed." To make matters obvious, he turned down the covers. "Get in. Now, pull the sheet and blanket up, and lie down, head on the pillow. There, isn't that more comfortable?"

Draco bit his lip and didn't answer; Harry had the feeling that his reply would have been that "closer to Harry Master" was more comfortable. Though it was debatable if the concept of comfort was one Draco truly understood. At least, in reference to himself.

Since that night, though, they'd had no more misunderstandings about sleep. In fact, they'd had few real problems, but part of that was because Harry had thought ahead to how to handle his return to work. He ended up taking Monday off, since he wasn't sure Draco was ready to be left alone, and he spent part of the morning charming the Floo so that it would making a ringing sound when a letter from Harry appeared. Draco had strict instructions to open those at once, and heed them.

No choice, really; short of going home for lunch, it was the only way to be sure that Draco ate and drank something. Draco could follow instructions that he should use the loo whenever he needed to relieve himself, but that might be because Harry had made such an issue of him always looking presentable. He simply didn't remember to eat on his own, and even instructions that he eat each day at noon didn't help. He didn't see how eating helped him serve Harry better, particularly not when breakfast and dinner with Harry were enough to keep him going.

He would eat, though, when Harry's letter came through with a direct, immediate command to do so.

Draco used the Floo as well, to write Harry short missives twice each day. He had instructions to explain what he was doing with his time. Harry didn't like keeping such close tabs on him, but at least this way, he'd get some kind of warning if something with the spell was going terribly wrong.

Surveillance spells would have been simpler, but their use was highly restricted, for good reason, and Harry really didn't want to explain to the Board of Review why he needed to install them on his own house.

So far, nobody knew that Draco was his slave. Harry hadn't even told Ginny. He kept meaning to. He knew he had to, but it was just so easy to put it off, and off . . .

A whooshing noise announced the arrival of Draco's Thursday afternoon letter. Harry picked it up and scanned it, mostly to make sure Draco was eating properly, then tossed it back on the fire to burn up. Really, Draco didn't seem to have any problems keeping himself busy, mainly because Harry had been sure to give him plenty of "duties." Anything was better than the prospect of Draco with nothing to do but wait for Harry to come home each night. That, Harry thought, would be far more cruel than giving Draco a list of things he could work at as time permitted.

Draco did all the work Harry requested, but he also spent a great deal of his time reading. The books Harry had chosen served to keep him both busy and content, but reading also had the effect of rapidly improving his speech. Within just a couple of days, Draco was talking in a much more natural manner, although he still persisted in calling Harry his "Harry Master." Harry tried to gently dissuade him from that, but Draco couldn't seem to understand that the term Master was unwelcome. Harry thought of insisting, but suspected that it would only lead to Draco begging his pardon until Harry gave in and punished him.

Far better to just get used to the word, Harry had decided. At least Draco didn't use the term when he was writing. But then, Harry had told him to make his letters brief, but to be sure and mention what he ate for lunch, as well as anything unusual that had happened. Draco's letters were a study in compliance.

Tuesday's notes had said, I read in Advanced Charms text and practiced new spells A through E. and then later, I eat sandwich and drink milk, then spelled fungus off strawberries in garden.

On Wednesday, Draco announced, I studied healing grimoire and cleaned curtains, rugs followed by, I ate leftover pot roast with mashed potatoes and drank two cups of tea, then fed owl that came. Letter is for you. I put it on the table.

It had turned out to be a letter from the Malfoys, extending an invitation to dine with them at their home one week hence. They mentioned that they could not write privately to Draco unless Harry permitted it, as he had permitted the private conversation in the bedroom. A hint, if Harry had ever heard one, but he ignored it. The Malfoys might not be able to obstruct Harry's wishes when it came to Draco, but that didn't mean he wanted them writing him all the time. Even loving him as they did, they'd probably say something that would fuck him up.

Well, truth to tell, they'd already done that. Harry didn't have any illusions about what kind of person Draco Malfoy was--and would be again, when his memories came back in full--but he also didn't have any doubt about what had made him that way. Who had made him that way.

But it would be cruel to Draco to deny all contact, so Harry had written a brief note accepting the invitation. He had a feeling he was probably going to regret that, come the early part of next week, but for now, he didn't have much thought to spare for it. Tomorrow was Friday, and his regular night to have dinner out with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. Ginny's regular night to sleep over, too.

And Harry still hadn't told any of them a blessed thing about Res mea es.

Harry tried to tackle the matter with Draco, that evening, as soon as they sat down to eat. "I'm going to have some friends over, tomorrow night. For dinner."

He'd decided earlier that day that this week at least, eating in a restaurant would be impossible. How could he say anything at all in one? Even a wizarding establishment wouldn't do for this sort of conversation. Too many eager ears all around, always looking for a spot of gossip to sell to the dailies.

Harry had read enough about himself to last a lifetime, already.

He'd toyed briefly with the idea of casting a privacy charm so nobody could overhear him talking with his friends, but no, there were too many ways around such spells. Besides, a spell like that, in a public place, was guaranteed to generate press attention.

Boy Hero Pops Question at Last . . . He could see the headlines already. Not that he was a boy any longer. He wondered how far into his twenties he'd have to be before the papers would stop calling him that.

He also wondered, not for the first time, why people had to be so obsessed with his love life. They all assumed he'd end up with Ginny, of course. Harry basically assumed that too, though he thought he ought to be looking forward to it more than he was. But why did the papers have to . . . well, hound him about moving past dating to engagement? Why couldn't they just leave the timing up to him?

"Friends for dinner," Draco repeated, nodding slowly.

"Yes. And the thing is . . ." Harry forced himself to meet Draco's gaze. "You know, I claimed you kind of suddenly, and . . . er, my friends don't know a thing about it."

Draco looked a little bit confused, like he was trying to figure out what Harry wanted from him. "I am . . ." Shaking his head, he started over. "Am I a secret?"

"No. Well, sort of . . ." Harry smiled in an apologetic way. "I mean, I am going to tell them. I just don't know quite how to go about it. Not many people have . . . uh . . . somebody like you, living with them."

"Somebody like me?" Draco swept his gaze over himself.

Harry didn't like to say it, but he supposed he might as well get over that. Hermione wasn't going to put up with him pretending this wasn't what it was, that was for damned sure. "A slave, I meant. Having one isn't very common. Were you aware of that?"

"I don't know. I never gave it thought . . ." Draco closed his eyes for a moment, like he was trying to puzzle it out, or perhaps remember what he knew. "How many, then?"

"As far as I know, you're the only one."

A longish pause. "Oh . . . only slave?"

"Wizard slave, yes." Harry braced himself in case Draco found that upsetting. He should have known, by then, that Draco wouldn't. In fact, Draco didn't appear to find it significant in the least.

"Harry Master, I meant, how many friends? For dinner?"

Harry had been dreading telling Draco how unique he was, and by implication, how very unfair the situation, but now, he found himself paradoxically annoyed that Draco had taken the news so calmly. "Three," he said, a little sharply.

"What shall I prepare?"

God, Draco just didn't get it at all, Harry thought, frustrated. He didn't want to see the other man drowning in misery, or anything, but neither did he want to go on like this, with Draco's whole personality subsumed into this other person . . . a person who thought it was right and proper for him to be a slave.

"I don't want you to cook."

"The meal tonight is not satisfactory?"

Harry had been late getting home, and had been a little astonished to realise that Draco had gone ahead and cooked, without even being told to. But then, he did seem to be trying to anticipate Harry's wishes. He could sometimes infer what he should do, without being told, now.

The spell was settling, and Draco had no trouble understanding that Harry needed to eat each night. He just didn't ever pay attention to his own needs, unless Harry specifically said to.

At any rate, the food Draco had prepared was more than satisfactory; it was excellent. No mystery, there. Harry did have cookery books, and Draco had years of practice following potions recipes. He could even remember them, though he had no idea who had taught the class, or that Harry had been in it with him, year after year.

"What you made tonight is very good," said Harry, forking a bit of pasta into his mouth. It sort of dissolved on his tongue, the creamy tang of the sauce lingering even after he swallowed. "But I can do the cooking tomorrow, Draco."

God knew, he didn't want to take advantage of this situation.

"As you wish."

The trouble was, Harry didn't wish. He wasn't bad at cooking, but he didn't like it all that much, either. Which was why he liked to go out to restaurants when he spent an evening with his friends, though of course he did have them over for a meal, sometimes.

Draco suddenly got up and walked out of the room, which wasn't something he'd done before, unless Harry had asked him to. Before Harry could wonder much about it, though, Draco had returned, a length of parchment in his hand. "You are missing some things for kitchen," he said, laying it down before Harry as he resumed his seat. Oh, a list. "I take liberty of writing them for you. Is that to your satisfaction?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure," said Harry, feeling a little dazed. Draco cooking dinner on his own initiative was one thing; he did know that Harry liked to eat each night. But this . . . this was something Harry had never mentioned at all, really. He hadn't even noticed that his larder was getting bare.

It gave him hope that somewhere inside Draco, a spark of independence was starting to flare. "Long list," Harry said, studying it. Was he really out of butter and eggs? Huh.

"I regret that I cannot do shopping for Harry Master." Draco scowled, his eyes narrowing. "I would not run off, no matter what spell thinks. I beg you to believe it."

Was that an expression of need, maybe? Draco needed to be believed? Harry hoped so, anyway. He'd take whatever progress he could get.

