The Ordeal Of Being Known

9

Healer Malfoy,

According to the Azkaban Warden, Lucius Malfoy is in perfect health. He apparently spends his time playing chess by himself, in his cell, with pieces of parchment. He receives post, occasionally. The guards describe him as a "model prisoner."

Hope this helps.

K. Shacklebolt
Minister for Magic

Draco frowned at the expensive parchment, headed with the seal of the Office of the Minister. What an anticlimax.

It wasn't that Draco wasn't grateful for the update; this just meant that Lucius was intentionally ignoring Narcissa's letters. She would be devastated.

But also-Lucius Malfoy, "model prisoner"? Seriously? Draco had never heard a prisoner of Azkaban referred to like that, especially from the people whose job it was to keep them in there.

The whole thing just felt odd, and a bit sad. But that might have just been Draco.

Draco sighed and tossed the parchment onto his desk, adjusting his glasses. He grabbed a sheet of fresh stationery and clicked open a biro to pen a delicate, disappointing letter to his mother.

In the several days since Harry had walked out, Draco hadn't left the house. He'd puttered around, reading or sleeping or listening to his records and flying at night. He hadn't yet let St. Mungo's know he was available for new patients again. It all felt so unfinished-even though Harry was clearly healed, and even though Harry would likely never speak to him again, if he hadn't by now.

"You don't know me," he'd said. The first time Draco had heard his voice in eight years, and it was a livid, growling lie.

Harry probably knew that. He wouldn't have been able to speak, if it was true. The return of his voice only meant that Draco truly knew him, for who he was, if the attacker was to be believed.

But maybe Harry was a little right. Draco might have seen his most formative memories, might have watched him more closely than anyone else in their year at school, but they hadn't spoken for over eight years. They still haven't had a real conversation, maybe ever. The universe was clearly laughing at them again-of course, the only way Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy could ever speak to each other was with bitterness, with violence.

Draco might be able to guess on many things, but there was so much more to Harry than just his memories and the way he was raised. The Harry Draco thought he knew would never have kissed him, for instance. Draco hadn't known that he liked vindaloo. Draco didn't know what his favourite colour was or what his house looked like or if he liked to sing while he cleaned, if he cleaned, Draco didn't even know what kind of music he listened to-he still hadn't listened to that mixtape, he hadn't once looked at the boombox since Harry left.

When Draco thought about all the things he didn't know about Harry, all the things he'd been hoping to talk to Harry about when he could speak again, he could agree that he didn't really know Harry at all.

Draco didn't feel like the work was done. The maze had been solved, but it seemed such a small piece of a much bigger puzzle. Harry was "healed," but Draco still didn't know who'd caused it or how or why, and the not knowing was making him itch, keeping him frozen in time, unable to move forward. He felt restless with it.

He walked to the sitting room to pick out another record, probably something angsty-but when he approached the shelf he was faced with the offending boombox once more. Draco glared at it.

This was so stupid. It was just music, right? So what if Harry had apparently personally curated it with music he wanted to share with Draco? It might even be horrible music, which would probably make Draco feel better about the whole thing-he snatched up the cumbersome machine with a huff and stomped his way outside, through the garden to the broom shed.