With trembling hands, Draco scrawled out the message to his mother. Potter's owl, a beautiful barred owl named Deirdre, clicked her beak at Draco and stuck out one leg. She ruffled her feathers, nagging him to finish. He cast her a look, too unsteady to do much else, and fastened the letter with magic. Certain his fumbling fingers would leave the letter poorly tied, at least this way it would actually get to his mother. It was already late, given he'd forgotten to send it earlier due to-reasons involving Potter.

Deirdre hooted once and made off with the letter, flying out toward Sweden or somewhere in that general area. Potter had assured Draco that Deirdre could find his mother wherever she might be, that he had excellent luck with his owls, but Draco wasn't convinced.

After all, nothing else seemed to be going as expected tonight.

Leaning against the side table where he wrote the letter, Draco braced himself to stop the shaking. His body felt as though he was under the influence of potion withdrawal-which, in a manner, he supposed he was. Potter was in another room, apparently contacting Granger via floo, and the distance between them felt tangible and deadly.

Draco tried not to think on that last word too much, and instead, his mind helpfully provided him with a replay of the scene Granger's Patronus interrupted. His skin immediately grew hotter, his trousers too tight, his eyes glazing. Draco tried to swallow, and instead only remembered the feel and taste of Potter's tongue in his mouth, of Potter's hands on his body, of the way he felt with Potter on top of him.

Merlin, he was going to explode soon if Potter didn't come back. Although he would probably still explode the moment Potter did return. Draco couldn't tell what option was worse. Or better.

His mind was clouded with confusion and lust, and Draco could barely breathe for the strain it put on him. He had never wanted someone this badly in his entire life. He had never wanted anything this badly. It felt as though Draco didn't exist but for wanting Potter, for needing to touch him, and kiss him, and-

Something glinted on the floor amid Draco's robes. And then he remembered. The cordial Weasley had given him.

Rushing to his robes, Draco pulled the cool blue bottle from the folds and held it aloft. In the low light of the hearth fire, the liquid glinted like icicles at twilight. Draco searched the room for a glass, a bowl, anything he could use as a goblet. Finding nothing but a set of antique furniture that didn't at all seem to be Potter's taste, Draco decided casting aside etiquette in order to drink directly from the bottle was preferable to spontaneously bursting into flames.

He uncorked the top, releasing a soft hiss and a curl of frost on the air. With a desperate hope that Weasley was not cruel enough to trick Draco and Potter in this time of desperate need, Draco knocked his head back and took a long drink. The liquid was somewhat expected-cool and minty with a hint of thyme and citrus. It cooled Draco's throat the way cold water does on a hot day. But once it reached his belly, it did little else.

He waited and waited and finally felt the edges of his need soften, curl, and fade. It was still there, the agonizing pull and the desperate hunger for Potter, but it was as though it was caged, wrapped in a rapidly thawing blanket of ice. At least it gave him enough clarity of mind to breathe again.

Potter returned to the room, his eyes sharp with the hunger that nearly consumed Draco. He advanced like a predator, like a cat about to pounce, and Draco nearly snapped, nearly let himself become prey. Instead, at the last moment, he held out the bottle to Potter.

"Drink," he said, urgently. "It will help. A bit."

Potter paused, a moment of clarity amid the cloud of need, and took the bottle. A few swigs later, he gasped and fell into the sofa, breathing normally again.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, considering the bottle. It was more than half-empty now, and the thought alone terrified Draco.

"Weasley," he said, "older one. He gave it to me while you talked with Granger's husband." One of these days he might have to use their given names. Today was not that day. "Said it might help take the edge off, but it's temporary."

Potter nodded vaguely and set the bottle aside. He looked up at Draco with an indecipherable expression. It made no sense to Draco, seeing Potter look at him that way. Where did it come from? The softness in his eyes, the revelry on his lips, they had no place on Potter's face. Not facing Draco.

It's the rings. Everything is twisted.

"Spoke to Hermione," Potter said, and the moment snapped, vanishing. "She seems to think it'd be best if we went to the painting right away. She thinks the bonding magic is getting worse, stronger."

Draco cocked his head. "I wonder why she would think that."

Potter laughed and said, "what? This isn't how all your first dates go?" And Draco's heart nearly stopped. The smile on Potter's face was dazzling as he sidled up to Draco to Apparate.

"Yes, this is just an average date for me," Draco drawled sarcastically.

"Wh-average?"

But they popped away, swirling toward their destination. Draco's face was split in a smile like he hadn't done in years. It was the kind of smile he couldn't hide, not even once they'd arrived and Potter caught him doing it.