Though come to think of it, he was pretty sure Draco would run off, as soon as he got his memories back. And if the spell kept him here against his will . . . Harry didn't even want to think about it.

But this tiny spark of independence Draco had demonstrated in making the list . . . Harry wanted to encourage more of that. "I'll send this on to the grocer's, and they'll deliver by Floo," he said, "so we're fully stocked by morning. But Draco, if you had all this available, what would you want to cook?"

"Whatever you would wish."

Strange answer, considering that Draco had decided on his own what to prepare for that day's dinner. He hadn't needed Harry to direct him.

"Suppose I want you to pick. What would you decide to make?"

Draco studied the list, his forehead furrowing. "This . . . no combination of this could make a meal worthy of serving to Harry Master entertaining friends."

Harry wasn't so sure about worthy, but he did want to encourage Draco to think for himself, so he asked, "What if you could cook anything at all? Assume we'll get the ingredients. What would you make then?"

Draco sat back in his chair and spoke with very little hesitation. "Oh. Lemon chicken with braised asparagus and almond torte for dessert."

Harry chuckled. "You know how to make all that?"

"I saw instructions earlier this afternoon. In . . . Chinese Cooking for Beginners and A Taste of France."

Harry almost winced. Those had been house-warming presents from Ginny a couple of years ago, and he'd barely even looked at them, yet. "Chinese and French food together?"

"If that is problem I can make another plan--"

"No, it's not any problem." Harry smiled. "List out what you need, and I'll make sure it all gets ordered tonight."

By the time the doorbell rang the following evening, Harry was a nervous wreck. Why had he thought it would be such a good idea to do this at his house, with Draco there all the while? There was no telling what any of his friends might say, about Harry's history with Draco, or how they'd been on opposite sides of the war, or how Harry had bested Draco and taken his wand, and still had it.

Of course, Harry could have told Draco all that himself, but he hadn't. He'd thought it best for Draco to recall things on his own. Or rather, he'd told himself that the spell must have reasons for doing things this way.

The truth though, was something a little different.

He didn't want Draco to start hating him again, Harry realised. He wanted him to remember . . . but not that.

"Should I answer door?" asked Draco, looking puzzled.

"No, I'll do it," said Harry, swallowing. "I should have mentioned this before, but my friends went to Hogwarts . . . er, with you."

Harry didn't know what Draco might make of that, but all the other man did was look down at the floor, and say one thing. "They stayed to study, I think."

"No, the war got in their way, too. Except for Ginny." Sighing, Harry motioned for Draco to wait in the living room. Then, because there was nothing else to do, Harry went and opened the front door.

"Hallo," said Harry, doing his best to smile as he stood in the doorway.

Ginny threw her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth. He kind of wished she wouldn't do that, not right in front of her brother. But, not much point in secrets, was there? The whole Weasley family knew where she slept on Friday nights. Harry had been a little surprised that Arthur and Molly hadn't ever taken him to task for not marrying her first--or yet, come to think of it--but perhaps they thought they couldn't, since Ron and Hermione had lived together for six months before they'd got married.

Or maybe they were just hearing wedding bells in the distance, as Ginny was, and they didn't want to jinx it.

For some reason, Ginny's kiss tonight seemed . . . off, somehow. Harry didn't know why. Even if kissing her wasn't earth-shattering these days, it was usually pleasant; Harry certainly didn't mind it. Not usually, at any rate.

Tonight, he just wanted it to be over.

Probably shows how much I need to get the awful part of the evening over with, Harry thought.

As gently as he could, he untangled himself from Ginny's embrace and more-or-less set her to the side.

Ron arched an eyebrow. "Ever planning to let us in?"

That was when Harry realised he was still blocking the doorway. Just as well, though. Taking one step forward, he pulled the door closed behind him. "Yeah, in a minute. But I have to talk to you, first. It's important." Drawing his wand, Harry cast a privacy charm. Here, on his own property, it would interact with his wards and ensure that no one heard them. Not that reporters hung about in his front yard, anyway. Thank God for that, at least.

Though it might have a lot to do with his job, actually. It wasn't easy to elude an Auror, and trespassing on private property was illegal.

Harry's main consideration in casting it had been Draco, however. Not reporters.

Hermione glanced left and right, like she was wondering what Harry could be thinking. "If you want to speak in seclusion, wouldn't inside the house be a better choice?"

Dropping his wand back into his pocket, Harry faced all three of his friends, his features rigid. "No, it really wouldn't. Draco Malfoy's in there, and I don't want him to hear what I need to say."

For a moment, there was complete silence in his front yard, as well as what Harry could only think of as a deathly chill in the air. Not really, of course, but it did seem to him that the temperature suddenly nose-dived.

It was Hermione who recovered first. Her voice weak, almost cracking, she looked like she was putting a brave face on when she said, "Oh . . . well, that's good of you, Harry. Very mature, to let bygones be bygones, and . . . invite him to your home." Her tone grew slightly warmer as she continued. "So that's why you had us come here for dinner. None of the public's business if you want to try to put the past completely behind you."

It would be so easy to agree to that interpretation and let her think this was just Harry finally closing the door on everything that had happened in the war. But no, tempting as it was, he knew it wouldn't work. Draco wasn't himself, after all. These three would recognise it in less than a minute. So, Harry obviously had to explain. Before he could get a word in, though, everybody else was talking.

"That git's not worth knowing--"

"Oh, Ron. That's not the point. Harry moving on is!"

And then Ginny, her voice furious. "Harry, who you invite to your house is your business, I suppose, at least until we're married, but I for one don't care to sit down to dinner with a Death Eater!"

"Yeah, me neither!" said Ron, his jaw clenching. "Come on, Hermione. We're leaving!"

Harry could see this rapidly spiralling out of control, if he didn't do something fast. "Look, in normal circumstances I'd never want Draco inside my house," he hissed, his lips twisting. That kind of statement was just the reason why he hadn't wanted Draco listening to this conversation. Harry didn't know what Draco would do if he heard a thing like that, but it wouldn't be anything good. Harry was sure of it. "But these aren't normal circumstances, and if you'll all just listen to me for a minute, I'll explain!"

That shut them up, though Ron was going purple-faced and Ginny's lips were a thin, straight line.

"Look, the first thing is, he's basically got amnesia and doesn't remember his part in the war. Or mine. So don't go blaming him for things or even talking about it, because there's really no point. He won't have a clue what you're going on about."

Ron let loose a disgusted, contemptuous laugh. Really quite an ugly sound. "No, you look, Harry. Amnesia doesn't excuse what he did, and it's no reason for you to go forgiving him--"

"Oh, for God's sake. I haven't forgiven him!"

Ron's whole face contorted. "Then why the fuck are you having him to dinner?"

"Because I'm stuck with it!"

Ginny crossed her arms over her chest, still obviously irate. Though Harry had to give her credit; she did seem to be trying to giving him some benefit of the doubt, by then. "Well, I think you ought to let the Ministry know that your private life is off-limits, Harry. Not that I can see why they'd think it's your job at all, to try to help him get his memory back. You didn't sign up for anything like that when you became an Auror. And why do they care, anyway, if he's gone mental? He's just a worthless Death Eater!"

Ron had gone still. "Oh, I get it now. He's got information on some crime, and you're trying to tease it out of whatever's left of his brain?"

"Let Harry talk," said Hermione. "Harry?"

"He's not got information on any crime. Not that I know about, anyway." Harry sighed. He'd been trying to lead up to the truth, but there wasn't any real way to prepare them for it. He'd always known that. Best to just spit it out, now. "He's here because he's my slave, all right?"

"Slave?" All three of them at once.

"Yes." Harry rubbed the back of his neck, which was radiating a pain up into his skull, by then.

"You're serious?"

Harry gave Hermione a weary look. "You think I'd joke about a thing like that? To you, of all people?"

"But . . . I don't understand. That's not even legal!"

Harry supposed it probably wasn't, but then, it wasn't like he was holding Draco against his will. The magic was doing it. "Look, as far as I'm concerned he's free to go, but the spell won't let him. And before you ask, it's called Res mea es, and I'm the one who cast it on him, but I had to, because he was going to die otherwise, and whatever you think of him, I couldn't let that happen."

"Oh, Harry." That was Hermione again, her voice very soft.

Ron's nostrils flared. Widely. "You did it to save his life? Malfoy's life? Why would you bother?"

"Well, it's not like you haven't done it yourself," said Harry fiercely.

"Shut up," said Ron gruffly.

"He was going to die how?" asked Ginny.

Harry explained, briefly, about Lucius' strange visit and Narcissa's letter, and then his trip to Malfoy Manor. By the time he finished, Ron was almost cackling. "His parents begged you, begged. To make him a slave. Yours! Oh, that's some kind of divine justice there, isn't it--"

"Oh, hush Ron. Of course it isn't," said Hermione sharply.

By then, Ginny just looked sad. "What are you going to do, Harry?"

"There's not much I can do, at the moment." Sighing, Harry explained about the spell needing to settle, after which Draco might start to remember more things. "For now, though, he's almost helpless without me. And don't start, Ron. I bet you couldn't send him away, either, not knowing it would mean his death. I don't have any illusions about what he did, but if you'll think back, I never was calling for him to get the Kiss, you know."

"What have you learned about this spell, so far?"

Harry stared at Hermione. "I just told you."

