Way Down We Go

Chapter 7

Harry doesn't understand what went wrong.

He'd thought Malfoy would be happy.

He'd thought giving back the wand would be a kindness. Something Malfoy could have to look forward to. Except Malfoy acted like he would never have the opportunity to use the wand again. He acted like Harry was taunting him with it, and he'd said—well, he'd been saying he was dying. But Harry had thought he was just being theatric, as Malfoy was wont to do. A swipe from a hippogriff was a mortal injury. A bump on the quidditch field was an unpardonable offense. Harry had initially thought that Malfoy was just having trouble adjusting to muggle life and an income shortage but he didn't think—he didn't actually believe there was something wrong, something fatally wrong, with the pointy git.

Because once Harry started feeding him the cough had gone away and he'd lost the dark circles under his eyes and his bones had stopped pressing against his skin quite so sharply.

So surely he wasn't seriously ill?

Harry wishes he had a pensieve because there are other things Malfoy had said. Things that didn't make any sense. About the Ministry and cruelty and—

Harry is starting to wonder if maybe he's missed something.

It wouldn't be the first time.

He picks up the wand from the floor, smoothes his fingers idly over the handle, and then, rather than boxing it back up, sets it on the kitchen counter, next to the electric kettle. It doesn't feel right to put it away again.

He texts Hermione, asking when she'll be free to talk.

And then he takes his laptop up to bed and spends a truly ridiculous amount of money on home furnishings. Because he can. And because trying to select a sofa from the internet is an excellent distraction from thinking in circles.

Harry is painting the living room walls when Hermione Facetimes him the following day.

He's hoping to have the painting done by the time Malfoy gets off work.

Not for any particular reason.

It's just the deadline he's chosen for himself.

"Harry," she says, already sounding judgmental.

He pushes at the hair falling into his face.

"Hey, how are you?"

"It Malfoy there?" Ron asks, leaning into the frame.

"No, he's at work."

"Work," Ron says disbelievingly. "Malfoy works. What does he do?"

"He helps run a shop here in town."

"A shop. Malfoy works in a shop?"

"Are you painting?" Hermione asks.

Harry waves his clearly paint-smeared hands. "Yeah. I ordered some furniture last night so I figured I better get the walls done before it shows up."

Ron makes a disbelieving noise, for no reason that Harry can discern.

"Thanks for helping me with the whole wolf thing," Harry says to Hermione. "I was starting to freak out. I'm assuming you have theories about that?"

"Sure," Hermione says absently. "I'm about to email you some things—research—that should help you get the shift under control. I really don't think that's the most pressing thing we have to discuss, though."

"Oh. Okay?" Harry says.

"Malfoy," Ron says.

Right.