l need their names—is it a regular visiting group, or just a one-off thing?”

Malfoy sighs, all the humor dropping out of his expression, his shoulders drooping slightly. “They were the London Education Advancement and Readiness Network, or,” he shudders slightly here, “L.E.A.R.N. I would like it on the official record that I am not responsible for the name.”

“So noted,” says Harry, pointedly not writing anything down, and the little twitch of irritation this wrings from Malfoy is better than the gelato would have been. He grins, pleased with himself. “So, what’s L.E.A.R.N.?”

“A verb no one ever bothered to teach you?” Malfoy suggests brightly. Then, at Harry’s sharp look, he adds in a much crosser voice, “Merlin, fine. It’s a group for area children from the Hogwarts list who are too young to be at school, but who still might want the opportunity to learn about Wizarding culture. The Pureblooded families tend to take care of that sort of thing for themselves, but for mixed families and Muggleborn kids, it can be a bit harder. One of the new Hogwarts governesses suggested it a few years ago. If I recall, she thought it was a bit cruel to suddenly drop the bomb of magic on eleven year olds and their families, especially right before they have to go off to school.”

Harry, who remembers vividly having a conversation with this very man in a robe shop when they were both eleven, and who will never quite et thinking he was so out of place in this strange new world that he’d never fit in, thinks the governess was right. But, also:

“You,” Harry repeats slowly, “were hosting—what, a field trip? For a group of non- Pureblood kids? To study Wizarding history?”

“Yes, and isn’t it tragic that the interlopers broke in right before I got the chance to eat them,” Malfoy snaps, rolling his eyes. He takes a sip from his cup so deep that it surely has to drain it, and puts it down on the side table next to him with a savage little clatter. “I have a groupe through every month, Potter. You can check my guest logbooks; you can ask the children themselves, for that matter, some of them have been here several times. And, to forestall any questions about whether I stole any of my exhibits, or am secretly using this operation to launder money for dangerous criminals, or whatever other nefarious deeds your lot mighte up with to use me of, you can also feel free to check my other records. I’ll have them sent by messenger.” Malfoy smiles at him unpleasantly. “I’ve kept very meticulous records, you see, in case the Aurors ever came to call.”

“And that never struck you as a little paranoid?”

Malfoy gives him a long, cool look, and then gestures sweepingly at the wreckage around them. “It’s not paranoia when they really are all out to get you, I believe is the phrase.”

And then—Harry can’t say what it is, exactly, how he’s so sure, but he watches the way Malfoy’s face freezes, the way his eyes go distant and unfocused, and knows that it’s all just hit Malfoy, the weight of what’s happened here. Harry’s ufortable all of a sudden, in this ruined wreck of a room; part of being an Auror is seeing these moments, is being with people after they have been brought low and made vulnerable, but, well. Usually those people aren’t Draco Malfoy.

Harry can’t think of anyone who he’d want to see him fall apart less, and he stands up abruptly, folds the form and slides it into his pocket. “That’s going to be all for now, I think.”

“I—wait, what?” Malfoy wrenches his gaze from where it had been fixed in misery on the far wall to stare at him in outrage. “That’s all your additional questions? This is what your discretion has deemed an appropriate amount of inquiry? A crime wasmitted here today, Potter! The culprits are still at large!”

Harry stares at the tense line of Malfoy’s shoulders, hears the sharp note of panic ringing through his voice, and realizes: he’s scared. Like any other victim of any other crime, Malfoy is frightened and unsettled and wondering what to do now, what he’ll do if theye back. It’s wholly understandable—normal, even—but it’s so bizarre to recognize in Malfoy that Harry stares openly, just for a second, before he shakes himself and lets his slightly open mouth snap shut.

“No,” Harry says, and as usual his voicees out rough, not anything like the tone of calm reassurance he was going for. He clears his throat and adds, as kindly as he can manage, “I want to go through some of the records first, take some other statements, see what we get from the two we apprehended. Then I’ll be back. Tomorrow, maybe the next day. I’ll Owl you for a good time.”

“Oh, joy,” Malfoy drawls, but he settles back in the chair all the same, looking slightly mollified. “And I suppose if theye back before you do I should just ask very nicely not to be murdered, hmm?”

“Or you could just call out for one of the Aurors I’ll have posted at your door,” Harry says, equally dry. “Obviously the department would prefer the latter option, but you have to do what feels right, I guess.”

“Hmm,” Malfoy says again. Then he nods sharply and says, “Well, get out then, Potter. I assume you can see yourself to the door; it was your house once, after all.”

And Harry’s opening his mouth to say, “About that,” to demand to know why in the hell Malfoy had secretly bought this property from him and turned it into some mad little museum that seems to attract primarily Muggleborn children and thieves, when he—doesn’t. He just doesn’t. He’s not sure why—he definitely still wants to know—but he doesn’t.

He picks his way back through the study instead, past the mutilated guts of couch cushions and throw pillows and what looks like a burn in one of the massive, plush carpets rolled out across the floor. When he reaches the door, he turns to regard Malfoy’s tired frame, already curling back towards the hunch he’d been in when Harry first walked inside.

“Hey, Malfoy,” Harry says, quiet and genuine. Malfoy looks up and Harry feels the corner of his own mouth pull up into a gesture that isn’t quite a smile, more of a wincing,miserating little grimace. “Sorry. Really.”

Malfoy’s mouth opens a little, and he stares at Harry for a second before he snaps it shut, looks away. He swallows—Harry can see his throat working—and then gives Harry that sharp little nod.

Then he ruins it by adding, “Please do get out now, Potter, it’s very rude to linger,” but Harry still leaves glad he said it. Someone has to be the bigger person, after all.

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