She rolled her eyes. "You haven't researched it at all, have you?"

"Since it's been dead for five hundred years, killed by someone who apparently destroyed all knowledge of it, no, I didn't bother."

"You never can tell what an investigation will turn up. I'd think an Auror would appreciate that."

Ginny came and took his hand. "You've had such a hard week," she said, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. "Poor Harry, having to put up with that man in your house."

Harry didn't really like her pitying tone. Or the things she was saying. It hadn't been so awful to have Draco around, especially not once Harry had figured out how to deal with the peculiar spell keeping him there.

"But what made the spell come back to life, then?" asked Hermione, even as a little smile played about her mouth. She liked to see Harry and Ginny getting along. Harry had no doubt that Hermione and Ginny talked wedding plans a lot. "Malfoy's parents thought you had caused it, somehow?"

"They thought I must have discovered I was entitled to claim Draco." Harry sighed. "They assumed I was letting him die on purpose."

Ginny began stroking her fingers over his palm, the caress slow and soothing. "Well, that just shows they have no idea about the kind of man you are. We'll get through this, Harry. I don't want to see him, ever, but . . . I understand."

Harry swallowed. He'd sort of been assuming that she wouldn't understand at all, that she'd storm off after announcing that she'd never set foot in his house again, not until he got rid of Draco Malfoy and deloused it, besides. Uh-oh . . . it suddenly struck him that things would have been easier that way. That he'd almost been counting on it . . .

Not that he wanted to end things with Ginny. It wasn't like that. He just didn't want to be pestered about getting married.

"Are you sure you didn't discover something, though?" asked Hermione, the light in her eyes intense, as it always was when she was puzzling out a problem. "Some connection between the two of you, some remnant of this spell, maybe when you were out working a case?"

"I'd have noticed it if I ran across anything claiming my family used to own his," said Harry wryly. "I really do think that would catch my attention."

"Perhaps it was so arcane you didn't realise what it was saying--"

"Then I'd have officially counted as ignorant still, wouldn't I? Hermione, I really can't help you as to what set this off. I just don't know. I haven't even been out on a case for a month. There's too much else to do, to manage the department."

"Thought you liked to have a hand in," said Ron, a little gruffly.

"Don't you think Harry's had enough of dark wizards for a while?" asked Ginny, her voice airy. Bloody annoying tone. And she was wrong, anyway. He'd moved up because Kingsley had asked him to, and because that was where he'd been needed most.

"Well, no," said Ron, a bit nastily. "Seeing as he's got one in his house, as we speak."

"Draco's not a dark wizard and he's not a Death Eater, not now," said Harry, gritting his teeth and shaking off Ginny's hand. "He doesn't know a thing about any of that, and I'll thank you not to tell him. The spell needs to settle, first, like I explained. Now, if you don't want to stay to dinner, any of you, I can certainly understand that. But I have to go back in, now. Draco's been left alone too long."

Ginny's face twisted. "Of course I'll stay to dinner." Her tone said she wanted to judge the situation inside for herself. "But what's this about not leaving him alone? You go to work, don't you?"

Harry didn't mention that he'd taken a day off. "He's used to that. He's not used to a lot of other things, though, and I'm responsible for him. Trust me, he doesn't handle stress so well, just now."

"Bursts into tears, does he, like the mummy's boy he always was?"

"Oh, Ron, try to have a little compassion," said Hermione sternly. "I, for one, feel very sorry for Draco Malfoy."

"Little ferret didn't feel sorry for you when you were screaming your lungs out."

Hermione raised her chin a notch. "If you think I'm about to sink to his level, then you're very much mistaken. This is tragic, all of it, and for both their sakes I hope it won't last long. Harry, I'll see if I can discover anything that might help."

Harry smiled, though personally, he thought it was a lost cause. "I'll write it down for you, the whole incantation I used to claim him. So . . . coming in, Ron? I think your wife and sister are."

Ron took a step forward. "I guess I might as well see him laid low. Slave . . . probably just about what he deserves."

Harry hated this, but he couldn't risk Draco's fragile mental state, not even to appease his friend. "You can't come in if you're going to talk that way in front of him. I'm serious. Whatever you say to upset him is going to make my life harder, when I have to try to set him right, afterwards. I don't need it."

"Oh, fine," grumbled Ron. "If I can't say something . . . well, not nice, but neutral, then I won't say anything at all. Work for you?"

"Yeah," said Harry, relieved.

"What do you have him do all day long, anyway?"

"Study for his N.E.W.T.s, mostly." Harry turned back toward the door. "He never bothered trying to get any."

Hermione grabbed Harry's elbow before he could turn the knob. "He did, though," she said, her voice the one she used when she definitely knew what she was talking about. "Harry, you know I help administer the tests for independent learners. Draco Malfoy sat for eight N.E.W.T.s last year, and he passed them all."

Draco wasn't in the living room. Harry did a quick circuit of the ground floor, just glancing into each room, but Draco was nowhere to be found.

"He must have gone upstairs, I guess," he said as he returned to his friends. Harry wasn't sure why Draco would have done that; by this time, the other man was pretty good at reading Harry's moods, and Harry had wanted him to wait right where he was.

Then again, Draco was almost compulsive about his appearance, so he might have decided he should wash his face or change into new robes, something like that. He usually re-applied charms to his clothes and hair several times each day, Harry had noticed. As a result, Draco almost never looked anything other than completely presentable.

Harry might have tried to get him to relax about it, except that the trait reminded him of Draco back at school, too. He'd always come to class looking like he could just as easily be attending a photo-shoot, instead. So perhaps Draco wasn't compulsive so much because of what Harry had said to him . . . perhaps it was just a part of who he was.

A part he hadn't lost.

"Why don't you all have a seat, and I'll be right back with him--"

"I'll get some drinks together," Ginny announced. Well, she did know her way around Harry's kitchen and Harry had never minded when she made herself at home, but he still kind of wished she wouldn't take it on herself to play hostess like that. As far as Harry was concerned, sleeping over once a week made her a frequent guest, nothing more. But then, he had talked, early on, about how they'd get married when he was ready, so maybe she thought she had a perfect right to presume.

Hermione sat down on the couch, pulling Ron down beside her, and started talking to him in a quiet voice as she waved for Harry to go and fetch Draco.

Draco was in his bedroom, all right, sitting upright on the edge of the bed and reading a book. To anyone else, it might look like he'd decided to indulge a discourteous whim, but Harry knew better. He'd told Draco that when he had nothing else to do, he might as well continue his readings. And he'd said that he wanted Draco to sit down for them.

That, after he'd come upon him standing in the middle of the room, a book held aloft to study.

Thoughts of studying reminded Harry of what Hermione had just said. Eight N.E.W.T.s, eight. He didn't doubt for a moment that Hermione was right, and not just because she'd spoken with such confidence. It also explained an awful lot, such as why Draco seemed to be going through Harry's books with such ease. He'd probably learned all this information before. Even if he'd forgotten it, relearning was a simple task. And he might not properly have forgotten, either. It might just be a case of Draco's brain needing to be reminded of what it already knew.

Strange to think reminders would be needed, though. Draco remembered a lot about his lessons from Hogwarts; he just didn't remember much in the social realm. Almost nothing, in fact. But if he could recall those lessons, then why not these, as well?

Another question that probably wasn't going to be answered soon. Harry added it to the growing list in his head as he stepped inside the guest room.

Draco immediately laid the book aside and rose to his feet. "How can I be of use to--"

"Why didn't you wait downstairs like I said?"

"Like you said?"

"Yes, I told you to--" Thinking back, though, Harry didn't think he had actually used any words. "Um, I gestured, like this." He waved his hand.

A ghost of a smile flitted across Draco's lips. "Like this?" he asked, imitating the motion.

Oh. Harry could see how it could have been taking for a shooing gesture. Well, he'd been awfully nervous at the time. Still was.

"Why come up here, though?"

"I seek only to please you, Harry Master, and I thought it best course. If I do wrong, I beg you to correct me so I can improve in all things."

Well, at least Draco was calm this time, about the idea that he might have made a mistake. Though, the times when he had panicked, it had been because he believed he had lied, or because he'd been prevented from following Harry's directions. And both those times had been on his first day as a slave. Things had been much better since then. As far as Harry could tell, the spell was definitely settling.

"Nothing's wrong, Draco. I just want to know why you thought it best to come up here instead of stay downstairs."

At that, Draco shrugged. "You said that I am a sort of secret."

Oh, God. Harry had a sudden squirmy memory of the Dursleys having people to dinner and making him stay in his room until the guests were long gone. He'd never do that to another person; he knew how demoralizing it was. Not that Draco appeared perturbed in the least. Harry was obviously a lot more upset about the whole thing than the other man was.

"I didn't mean that you had to hide yourself away," he said, swallowing. "I mean, I said I was going to tell my friends about you, remember?"

"Going to, yes. I did not know when."

"I just did tell them. I'd like you to meet them, now."

Draco nodded, but asked, "They know me already, you said?"

"Yeah, but they know you don't remember them. Or, not yet, at any rate. Follow me downstairs, all right?"

A direct command, so of course Draco was obedient to it, but he seemed to be walking stiffly, to Harry's eye. Draco was usually quite graceful in all his movements. Lithe, like a panther, Harry had often thought him. Now, he was moving like each step forward was painful. Well, if Harry were in Draco's place, he wouldn't be feeling so great, he supposed. Being told he had to meet people who had known him before, but whom he wouldn't be able to remember . . . that would be enough to unnerve anyone.