They held each other a moment, Draco smiling as he was, and Potter laughing at the sight of it, at the ridiculousness of their jokes, and Draco nearly kissed him again. Until he saw where they were.

The smile vanished, the joy in his chest dwindling like collapsed snakeskin, when his eyes fell on the site where Granger found the painting.

The grounds sprawled out before him, still green as ever with rolling fog, but overgrown, untended, unkempt. In the distance, the massive stone structure stood looming, ominous, but hollow-like a ruined castle or abandoned buildings. They had presence once, but no longer.

Malfoy Manor. Home.

"The painting is here?" Draco asked, the gravity stolen from his breath. His words were breathy, barely audible.

"The Ministry never managed to remove it from the wall," Potter explained, his tone somewhat awed. "It looks like no one's been here in ages. I guessed you might not want to live here anymore, but-" and then, as though he'd just realized, he turned to Draco. "You haven't been back, have you?"

Draco shook his head, looking at the wreck of his past, rolled out in front of him like a nightmare made real.

"Not since they took it," he said. It had been years.

"But it's yours," Potter said. "I thought you'd-"

"It's not," Draco said abruptly, a lump growing in his throat. The good of the cooling cordial was quickly wearing away. The pull was growing again but different this time. "It's not mine. The Ministry never gave it back. Said it got caught up in a mess of paperwork and bureaucracy."

"But you were pardoned, and-" Potter heaved a deep sigh, ragged at the edges and dark in the centre. He took Draco's hand, startling him slightly, and nodded toward the Manor. "C'mon. We've got to meet Hermione."

Draco followed Potter up the path to his own ancestral home, wondering if memories could made ghosts, if he would relive every moment of the war once he stepped through those doors. A small voice at the back of his mind reminded him Potter had been here once before. He knew that too well.

Potter and Granger and Weasley-they'd all visted the Manor once, by force. Granger had been tortured here.

Draco swallowed thickly, crossing the threshold into his home as one might enter a dragon's keep. With trepidation and not a small amount of caution. But inside the main hall stood Granger, hands on her back to support her ample belly. She turned when they entered.

"Oh, good, you're here. You both look-" she paused, eyes wide, and grimaced slightly, "awful." Potter glared at Granger who only shrugged in response. "According to the records-and let me tell you, going through them was the pleasant stroll it should have been; I've got words for the Ministry in regards to their record-keeping-the painting is still housed in its original location at Malfoy Manor. Apparently, they were unable to counter the effects of the sticking charm used upon it, but I suspect it had more to do with the subjects of the painting not wanting to be moved. Magical artwork is a much more complex and interesting field than most people expect."

"The subjects can stop the painting being moved?" Potter asked. Granger nodded.

"It wasn't the only painting in the Manor with that kind of magic, either. I suspect most of the paintings at Hogwarts have similar magical signatures, as well. At least the portraits that lead to the House common rooms and the Headmasters' portraits."

"I suppose they've grown to prefer the solitude," Draco said, remembering his encounter with Perseus and Helena. "They've got each other. What else really matters after all these years?"

Potter looked over at Draco, who caught his eye, and it was then Draco became aware they were still holding hands. They held a moment longer, then released each other gently, slowly, as though they never actually meant to. Granger studied them closely, her eyes searching, then coughed quietly.

"The records were not specific as to a location," she went on, "as I said, sub-standard, which means that you, Malfoy, are the best guide we've got. Lead the way."

Unsure of where walking these old halls might take him, Draco set off down the right-hand hallway. The corridors were long tunnels of hollow shells, the echoing of their footsteps on the dusty ground the only sounds to pass through these walls in years. Here and there, along the way, there were paler spots on the stone where paintings and tapestries were once on display. An empty pedestal, or a barren shelf, or sometimes an open doorway to a cavernous, gutted room were the only marks that this was once a house, a home, rather than a mausoleum.

As they turned down a set of hidden stairs, they came upon one of the portraits Granger mentioned. An image of his great-great-great-uncle Matthias, the portrait was determinately stuck to the wall where others had let themselves go. Matthias was always a snob-even as far as Malfoy history was concerned. When Granger and Potter passed, he roused and began to yell obscenities.

"MUDBLOOD FILTH!" he bellowed, and the words echoed in the empty stairwell, reverberating into the core of Draco's bones. "DISEASE-RIDDEN HALF-BLOOD! YOU STAIN THE VERY GROUND BENEATH YOUR FEET WITH YOUR DIRTY, IMPURE BLOOD!"

