Potter knocked on the door and they promptly heard footsteps. Inside, somebody shrieked, It’s Harry!, and the door was flung open. A short, plump woman stood inside, with flaming red hair and worry lines creasing her forehead: Molly Weasley.
She engulfed Potter in a rib-cracking hug. Malfoy stood off to the side, trying not to laugh. Finally, she released Potter, grinning broadly. “Oh, Harry,” she sighed, leading him inside. (Malfoy took it upon himself to follow.) “Where have you been? Is You-Know-Who really dead? How on Earth did you kill him? We’ve been soworried, you’ve no idea!” then she caught sight of Malfoy trailing uncertainly behind. “Draco Malfoy?”
“Uh, yeah, that’s me,” replied Malfoy, staring awkwardly at his feet.
“Well-well-this-Harry-what-Malfoy?” Mrs. Weasley sputtered, at a loss for words.
“Mrs. Weasley, calm down, he’s….he’s okay.” Potter glanced over at Malfoy and they made brief eye contact. Malfoy grinned slightly, the tiniest, tiniest bit, and he could’ve sworn he received an even smaller smile in return.
“Well, if you say so, dear,” replied Mrs. Weasley, but her expression was dubious. Nevertheless, she ushered Malfoy into the cramped, yet clean, kitchen, sat him down by Potter, and started bustling around making tea.
“Well, Harry?” she asked, setting the teakettle on the stove. “Where have you been, and what’s going on?”
“Er…it’s kind of a long story, Mrs. Weasley…I should probably wait until everybody’s here to tell.”
“No problem. Whatever you want,” beamed Mrs. Weasley. “Are you two hungry? I expect you’re famished. What would you like to eat?”
“Whatever’s fastest,” replied Potter. “You’re right, I’m starved.”
“Okay, then,” Mrs. Weasley said, turning away as the kettle whistled. She quickly brewed them cups of tea and set them, steaming, in front of the two boys.
Malfoy took a sip of tea, feeling the hot liquid travel down to his stomach, as Mrs. Weasley set out a plate of rather hastily thrown-together ham and cheese sandwiches. Potter eagerly grabbed one, and Malfoy followed suit. When they had eaten their fill of sandwiches and hot onion soup, suddenly there was another knock at the door. Potter jumped up to open it, and the next thing Malfoy heard was a loud squeal.
“Harry!” It was shrill, obviously a woman’s voice.
Malfoy recognized the voice. It was Hermione Granger’s. He scowled, not wanting to see her, or Ron Weasley, either, who was presumably with her. Potter soon reentered the kitchen, accompanied by, as Malfoy had predicted, Hermione Granger the Mudblood, and Ron Weasley the blood traitor.
Weasley’s face blanched upon seeing Malfoy. Thrusting Granger backwards (she stumbled into Potter, and they ended in a heap on the ground), and howling, “Lord, Harry, what’s he doing here?” he leapt forward, shoving his wand into Malfoy’s neck.
Potter disentangled himself from Granger and scrambled to his feet. “Lay off, Ron,” he said. “Malfoy’s okay.”
Malfoy met Weasley’s contemptuous gaze evenly; finally, the redhead broke away, stowing his wand in his pocket and storming over to Granger. “Calm down,” Malfoy heard her whisper in his ear.
“Sorry, Malfoy,” Potter muttered. “Ron was just surprised to see you, that’s all.”
“No. He wasn’t surprised,” said Malfoy. “He was angry. I don’t belong here. I’m leaving.”
With that he threw Weasley one last, dirty look before stomping out of the house, slamming the door viciously behind him.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Again, stupid. It seemed these days, stupidity was leaking out of his ears. He, Malfoy, didn’t belong at the blood traitors’ house. But then, where did he belong?
The impact of this simple question sent Malfoy reeling. Where did he belong? His old home wasn’t his home. It couldn’t be. He’d never felt really at home anywhere, come to think of it. He certainly couldn’t go back to the expansive manor he’d called home. Who knows who would be waiting there for him? His father…no, wait, not his father. Potter had killed his father. Killed him.
Malfoy’s rage came back suddenly, as if bursting through a dam. It filled him, consumed him…so maybe they’d been working together, he and Potter, maybe against his father, yeah. But that gave Potter no right to kill him…
And then casting a last dark look back at the precariously leaning house, he stomped off, and Disapparated.
* * * *
Inside the Burrow, Potter and the others hadn’t noticed that Malfoy had left. When he’d angrily stalked out of the house, Potter had tried to follow, but Ron had restrained him. Now Potter, Ron, Hermione, and Mrs. Weasley were sitting in the tiny kitchen, talking.