Nothing for it though, but to get it over with. Harry was determined on that. He wasn't going to have Draco hiding in his room every time Harry had some company over.

When Harry reached the living room, Ron and Hermione stood up. Ginny came in just then and set down the tray of drinks she was carrying. She didn't seem to see Draco at first. "Harry, whatever you've been cooking in there smells absolutely divine."

"Draco cooked," said Harry absently, glancing behind him. Huh. Draco was hanging back so much that he hadn't even turned the corner on the staircase, yet. He'd never shown reluctance toward a command, before. That he would do so now was actually a good sign, Harry thought. Any indication of free will, or Draco thinking for himself, was welcome news.

Though of course, he hoped it wasn't going to lead to Draco having any kind of upset in front of the others.

"Come on," Harry said, walking up the few steps to reach Draco. And then, more quietly: "It'll be all right."

Draco glanced at him, uncertainty and resignation somehow warring in his eyes. Then, though, he clenched his jaw and made his way down the rest of the stairs, not stopping again until he was standing in the middle of the living room. There, he assumed a completely different expression. His face went as smooth as a mask as his jaw unclenched. He looked like a mannequin. Like he was posing.

Harry didn't think he really was; he just thought that Draco was finding this situation incredibly stressful. Well, Harry could relate to that.

Clearing his throat, he motioned toward the other three people in the room, all of whom, he saw, were staring at Draco, now. Hermione looked absolutely appalled; Ginny, wary; and Ron . . . suspicious.

Harry ignored all that to put a brave face on the situation. "Draco, these are the friends I told you about."

Draco swivelled his gaze from Harry to the others, his features by then almost a blank. Eerie, really. Except for that turn of head, he was holding himself perfectly still. His robes didn't even flutter. He might be a statue cast in colour. A shock of slicked hair just barely tinged with gold, a face as pale as marble, and the stark, unrelenting black of the robes he'd put on that morning.

He didn't speak, but in the glittering silver of his gaze, Harry read the reason why. Draco didn't know what Harry wanted, and so Draco was carefully doing nothing at all. It made sense, after he'd misread Harry's intentions a few minutes earlier, but Harry hated to see it. He missed the Draco he'd talked to upstairs, the one who had been able to speak relatively freely, even to the point of implying that Harry's gesture to stay had looked more like one to go.

But perhaps with Res mea es, it was always difficult to adjust to being near people besides one's own master . . . or family.

"This is Ginny Weasley," said Harry, starting with her since she was closest. "She's my girlfriend."

Ginny made a slightly impatient noise, as she always did at that word. Harry figured it was because she wanted to be introduced as his fiancée.

She stared at Draco, her eyes narrowed, and for some bizarre reason, Harry suddenly noticed that her hair was almost a garish shade. Brassy, the incandescent light overhead making streaks of it appear close to crimson.

He glanced at Draco's hair practically in reflex, as a means of resting his eyes on a softer, more muted shade.

And because of that glance, he very nearly missed what Ginny did next. She was walking forward, towards Draco, and out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw that she had one hand extended.

"No," said Harry, almost gasping the word as he leapt in front of her. "You can't shake his hand, you can't touch him. I'm the only one who can touch him."

Ginny's smile had been rather like a grimace, really, but that announcement had it turning completely into one. A glacial silence descended, broken only by the noise of gritting teeth. Hers. "Did I hear you correctly, Harry? You touch him, do you?"

Harry immediately thought of the way he'd held Draco on his lap when he was ill, and then, of how they'd knelt together, embracing, later that same day. But both of those had been strictly to provide aid and comfort, and he resented any implication otherwise. "Of course I don't! Get your mind out of the gutter!"

Ginny's expression went absolutely frosty. "Mine was in no such place."

Oh. Harry blinked, not sure why he'd jumped to that conclusion. "Look, it's just, I forgot to mention that part of the spell. Until things settle, if somebody else touches him--" Harry broke off then, deciding he'd rather not really mention details like slow strangulation. It gave him a horrid, scratchy feeling in his chest to think that Draco was so vulnerable, that anybody who wanted to do him harm needed only that small bit of knowledge. Not that his friends would use it, but Harry still didn't want to say the words. "It causes problems."

"Fine," snapped Ginny, stepping back. "I was merely trying to be polite to your . . . guest, Harry. I didn't mean any harm."

"Yeah, I know you didn't." Harry reached out to stroke her arm, but she was already stepping out of range.

Harry moved to stand beside Draco, then. The near miss had left him feeling shaky. Ill with it, actually. God, how could he have been so careless as to not mention the touching thing outside? The fact that he'd been alone with Draco for almost a week, and hadn't had any need to consider other people being near him . . . that was no excuse.

"And this is Ginny's brother, Ron Weasley," said Harry, his voice a little shaky too, until he cleared his throat. "And his wife, Hermione."

Ron just gave a curt nod, keeping his distance, which was frankly a relief to Harry at that point.

Hermione, though, came forward, hands hanging at her sides, stopping four feet from Draco. Good enough, Harry supposed.

"Hallo," she said, nodding once, but in a far more pleasant way than her husband had. "And your name is?"

"I should answer, Harry Master?"

Ginny gasped, and Ron made kind of a choking noise. Even Hermione, who Harry could tell was trying to project nothing but compassion towards Draco, right down to pretending they were meeting for the first time, looked taken aback to hear a thing like that said so baldly.

Nothing for it but to see it through to the bitter end, Harry thought. It wasn't his fault Draco kept calling him that. "Yes, you should answer."

Draco swivelled his head back to face Hermione, and again, the lack of any extraneous motion made the movement seem positively creepy. Draco was almost like a wax doll, the way he was acting at the moment. All concern about that, though, fell away from Harry when he heard the answer Draco gave.

"Draco Draco Malfoy."

Ron started, his arm actually knocking into a bookshelf. "Draco Draco Malfoy?" He snorted, a little. "Was that always your name?"

Draco's eyes started to go a little glassy, but he replied to Harry, not Ron. "I . . . Harry Master, when you named me, I remembered the words from before, or thought I did. Was my name different, before?"

Harry sighed. "I gave you the same name you had before. Draco Malfoy. One Draco, only."

Draco started. "Oh. I beg you to overlook my fault. I misunderstood, I think."

Ron actually snorted. "How can you misunderstand your own name?"

"I should answer?" asked Draco.

"Yes, of course. I want you to talk freely when I have guests over."

Draco swivelled his head toward Ron. "Harry Master, he said to me, 'Your name is Draco. Draco Malfoy.'"

He said it just like Harry had, complete with a pause between the two Dracos. A pause which hadn't really registered, clearly.

"All right, my mistake," said Harry, sighing again. "I misspoke. I meant to say just, 'Draco Malfoy.' That's your name."

Nodding serenely, Draco turned back to Hermione and gazed into her eyes. "Draco Malfoy."

"Yeah, we got it, thanks," said Ron shortly.

"Be nice, Ron," said Hermione sternly. "You may as well. He doesn't even remember us. Do you?" she added, addressing Draco again.

Draco shook his head.

"Well, we all went to school together. Do you remember Hogwarts at all?"

"Hogwarts, yes. Wizard school. Transfiguration, potions, charms--"

"That's right," said Hermione warmly. "We all had those same classes. Now, you were in Slytherin, but Ron, Ginny, Harry, and I were all in Gryffindor."

"What sort of door is a griffin door?"

Hermione all at once looked flustered. "Oh. I'm sorry. You don't remember the different houses, or the point system, or . . .?"

Draco shook his head.

"Well, I'm sure it will all come back."

"Won't that be interesting," said Ron, rolling his eyes.

Harry gave him a warning glance, then tried to get the evening back on track. "Well, now that the introductions are over, why don't we all sit down to some dinner?"

"Good idea," said Ginny in a sharp tone, turning on a heel. She picked up the tray of drinks and led the way into the dining room.

Harry hadn't been in there since breakfast; his quick glance around when he'd been looking for Draco hardly counted. When he stepped into the room now, his heart kind of sank. Earlier, Draco had mentioned that he'd set the table, but Harry had never dreamed that he would have laid out four places instead of five. But then, he'd been operating on the assumption that he was "sort of a secret" and might stay that way for some time. So perhaps it only stood to reason that he'd believe Harry didn't intend to include him in the dinner party.

That was bad enough, but when Harry thought back to how Draco had spent his afternoon, cooking food he wasn't going to get to eat--or so Draco must have believed--he actually started feeling a little sick. Draco might be a slave, but he certainly wasn't a servant.

Not that Harry wanted, anyway. Res mea es obviously had its own ideas.

"Harry--" said Hermione in a critical tone.

"Look, it's another misunderstanding," snapped Harry. Opening up a drawer, he fetched out another place setting and arranged it. "Sit down, please, Draco. I want you to enjoy the evening with us. I never once intended otherwise."

Draco sank at once into a chair, and bent his head as though trying to hide his face. With his hair slicked back as it was, though, there was no chance of it.

Hermione sat down across from him and gave him a smile that could only be described as kindness personified. "It's difficult to know what you're supposed to do, when you're in a new situation. I remember feeling a bit at sea when I first came to Hogwarts. I tried not to show it, of course."

Draco blinked. "Oh, I remember being same. I only ever had tutors, before."