Draco stopped dead, his shoulders squared and stiff. He stood to his full height, his chin tilted back and to the side, his gaze as cold as the heart of the arctic.

He faced the painting of his ancestor and said, "what impudence you show in the face of a Malfoy, Lord and Heir of this estate. How dare you speak in such a manner to my guests. This Manor and everything in it belong to me. You are nothing but a roll of canvas and a few splashes of paint, not worth the magic that keeps you there." He looked at the painting in disgust, and his ancestor stared back in shocked horror. "Your purpose in this Manor is to serve and honour me, and yet you abuse my guests and damage my calm. You will first disabuse yourself of the notion that you have anything of value to say in my presence, or the presence of any of my guests, and second you will apologize to Mr. Potter and Mrs. Weasley and beg their forgiveness," and Draco paused to ensure his words landed where they should, "or so help me, I will burn your portrait to the ground and have the peacocks urinate on your ashes."

There was a moment of tense silence, and Draco felt both Potter's and Granger's eyes on him. Matthias gaped, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, before turning his attention back to Potter and Granger.

"Mr. Potter, Mrs. Weasley," he said, his tone as humble and apologetic as it was possible for a bigoted painting to be, "may I offer my most humble apologies for my inappropriate and reprehensible manner. As honoured guests of the Lord of the Manor, you deserve all my deference and respect. I beseech your forgiveness."

Potter and Granger stared and blinked in response. Granger's jaw was tight as she nodded to the painting, but when she looked at Draco, her eyes were clear and searching. Potter said nothing, nodded vaguely to the painting as well, and only stared at Draco. A creeping fear sprouted in Draco's chest, but he tried to ignore it. He wasn't sure he liked the way Potter looked at him now.

"You live another day," Draco told the painting. "Now get out of my sight."

Matthias vanished from his portrait, likely to go annoy some other painting in the Manor, and Draco slumped. He pressed fingers to his temples, a headache blooming behind them.

"Malfoy," Potter began, but Draco wasn't sure he wanted to hear it.

"My father's dead," he said starkly. "I'm Lord of the Manor now and control everything in it. The magic tied to the grounds is tied to me, to my command." Then, remembering his fear of Matthias as a child, he laughed bitterly. "I don't think anyone has ever talked to Matthias that way. I didn't even know I could." He turned to look at Granger and Potter finally, more nervous than he expected to be. "I'm sorry. This is my legacy."

Potter and Granger continued only to stare at him, and Draco began to squirm beneath their scrutiny. Finally, after much too long, Granger turned to Potter and said, "you were right."

"That was nearly more terrifying than Mrs. Weasley when she's angry," Potter said, and Granger laughed.

"You had the painting call me Mrs. Weasley," she said suddenly to Draco. Hand on her belly, she tilted her head. "I'm not sure how to feel about that, actually. Am I turning into Molly?"

Potter snorted and dodged the question, and Draco felt foolish for being so nervous. Potter caught his eye, and Draco felt himself losing control of his feelings.

"The painting we want is this way," he said, and continued down the stairs. At the base, there was a wall that wasn't a wall. The stones met in an imperfect way, leaving the slightest gap. Just enough to fit the tip of a wand.

Draco pressed the tip of his wand to the gap, pouring shapeless magic into his movement, and drew the wand upward. As he did, the stones shuddered and shifted, pulling away, one by one, until the passage was opened. It was small, smaller than he remembered, and he didn't think any of them could pass through it.

"Allow me," Granger said, and flicked her wand with the other held open almost like a shield. She guided the edges of the passage slowly, carefully, shrinking the stones around the passage entry to accommodate the movement. After a few moments, the passageway had grown large enough to fit all three of them.

Draco stood in the opening, unsure if he was capable of stepping through. The last time had ended badly. He'd not been ready to speak with Perseus and Helena. He still may not have been. Part of him thought he never would.

But Potter's hand on Draco's back gently urged him forward. He walked down the passage and into the room at the end. It was slightly larger than he remembered, but it had been full up with paintings and abandoned things then. Now it stood empty save for the painting on the wall.

Laying still against a weeping willow tree, Perseus and Helena were asleep. Helena, head resting on Perseus's chest, held her hand over his heart. His head tilted down to rest atop her head, and they cradled each other in slumber. Watching them sleep, Draco thought he'd never know this kind of love. He wasn't sure anyone did, anymore. It was the love of fairy stories and romances. Not real life.