“Harry, how in the world did you do it? Defeat Voldemort? In only a matter of minutes!” Hermione was in shock and couldn’t sit still. She kept pacing the kitchen back and forth, while the rest of them sat at the table. “I always thought it would be a huge, dramatic battle…but nobody even heard it!”
“To be honest,” replied Potter, “I couldn’t have done it without Malfoy.”
“Malfoy,” spat Ron. “How can you say that?”
“Because it’s true, Ron. Malfoy attacked Voldemort out of the blue, knocked him unconscious, and all I had to do was Avada Kedavra.”
“That’s amazing.” Hermione smiled shakily. “But odd, isn’t it, that he was defeated so easily.”
“That’s why I didn’t even believe it at first,” remarked Potter. “But then Malfoy’s Dark Mark disappeared. I knew it had to be for real then.”
“No wonder you’ve been on the run,” mused Mrs. Weasley, whose eyes were bloodshot. “The Death Eaters must be livid.”
“Oh they are, of course,” replied Potter. “They attacked Hogwarts the very next morning, as you know. I-I don’t suppose you heard anything about the damage there? I haven’t.”
“It wasn’t too bad,” said Ron. “Lucius Malfoy was killed, a few Death Eaters died too, but luckily no students or teachers did. Miraculously lucky, really. Just a few injuries.”
“I killed Lucius Malfoy.”
Hermione and Mrs. Weasley gasped simultaneously. “Harry! You’re a murderer!” Hermione shrieked.
“Hermione, he was going to kill me if I didn’t!”
“And Malfoy still traveled around with you, knowing this?” asked Ron skeptically.
“I-I guess I’m not sure he knows,” Potter admitted. “Surely if he did, he would have attacked me a long time ago.”
“Right,” said Hermione, trying to reassure herself more than Harry.
“Oh, look!” Mrs. Weasley said suddenly, pointing to her legendary clock. Her and Ron’s hands were on “home.” Mr. Weasley’s face, along with Bill, Charlie, and Percy’s, hovered over “work.” Ginny’s pointed to “school.” Fred and George’s were on “traveling.” With two sharp cracks, the twins materialized right in the kitchen. Their hands moved to “home.”
“It’s fixed,” Mrs. Weasley beamed, “no more of that ‘mortal peril’ nonsense anymore…”
“Harry!” exclaimed George jovially, clapping him hard on the back. “Good to see ya, mate! Where’ve you been? The last few days have been by far the happiest in a long while! Business sure is the best it’s ever been!”
“Glad to hear it,” smiled Potter.
“Yeah, we were starting to think we might have to close down shop, when Voldemort and his pals were really getting to everyone,” said Fred brightly. “But then-you killed him, Harry, and everything’s just peachy! Where would we be without you, Harry?”
Potter smiled. “You’d have a great shop, with or without me.”
“Not quite true, Harry,” said George, wagging a finger. “You gave us the money in the first place.”
“I suppose,” replied Potter. “Anyway, how are Bill and Fleur?”
“Bill and Fleur are great, of course,” snorted Mrs. Weasley. “Bought themselves a flat in London and they’re doing just fine…”
Potter grinned. “Ginny’s not too happy about that, I’m guessing?”
“Well, no,” said Mrs. Weasley. “I guess I’m fine with it…they really do seem to be in love, and if they love each other, then who am I to stop them? Unfortunately, Ginny just doesn’t share that vision.”
“Well, she needs to lighten up and stay out of their affairs,” said Ron, red in the face, using that choked, strangled voice he so often used when Fleur’s name was mentioned.
Potter grinned, then peered out the kitchen window, looking to see where Malfoy had gotten to. He didn’t see his pale blond hair anywhere, so he stood up and said, “Guys, I think I’d better go see where Malfoy’s gone.”
“What’s the use? He’s probably Apparated back to his Death Eater pals already, the great slimy git,” said Ron vehemently.
“Ron, Malfoy’s just as much on the run as I am. More, even. He betrayed Voldemort. Do you understand how much the Death Eaters must hate him right now?”
Ron didn’t reply. Potter left the house and strode out onto the prickly yard. “Malfoy?” he called. “Malfoy?”
There was no reply. Potter walked out a little further and turned, looking around the side of the house. Still nobody was there. Anxiety building in his chest, picking up speed into almost a full-out sprint, he ran around the house twice, looking in every possible spot, until it was clear that Malfoy was gone.
Had Malfoy been captured by Death Eaters? Or had he just Disapparated? Why would he do such a stupid thing? Where would he go? Potter raced back to the Burrow and burst into the kitchen. “Ron! Hermione!” he shouted. “Malfoy’s gone!”