"Well, at least I'd been to school. Muggle school, though. Not quite the same thing."

"Muggle school?"

Ron yanked out a chair and sat down next to Hermione, then glared across the table at Draco. "Yeah, going to make a big deal of it? Going to insult her like you always do?"

Draco's teeth started chattering. "I insult Harry Master's friend? I am bad worthless horrible thoughtless rude vile dreadful atrocious slave--"

Oh, God. A repulsive vision filled Harry's mind, then. It was an image of himself, being forced to slap Draco again. Definitely, not something he wanted to do in company. Or ever, if he could possibly help it.

And telling him to gulp down calming draught was no real solution, either.

Ignoring everyone else--forgetting they were there, actually; Harry had thought only for Draco--he rushed to Draco's side and grabbed both his hands, squeezing hard. "No, you're not. You're not bad and worthless. Stop it, now, all right? You didn't insult anyone."

"Ron friend of Harry Master, he says I did--"

Harry gripped Draco's hands even more tightly. "You didn't insult anyone tonight, though. What Ron said . . . well, you're not to worry about it. That's all in the past. You weren't my slave, yet, not then."

That seemed to be the right thing to say; Draco gave a shaky nod, relaxing somewhat, though he still did say in a low voice, "I regret to have displeased you, ever."

Harry stopped gripping his hands and patted them softly, instead. "Today is what matters, all right? Today and from now on."

The crisis averted, Harry rounded on Ron. "Would you stop it now?"

For his part, Ron looked shaken. "Sorry," he said, his own voice about as low as Draco's had been.

Harry wasn't in any mood to let him off so easily. "Can I trust you to behave while I go and serve the food, or--"

"I can be of service," said Draco, starting to push back his chair.

"No, you stay seated," ordered Harry. He didn't like being so bossy, but it seemed the best way, or only way, perhaps, to avoid more misunderstandings. "Stay and talk with Hermione." Harry went back to talking to Ron. "Can I trust you, or do I have to drag you into the kitchen with me?"

Ron seemed to shrink a little. "I didn't understand, all right? Crap, Harry! I thought he might be faking, or--"

"Can I trust you!"

"Yes!"

"Good, because if I come back and find out you've said something else so brainless--"

"Harry," interrupted Hermione. "That's enough. Ron's just going to listen, aren't you, Ron?"

Draco had been looking down at his hands, sort of flexing them like Harry's grip had been too fierce, but at that, he raised his gaze. "I am problem, I think."

"No." Harry shook his head. "You aren't a secret, and you aren't a problem." That last part wasn't quite true, but Harry said it anyway. He knew what it was like to be regarded as an unwanted burden. "It's all just new, you know? To me, as well, and we're figuring it out, both of us. But don't worry. We'll work it out."

Ginny suddenly grabbed hold of Harry's hand. "Why don't I help you serve? I'm sure Draco will be fine with Ron and Hermione."

If it had been just Ron, Harry wouldn't have been sure at all. But with Hermione there . . . yeah, she'd keep her husband in line.

"All right," said Harry, giving Draco an encouraging smile. "I'll be right back. Talk with Hermione, like I said. Maybe tell her what you do remember about school."

Draco obediently turned his attention to her. "Hogwarts was a castle. I remember broomstick races and a lake, I think, and magic lessons, and . . ."

Harry had to force himself to leave the room. But Ginny was waiting, her whole stance radiating impatience, so Harry backed away from the table and went to the kitchen with her to fetch the meal.

Once in the kitchen, Harry discovered, much to his dismay, that Draco had already served out plates. Four of them.

They were in the oven, but were being kept warm by means of a holding charm. No surprise there; Draco favoured spells over appliances, every time, though he had learned from Harry how to work some of the machines in the kitchen.

It didn't take long to fetch out a fifth plate and re-apportion the food so everyone would have some. While Harry worked on that, Ginny opened the refrigerator and found that four servings of salad had been prepared. She rolled her eyes a little, but didn't say anything as she got out an additional salad plate and filled it.

"Wine?" she asked finally, when everything was ready.

Harry stared at her. "We haven't even started the other drinks you made."

Ginny's lips pursed a little. "Perhaps I need something stronger than fruit juice."

She always ordered some when they went out on Friday nights, since her coach's orders for the evening before a match were to drink plenty of nutrient-rich liquids and get lots of rest. For the latter, he recommended a healthy sex romp at bed-time, as it led to his players falling into a deep, sound sleep.

Ginny made it a point to follow all his recommendations.

Personally, Harry thought the coach was out of line, poking his nose so far into his players' private lives. But perhaps there was no arguing with success. The Cannons hadn't lost a British Cup in the last three years.

"Well, if you want to drink the night before a match, that's up to you, but I thought your coach frowned on alcohol for twenty-four hours beforehand."

"Harry, I don't have a match tomorrow!" Planting her hands on her hips--odd how she could be so slim and athletic but still remind him so much of her mother--Ginny briefly glared. "I told you that. We're going to watch the Falcons play tomorrow, to see first-hand how their new beater is working out. I invited you to come along, remember?"

Oh, yeah. Harry did vaguely remember that. He'd made up some excuse-or-other not to go with her. He didn't mind watching Quidditch, of course; sometimes he went to see her play, but this was different. He'd be sitting in the stands with her, and somehow spending Friday night together and then all day Saturday too . . . it had seemed like an awful lot of time in her company.

"You can still come, if you like. I'm sure I can scare up an extra ticket."

Well, at least now Harry had a valid reason for refusing. "I have to spend some time with Draco."

Her mouth dropped open for a moment. "You have to?"

"Yeah, he needs that." Harry picked up as many plates as he could manage and nodded for Ginny to bring the salads through. "I'm at work all week, so the weekends are the only time for us to spend a good chunk of time together."

"Don't you think you're taking this whole thing a little too earnestly?"

"You weren't there when he almost died," said Harry shortly. "Or when he's got upset since. The way this spell's set up, I'm all he has, and I have to look out for him. If you can't bear seeing me do it, then maybe--"

"No, no," Ginny said quickly. "It's like you said to him, Harry. An adjustment all around. And I've had a lot less time to get used to the idea than you have. I'm sure it'll all work out."

Harry threw her a grateful smile. "Yeah, all right. Thanks, Ginny."

She took the salads through on a tray. Meanwhile, Harry made two trips to get all the plates out there. When he went back to the kitchen for his second set, Ginny was pouring wine.

Five glasses.

As Harry watched, she drank most of one, then topped it up again before bringing the drinks to the table.

To Harry's vast surprise, the rest of the meal went tolerably well. Of course, there were some minor problems, like the way he kept having to tell Draco to eat. When they were alone, these days, one reminder was all that was needed. In company, however, Draco was a lot more hesitant. Harry had to make sure he knew he could eat each and every thing served.

Ron stayed more-or-less quiet, apparently sticking to his rule about not saying anything if it couldn't be at least neutral. Harry didn't like it, but he could live with it.

Hermione wasn't staying quiet at all. She was doing all she could to chat Draco up, it seemed, sounding out his memories of Hogwarts. The gaps she uncovered were pretty predictable. Draco knew there'd been a Tri-Wizard tournament at Hogwarts while he'd attended, but he couldn't remember actually seeing any of the events. He knew that Quidditch was the school sport; he could explain exactly how it was played, but he didn't realise he'd actually been on a team. And on and on . . . if a memory touched upon the subject of Harry Potter, it was simply lost to Draco, at the moment.

But at least he did recall many things about his schooling. When it came to studying for his N.E.W.T.s, which he certainly must have done, Draco's memory was a total blank. Not that Hermione announced the news about eight examinations to him. She merely questioned what he'd spent the past two or three years doing.

Draco got a look on his face that said he'd been wondering that, too. Thinking about it, though, obviously hadn't done any good. "Waiting for Harry Master to claim me, I suppose."

Harry could put up with a slightly sullen Ron, and he really appreciated Hermione's kind way with Draco. The one person whose behaviour he found offensive was Ginny. Harry was seated in between her and Draco, and he was trying to pay attention to Hermione as she gently questioned Draco about this and that, but it was difficult, because Ginny kept trying to engage Harry in conversation with her.

She kept picking topics that Draco couldn't possibly relate to, either. How Molly was fixing up the Burrow, how Bill and Fleur were still trying for a baby, how the Cannons were going to make the cover of Quidditch Today . . .

It was all Harry could do not to tell her to pipe down. As it was, he would listen to her for a moment, make a quick remark or two, and then go back to paying attention to Draco.

As the meal wore on, Ginny gradually became as quiet as Ron. She was glowering more than he was, though. Well, Harry meant what he'd said before. He had to think of Draco, now. Like it or not, Draco needed him. If Ginny couldn't stand to know about that--or see it--then he probably couldn't have her over.

Not until this whole mess with Draco was sorted out. And who knew how long that might take? They didn't even know what had caused Res mea es to become active, again, let alone how to tell the spell to never mind.

After dinner was over, they all went back to the living room to sit and talk for a bit. Ron seemed to have got over some of his sulk, by then, but his way of showing that was to talk with Harry about various goings-on in the British Quidditch league. Ginny chimed in on that topic, too, until Harry was close to tearing his hair out. With the two of them chatting at him, he couldn't hear a word of what Draco was saying to Hermione.

It occurred to Harry to wonder, briefly, if Ron and Ginny were doing it on purpose.