He must have disturbed the air or the quiet, because Perseus and Helena opened their eyes in the slow manner of emerging from a dream. They gazed at him in wary silence getting carefully to their feet. She was endlessly in her wedding robes, a soft gold adorned with lace and silk. He wore formal, ritual robes, heavy with purples and silvers. They held each other as they took him in, and Draco stared back wordless, unsure of what to say.

"I'm sorry," he said, and barely managed to add, "I need your help."

They pulled back together, as though they might flee, but Potter stepped into the room behind Draco. As one, Perseus and Helena looked at him, then back to Draco, and finally to each other.

"It's a bit tight, Hermione," Potter called to her. He stepped next to Draco to consider the painting, crossing his arms over his chest. In doing so, he flashed the ring he wore, and Helena gasped.

"Our rings," she whispered, her voice breathy as though she'd kept it too long. "You're wearing our rings."

"Yes," Draco said. "We are bonded." And Helena looked as though she might cry. Perseus's face lightened with a smile.

"How?" he asked, and they seemed overjoyed for the knowledge. Draco, feeling as though he betrayed them, looked to Potter.

"It was an accident," Potter said after a moment. "We didn't know the ring would still work."

Perseus and Helena shared another glance, studying Draco and Potter. They seemed confused.

"We," Draco began, "we were hoping you might help us undo the bonding." The portraits looked on, still more confused than before.

"Undo it?" Helena asked. "Are you certain you want that?"

Taken aback, Draco shook his head. "It wasn't an intentional bonding," he said. "We don't know each other that well. In fact, for many years, we were rivals. We don't have a love like yours." As he said it, Draco felt something twinge inside him. Potter seemed to feel it too.

The lovers considered held each other closely, their gazes piercing Draco to his soul.

"Not many see love as clearly as we do," Helena said. "They go their entire lives never realizing it's in front of them." She leaned into Perseus. "If you should like to break the bond, the only way is through the Keeper."

"Who was your Keeper?" Potter asked.

"Cygnus Black," Perseus said. "And the Key to it would be passed on through the eldest male of the bloodline. Who is the eldest male Black alive today?"

Potter's shoulders dropped, his expression darkened.

"Sirius Black was the eldest male," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "He died years ago. There are no other male Blacks."

Draco reached out to Potter, his hand brushing Potter's fingers only slightly. The touch invigorated him and seemed to calm Potter's mind. Then it struck him.

"Would a son born to a Black daughter still count?" Draco asked.

"Any direct descendent of a Black."

"That would be me, then," he said, a spark of hope and a rush of fear filling him. "How do I find the key?"

Perseus and Helena shook their heads. "You cannot find the key," she said. "It is magic passed in the blood. You would simply know the Key, by the touch of the rings and the feel of the magic in them. It cannot be learned."

A war of different emotions flooded Draco. An overwhelming sense of doom, of helplessness, and the slightest flicker of hope all at once assaulted him.

"How can I not know it?" he asked, more to himself than anyone else.

"We do not know," Perseus said. "Perhaps there is another Black, older than you, still out there."

Draco and Potter shared a look, and Potter shrugged heavily.

"I guess we've got to search the Black family tree," he said, but Draco wasn't sure how to respond. "Thank you for your help," Potter told the couple in the painting and passed back through the passage. Draco made to follow him but stopped.

"How-who is responsible for killing you?" Draco asked, knowing he'd never get another chance. Perseus and Helena held each other closer, the love between them radiating off the painting.

"We do not know," Helena said. "We were painted before that night and have no knowledge of it. But it does not matter."

Alarmed, Draco shook his head. "How can it not matter? It's the reason you didn't get to live out your lives together."

Perseus shook his head. "But we did. We are living out our lives together. Not in the way we had hoped, but in a manner still. The past has little impact on our love or lives," he said. "We were made of the love between us, and that is all that matters."

Draco ran a hand through his hair. "But you never talked to another Malfoy. You refused to talk to me the last I saw you."

Helena gave him a look his mother had given him many times as a child. "Even paintings can have suspicions. But it is of no matter now."

Draco didn't think he understood. "Why talk to me now?"

Perseus grew solemn. "The Malfoy line travelled a dark and narrow path for many years." He gave Draco an appraising look. "Perhaps now it is finally making its way back toward the light."

Draco swallowed hard, almost embarrassed by the words, and made to leave.

"It was wonderful to see a descendent of my family," Helena said. "Take care of him, please." Draco looked at her over his shoulder to find her smiling mysteriously. "You'll never know love like the kind a Peverell can give you."