Finally, the evening wound to a close. Harry insisted that Ron and Hermione leave by Floo, as Ron had had quite a bit to drink, by then. No sense in splinching himself, after all. Ron was a bit prone to it, whenever he wasn't concentrating properly.

He flooed off first, and then, Harry saw an opportunity to talk to Hermione alone for a moment. Drawing her off into the corridor, to a location where he could still keep Draco in sight, Harry quietly asked her exactly which N.E.W.T.s Draco had earned.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she answered with a sympathetic smile. "I really can't recall. We had so many independent learners. People still catching up from having their school years disrupted by the war."

"Then how do you remember he had eight?"

"I could hardly miss it. He was top of the list."

"Strange you never mentioned it."

Hermione gave him a disbelieving glance. "I didn't think you'd be interested."

Harry ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I don't think I would have been, but now, I need to understand what's going on. Understand him. Um, can you look up his results for me and find out what his subjects were?"

"It's public record. I'll find out on Monday."

"Good. Thank you." Harry cleared his throat. "Um, and for tonight. You were really great."

That time, her glance was wry. "He wasn't nearly as unpleasant as Kreacher used to be. In fact, he's not unpleasant at all, this way. But when he remembers more . . ."

"You think I haven't thought of that?"

"I'm sure you have." Hermione paused, looking like she wanted to say something, so Harry waited.

After a little while though, he thought he must have misread her expression. "Well, Ron will be wondering if the Floo Network spat you out at the wrong hearth, so--"

Hermione shook her head and spoke in a very low voice. "Wait. I really did want you to know . . . this feels very disloyal to Ginny, and I'd be lying if I said I thought she would understand, because I don't think she would, but . . ." Hermione gave a long sigh. "I have to say it. I can't live with myself, otherwise. You know how you said nobody else could touch Draco?"

Harry flicked a glance into the living room, checking that Ginny and Draco were still several feet apart. They weren't talking, but that was probably just as well. "Yeah?"

"Well . . . I wanted to say, I was relieved to see you grab hold of his hands, earlier. Because you claimed you didn't touch him, but they've done studies on this, Harry. Human beings need a friendly touch now and again, and if this thing lasts a while . . ." She cleared her throat. "Depriving him of any touch at all would be almost as cruel as denying him food, that's all."

Harry hadn't really thought of that. Well, of course he hadn't. He'd never seen any of these studies she was talking about. What she had said, though . . . it made sense. Draco did seem to need a touch now and again. He couldn't tell Harry that he needed it, but his actions spoke for themselves.

How many times in the past week had Draco leaned into his touch? Sat beside him closer than was needed? He'd even kissed Harry's hand, and not just once. And afterwards, he'd always seemed calmer and more content.

Obviously, Draco needed physical contact with somebody, and in the circumstances, Harry was his only choice.

"I wouldn't be cruel to him," Harry said, sighing. "That's just . . . I don't know."

"Beneath you," said Hermione softly. "Yes, I know it is. You're a fine man and I'm proud of how you're handling this."

Harry felt himself colouring. To shake it off, he summoned a piece of parchment and a pencil--less messy than even self-inking quills, in his opinion--and quickly wrote down the incantation he'd used to claim Draco. "I don't think you'll find anything on this, but just in case . . ."

Hermione's lips twisted as she studied the slip of parchment. "Do you know what this means?"

"Uh, Draco's sort of a thing, I know--"

"You are mine and I claim that which is mine," interrupted Hermione. "But in more cumbersome English it would come out to, you are my thing and as a thing I claim you as mine. It's absolutely disgusting."

"It wasn't my idea--"

"I know, Harry." When Hermione patted his hands, Harry at once felt better, which of course just served to bolster his sense that Draco probably needed to be touched and couldn't say so. "I'll see what I can find out. Good night, then."

She made her way back into the living room, tucking the parchment into a pocket as she walked. "Good night, Draco. It was good to get to know you."

Draco gave her a brief smile. "And you, yes."

"Good night, Ginny. I'll see you tomorrow at the Falcons' match."

Ginny gave a brief, strained smile, and then Hermione vanished in a flare of green flames.

And then, Harry was left alone with his girlfriend and like it or not, his slave.

"So, how about a nightcap before bed?" asked Harry, glancing from Draco to Ginny and back.

Draco had been fairly relaxed by the end of the evening, but he was standing stiffly again, now, and looking down at his own feet. "As you wish, of course."

"I'll have one," announced Ginny, dropping down onto the couch. "Ha. Better make it a double."

Harry thought she'd had enough already, personally. Not that she was anywhere near drunk, but he wasn't used to Ginny drinking much at all. Then again, he could understand why she'd found the evening stressful. He really should have warned her in advance that Draco Malfoy had come to live with him. The trouble was, he just hadn't had any idea what to say. Or more accurately, he hadn't thought she'd believe that Draco really was a slave, not without seeing for herself.

And Harry hadn't wanted her popping by earlier in the week. Too much of a complication; he'd needed time alone with Draco first, so the spell could settle without interference.

Ginny, no doubt, wouldn't understand why Harry had waited, any more than she was likely to understand Hermione's advice about the importance of human touch.

"Peppermint Schnapps? Or maybe some coffee liqueur?"

"As you wish--"

Ginny sat up a little straighter and folded her arms over her chest. "For Merlin's sake. Isn't it obvious by now that Harry doesn't wish to hear you saying that? And why don't you sit down? It's a bit ghoulish for you to keep standing there like that."

To Harry's utter shock, Draco immediately took a seat.

Ginny jerked at the abrupt response, her eyes gone wide.

Harry didn't like it. In fact, he found the whole incident disturbing. Forgetting about the drinks, Harry sat down next to Ginny and tried to figure out what to say. He knew this was hard on her--hell, hard on everyone--but it wasn't as though he'd asked to have all this happen. But then, when had he ever asked for any of the weird crap that made up his life?

Best to go on as normally as possible. Story of his life. But what else could he do?

"That was really an excellent dinner you cooked, Draco," said Harry, giving the other man a warm smile even as he nudged Ginny, just slightly, with his elbow. "I meant to thank you, earlier."

Draco glanced up, only briefly. "I am pleased to have been of some use."

Harry waited a moment, but Ginny didn't take the hint. "Did you enjoy the lemon chicken, Ginny? Draco used those cookery books you gave me, you know."

She made an attempt at a smile, at least. "Very good, Draco. But a little too much lemon, I think."

"I will remember in future," Draco said gravely. "I am sorry if the meal was not completely to your liking."

Huh. If Harry had been the one to complain, that reply would have made perfect sense. But then, Ginny was Harry's guest, so maybe Res mea es had decided that displeasing her was the same as displeasing Harry, something like that.

"Well, I thought everything was just perfect," Harry announced. "I'll see if I can rival it tomorrow, though cooking's never been my favourite thing."

"There is no need for you to cook; I will be of use and prepare your food every day, if--"

"No, you've just done two days in a row. It's my turn."

"As you--" Draco abruptly swallowed and went still and silent in his chair.

"You can say whatever you want, Draco," said Harry, sighing. "Even if it's as you wish. I'd just much rather you could tell me what you wish, that's all."

Draco's brow furrowed. "But all I wish is to please you, Harry Master."

"You do please me."

As Ginny made an impatient noise, Draco gave a disjointed nod. "My life is to please you, Harry Master. And . . . and . . . I beg to be allowed to continue this after your forthcoming marriage."

"After my what?"

Draco recoiled slightly. "Are you . . . are you not as good as engaged?"

Worse and worse. That time, Harry gaped. "No, I'm most certainly not as good as engaged," he answered Draco, before shifting his body to face Ginny. "Why don't you wait until I damned well ask you, before you start telling people a thing like that?"

"I don't know what your . . . slave, here, is talking about!" retorted Ginny, her hands twisting in her lap. "Unless he's just trying to stir up trouble, which believe me, would come as no shock at all!"

"Trouble?" asked Draco. "No, I intend no trouble for Harry Master, quite the opposite--"

"Shh, Draco. It's all right," Harry softly said. He was ready to rush over there and hold Draco's hand, literally, but it seemed like Draco wasn't panicking too badly, this time.

He turned his attention back to Ginny. "You didn't tell him we were promised to become engaged?"

She raised her chin a little. "No, I did not, though I don't know why I shouldn't, since that's exactly what we are!"

Harry ignored that last bit. It was just plain stupid. Sure, he'd said years ago when they'd first started sleeping together that of course he wanted to marry her later, but it wasn't like he'd written out a vow in blood. "Draco, who told you that Ginny and I were as good as engaged?"

"Her brother, he said it to the other woman, the pleasant one. While you were both in the kitchen, he said, 'Harry should have told Ginny about this sooner, don't you think? They're as good as engaged.'"

"Oh." Harry threw Ginny a strained smile. "Sorry, then. It's just, what was I supposed to think, the way you go on sometimes about how lovely Bill's wedding was and how you want to go to Corfu on honeymoon, and--"

Ginny leaned forward, towards Draco. "Would you just go up to your room, please? This is a private conversation."

Draco rose to his feet, then sat down again, only to get up once more . . . and then finally, he cast an imploring look at Harry. "Harry Master, I do not know what to do. You say to wait to go to my room until you do, or when I yawn much. Now she says for me to leave now. Should Draco-slave . . . should I obey last command I hear?"

A horrible feeling gripped Harry. Oh, God, no. He didn't want Draco to be vulnerable the way that seemed to suggest. "Draco . . . do you have to do anything anybody tells you?"

"No. You are my master, Harry Master."

"Then why do you care at all if Ginny said to do something?"

It looked to Harry as though Draco had to struggle to answer that. Like he was trying to translate instinct into words. Or perhaps, like the question itself was forcing him to overtly acknowledge those instincts. "Because . . . because . . . when you are married, I will have to show utmost respect to your wife. Or, deference, or . . ."

"You'll be my slave too, you mean?" asked Ginny, her voice close to horrified.

"No, but my master will be annoyed if his wife becomes so," said Draco, his own tone very calm, like he'd thought this all out. "I must never offend."

Ginny looked away from Harry, then, but Harry could tell what she was thinking: Draco's mere presence in the house was offensive. Harry could understand that; a week ago, he'd have felt the same way. But how could she feel like that, now, with Draco obviously so helpless? So unlike himself? He wasn't a Death Eater, not any longer.

Harry sighed. Why couldn't Ginny be more like Hermione, who had seen at once that Draco needed some support in this situation? And anyway, it wasn't like this was Voldemort himself. It was just Draco. He'd been on the wrong side and he'd never been a particularly nice person, but it wasn't his fault that Fred had died.

Of course, it was his fault that Ron had been poisoned and that Katie had nearly died, and that Snape had been forced to kill Dumbledore, that night. But Draco had only been sixteen years old, then. Sixteen, and terrified of what Voldemort would do to his family if he didn't accomplish the task he'd been set. Besides, growing up coddled by Lucius and Narcissa, what chance had Draco ever had to develop any strength of character?

Harry's own childhood had been hard, but a life of luxury and indulgence would have been a lot worse for him, he suddenly sensed.

"I need to talk to Harry and you're still here," said Ginny to Draco, swallowing tightly. "Are you leaving or not?"

"Draco, you stay right where you are," Harry announced in a hard voice, mostly because he didn't like the way Ginny was already bossing Draco around. Sit down, go to your room . . . telling him how to speak, even! Harry didn't even do that, and God knew, he'd like to. Hearing himself called "Harry Master" every third or fourth sentence wasn't the least bit appealing, but Harry hadn't made much effort to stop it, because doing so would clearly make Draco's lot that much more difficult, just now.

In fact, Harry tried not to order Draco about except when Draco's own good made it unavoidable. And that wasn't what Ginny had been doing. She'd been thinking of her own convenience, or more likely, she'd been thinking of a new way to badger Harry into setting a wedding date. And that steamed Harry, it really did. "We're not married yet," he told Draco, nodding for emphasis. "And if by chance we ever are, then you'll still answer only to me, Draco. I swear it."

"If!" said Ginny, getting that look in her eye. Harry thought of it as the Molly-look. God knew, he loved Molly, but she did have a pretty blunt way about her, sometimes. "By chance!"

"That's right," said Harry, not caring that his voice went cold as he turned back to his girlfriend. "You might not have noticed this, but it's been years since I said we'd get married, Ginny. Things change, people change, and that was right after the war had ended and I wanted to celebrate and emotion was running high, and . . ." His voice tapered off.

Ginny shot to her feet. "Are you saying you don't want to, any longer?"

"No!" shouted Harry, because that wasn't what he'd meant at all. He stood up, too, and tried to calm down. Tried to figure out what he was saying. "I just . . . God, could you just relax about it? That's all I mean. I don't know what I want, all right? And having you talk about weddings and babies all the time isn't helping me figure it out. It's just making me feel shoved into a corner."

Ginny looked all at once shaken. "I don't mean to do that. I just know I can make you happy, happier than you've ever been. I love you, Harry."

"I love you, too," said Harry, sighing as he took her into his arms. Why wasn't that enough to settle the matter? Why wasn't he ecstatic at the thought of getting married? He did love her. He didn't even doubt that, not a bit. He just wasn't as much in love as he'd once thought.

Or as much as he'd hoped to be, maybe. But that wasn't her fault.

"I love you more than anything," said Ginny, a quaver in her voice.

"Yeah," said Harry, just a little bit gruffly. He couldn't say that back to her, but not because there was something he loved more. There wasn't. But still, those words wouldn't come. They didn't feel right.

Draco was still standing close by, looking at the floor, just waiting. Ginny hadn't been wrong before; it was a little ghoulish. And this whole conversation really was a private one. Harry knew then that he should have allowed Draco to go up to his room when Ginny had suggested it. But then, she hadn't done that, had she? She'd ordered Draco to leave, just as if this were her house already, and Draco her slave.

He would clearly yield to her commands if Harry said to. The prospect made Harry feel a little sick. Draco was his responsibility, after all. Not hers, never hers. Not even after they got married, assuming they ever did.

In any case, though, he felt a bit bad that because he hadn't let Draco go upstairs a few minutes earlier, Ginny had ended up having to make a declaration of love in front of him. Harry could see how that would probably grate on her nerves.

Dropping a kiss on her forehead, he stepped out of the embrace. "Draco, why don't you go upstairs to bed, now?"

Thank goodness, by then he could feel confident that Draco would sleep in the bed without being specifically told to. As long as Harry could frame a request as necessary so that Draco could serve him better, Draco didn't need constant reminders.

Really, it was only the eating thing he seemed to be quite stubborn about. Harry didn't blame him, though. He assumed it had to be some facet of the spell. Perhaps it was supposed to be a simple way to exert control. If the slave could never eat without specific permission, then any sort of defiance would be short-lived.

The problem with that theory was that Harry really wished Draco would get back to his normal self and start defying Harry. But, if he did, he might end up with that burning pain in his chest. He might need Harry to punish him.

Which meant that Res mea es probably knew what it was doing, giving him time to get used to slavery, keeping his memories muted so he could learn how to serve and obey Harry. If Draco were his normal self right now, he'd fight tooth and nail to avoid learning that. He'd probably have that pain burning in his chest all the time.

That would be sheer torture, for both of them.

But this . . . seeing Draco so submissive . . . it wasn't a hell of a lot better.

Draco walked toward the stairs, though he stopped in front of Harry. "If you wake in the night and need anything, I beg to be allowed to be of use to you--"

"I'm staying over," interrupted Ginny. "If Harry wakes up, I'll be right there."

Draco glanced away. "Goodnight to both of you, then."

Harry waited until he heard Draco's door close. "I wasn't sure you'd want to stay over. I mean, if you want to slow down, I'd understand it. I . . . I wish I could give you the kinds of promises you want, Ginny. I'm just . . . I don't know what to say to you. I know I'm not ready."

She pulled his head down for a kiss, and then spoke against his lips. "I don't want to slow down, Harry. I want you. That's all I've ever wanted."

As she took his hand and began to tug him up the stairs, all Harry could think was one thing: why wasn't that enough?

It must have been past two when Harry awakened to a strange noise.

Yawning, he stumbled out of bed and slipped on robe and slippers. Ginny rolled over, her hand patting the space where he'd been. "Harry?"

"Just have to help the cat caught in the fence," said Harry, leaning close. "You go back to sleep again."

"Mmm," she murmured, rolling back onto her own side of the bed. Within seconds she was sound asleep. Harry envied her that talent. Once he was awake in the night, it took a while for him to drop back off.

As he headed down the stairs and out of the house, he noticed that the cat had stopped making noise. No great mystery there; it must have wriggled its way loose right as Harry woke up, since there was no cat to be found.

Or maybe the noise had never been the cat at all, this evening, because as Harry was locking his front door, he heard the noise again. A low moan. Sort of a panting noise, actually. Huh. He'd never have mistaken that sound for a cat if he'd been properly awake.

It was coming from the direction of Draco's room.

Sprinting up the stairs, Harry ran down the hallway, past his own closed door until he reached Draco's open one. The light coming down the hallway was enough to let him see the inside of Draco's room. Nothing seemed terribly wrong inside; Draco was asleep in bed, lying on his side, his back facing the wall.

But then the moaning noise came again, and Draco convulsed a little, his fingers twisting frantically in the sheets.

Oh, nightmare. Harry didn't have many of those, any longer, but he'd suffered them enough to know that being trapped in one was awful.

Crossing the room to sit on the bed, Harry gently shook Draco by the shoulder. "Come on, wake up. It's all right. You're safe, you're here with me . . ."

Instead of waking up and immediately offering service, as before, Draco seemed somehow still caught in his dream, even as he tried to sit up a little. "Harry?"

Well, that was certainly encouraging. No master, not that time. "Yeah, it's Harry. You were having a nightmare, Draco." A bad one, from the look of it. Now that Harry was closer, he could see that Draco's brow was dripping sweat. "Was it the war? Are you starting to remember things about it?"

"No." Draco cleared his throat like he was trying to calm down, but his lower body was still moving restlessly, his hips almost twitching. He licked his lips, his gaze a little hungry as he stared at Harry. "Can I serve you?"

Harry rested a hand on Draco's shoulder. "What was in your nightmare?"

Draco turned his head and kissed the side of Harry's wrist, his lips moving slowly. No . . . lingering.

The contact was almost electric, for Harry. A jolt went straight through him, making him shiver from head to toe. And then, as Draco's lips parted and his tongue began to lap at Harry's skin, something even more dramatic happened.

Harry felt his cock begin to harden.

He immediately felt guilty. Draco needed comfort right now, needed to talk out his nightmare, probably. If he needed touch, it wasn't that kind, no matter how erotic this slow kiss on Harry's hand was becoming.

Harry moved his hand away. "Your nightmare?"

The other man sat up in bed, leaning forward over his bent legs. "No nightmare, no."

"But you were moaning--"

Oh . . . in less than a second, Harry went from being concerned to feeling like a complete imbecile. There were other reasons for a man to moan in his sleep, after all. And the way Draco had been moving during the dream, the sheen of sweat on his brow . . . now that Harry thought about it, the whole thing looked very sexual in nature.

Not to mention the way his eyes were glittering, now.

Harry closed his own eyes, feeling like a total heel. He'd been so careful to try to think of everything, to make sure all of Draco's physical needs were met, but like a complete idiot, he'd forgotten about this one. It was inexcusable. Every morning in the shower, Harry treated himself to a long, leisurely wank. Every morning without fail. He was twenty-one, healthy, and male, after all.

But so was Draco, and never once during any of those wanks had Harry thought about the fact that Draco would need some physical release. Would need it, and would ignore that need.

No wonder he'd started having wet dreams.

It was like Narcissa had said, though of course she hadn't mentioned this. She had said, though, that without urging to meet his own needs, Draco would go without sleep until he collapsed from exhaustion. Clearly, without Harry telling him to masturbate, he'd go without an orgasm until his body climaxed on its own.

Harry put his hand back on Draco's shoulder and gave the other man's neck a bit of a rub. "I guess it wasn't, yeah. Um . . . I'm sorry, Draco. I should have told you that I want you to . . . uh, you know . . ."

God, this was harder to talk about than the toilet thing had been.

"I don't want to hear you having wet dreams," he said, trying to smile. It felt like his face might crack with the effort, though. Telling another man what to do, sexually . . . that was just completely strange. As far as Harry was concerned, Draco's cock was his own business. Harry shouldn't be giving him orders what to do with it.

Not much choice about it, though. "You should wank, you know? In the shower's a good place. Morning, evening . . . whenever you want."

Draco slanted him a glance. "What you want is what matters to me."

Harry wished that weren't true. "Yeah," he said thickly. Getting Draco to pay attention to his own needs was a tricky business. Pure commands on the matter didn't work well unless Harry could somehow tie them into the concept of better service. "Um . . . well, you've been great this past week. I never would have guessed you were under this kind of strain. But . . . uh, you've probably been pretty hard under your robes?"

Draco's nostrils flared, which only made Harry feel a lot worse. Clearly, pretty hard didn't even begin to describe the problem.

"All right, then. You'll be a nutter before long if that keeps up, and then it'll be hard . . . er, difficult, for you to get through the day. We can't have that. So yeah, I want you to wank off when you need to, all right?"

"Thank you, Harry," said Draco in a low voice.

Again, no mention of master. Harry liked that. It might have something to do with the intimacy of the situation, tonight, or maybe it was just the spell settling in. Either way, Harry wanted to encourage it. "I like it when you call me by my name, like that."

"You liked it in the dream, too," said Draco, looking up. His eyes, glinting silver, were still hungry.

Some part of Harry recognised the look, that time. Draco wanted him. He'd been in Draco's erotic dream.

Harry's cock lengthened further, thrusting insistently against the soft cloth of his pyjama bottoms. He wanted to ask what had happened in the dream, but that would be wrong, wouldn't it? This was just Res mea es at work. Nobody but Harry could touch Draco, after all. And Draco knew that, knew it at some deep level that influenced even dreams.

Harry tried to get them both on track. Taking advantage of Draco, even by asking him to give details about his erotic dream . . . that just wasn't on. "Yeah, so keep on calling me Harry, all right?"

Draco's eyes just kept smouldering. "Yes. But . . . you are my master."

"We both know that, though. You don't have to remind either one of us."

"Yes, all right." Draco reached a hand out towards him. "I . . . I . . ."

Harry wanted more than anything to catch that hand in his and pull it over to his cock. It just sounded good. Well, of course it sounded good; Draco was the one who had caused his hard-on, after all. More than that, though, something about it just seemed right to Harry.

But it wasn't right, not when Draco wouldn't want him if not for the spell.

Harry quickly stood up. "Why don't you have a shower and wank now?" he asked, backing away from the bed. "Yeah?"

Oh, God. Harry should probably have suggested that from the doorway, he thought a moment later. Draco slid from the bed like silk flowing over a ledge, every motion smooth and sinuous. Worse, when he stood up, with no more blankets to cover him, Draco was tenting out his pyjamas, his need so obvious that Harry felt his mouth begin to water.

He'd never known he could be attracted like this to a man. Harry's own cock was aching by then, straining towards Draco. It was the most intense erection he'd had since . . . well, the most intense one he'd ever had, he thought, a little bit dazed by the rush of feeling down there.

And it wasn't like he could say, oh, but it's been a while since I came, that's all it is.

No, he'd wanked that very morning, as usual. In fact, earlier, when Ginny had tried her best to interest him, Harry had felt sort of wrung-out and had told her that he just wanted to sleep. She'd been a bit prissy about it, complaining that they only got one night a week together as it was. She'd gone down on him for a while, but it just wasn't happening. She'd finally turned her back on him and had gone to sleep, clearly disgruntled.

Well, she wasn't the only one. What was he, a damned clock or something? Didn't a man deserve a break, once in a while? It wasn't like he needed one all that often. He was usually good for it on Friday nights, though honestly, he sometimes thought that sleeping with her was a poor second to a good wank.

Thank goodness he had a robe on over his pyjama bottoms, Harry suddenly thought now. If Draco saw how hard he was . . . well, Harry didn't know what might happen, but his imagination was already running riot with the idea.

Harry, Draco would say, his voice low and seductive as his gaze dropped to Harry's bulging crotch. How can I serve you?

And that would just be . . . all wrong, wouldn't it? It wasn't as though Draco were free to choose. He wanted Harry because of the spell, and if he did anything about it, it would be because he thought he had to be of use.

The idea almost made Harry shudder. Unfortunately, it didn't make him any less hard.

"So, I'll leave you to it, then," said Harry, backing away from temptation. This was unbelievable, all of it. He'd never had thoughts like this before, not about a man!

Not about anyone, he suddenly realised. The Ginny thing . . . it had been intense in its own way, but maybe that was only to be expected when you were sixteen. And after that . . . he'd sort of fallen into it, he saw now. For any number of reasons, not all of them having to do with Ginny herself.

But this . . . Until now, he'd never known what intense could really mean. He couldn't stop looking at Draco because, in a way, he'd never really seen him before. God, but the man was handsome. Harry had known that, on some sort of intellectual level; it was hard to miss, after all. But he'd never noticed it, not like this.

Harry felt like he could come just looking at him, which was clearly ridiculous. But it felt so true. His cock was pulsing, by then, his palms gone clammy with the effort of keeping his hands to himself.

And it was all made worse by the certain knowledge that if he pressed himself against Draco and tumbled into the bed with him, the other man would welcome that, would welcome anything Harry wanted to do with him. Res mea es would make sure of it, no matter Draco's true opinion on the matter.

Fucking spell, thought Harry, clenching his fists as he backed away still more. "Good night, Draco."

Perhaps Draco sensed something even despite the robe keeping Harry's raging erection from view. "Harry," he said softly, his eyes still glinting in the light from the hallway. "How can I be of service?"

It took all of Harry's self-control, every bit, to answer as he did. "Go and shower," he said. "So, you know, you won't wake me up again, all right?"

Draco tensed, maybe with frustration, but then he nodded and began walking toward his bathroom.

Harry barely made it back to his own before he shoved a hand down his pyjama bottoms and pulled himself off. Two strokes, three . . . dry strokes, even, and he was shuddering with pleasure, biting his lower lip to keep from moaning as he came.

Afterwards, he collapsed to the tiled floor, his bones all turned to mush, and laughed softly as he sat there, because as spent as he was, he felt like he'd only need ten minutes before he could go again. And that, because the image he'd wanked to was lingering in his mind.

Draco in the shower, caressing himself. Water streaming down over his swollen cock, catching on the gold-tinted hairs near his groin. Draco, his head thrown back, his lips parted, moaning Harry as he came and came and came.

How can I serve you, Harry? I want only to please you. Let me be of use.

Harry knew he shouldn't find all that so erotic. Draco was caught in a terrible trap, and taking advantage of it would be wrong on so many levels that Harry couldn't even begin to list them.

But God, that man was fucking beautiful, no other word for it, and Harry was only human. He thought of Draco on his knees, sweetly sucking Harry, his eyes sparkling with pleasure . . . and even if it was only the spell making him want Harry, the image was still erotic as hell.

Aching again, just from the thought of it, Harry climbed to his feet and shed his clothes so he could shower. Or maybe, so he could wank again, this time with warm steam surrounding him, with an oiled hand steadily pumping his cock.

He fantasised that Draco was in there with him, that he was pushing Draco up against the slick, wet wall, and thrusting against his arse. Inside, inside, Draco was panting, and then, touch me, touch me or I'll die . . .

And then Harry was yanking Draco close and reaching around to grab his cock, long and slender and beautiful. He was whispering against Draco's earlobe, licking his neck as he spoke. Res mea es, Draco, he said. You're mine. You'll come when I say to, and not before--

That time, when Harry shuddered in release, he bit his own lip so hard that he drew blood.