Harry Potter The Long Lost Malfoy

Mr. Malfoy stepped back into the hospital wing, wearing a small, satisfied smile. "We have permission for Henry to come home with us for the night. He'll need to be back right after breakfast tomorrow, but with Floo, that's no problem."

"Ugh, I hate the Floo," Harry muttered.

He hadn't intended to be heard, but Mrs. Malfoy said, "All the more reason to get used to it, Henry. Something you haven't experienced often is bound to be difficult."

Like being told that I'm part of a family and my name is Henry? Harry thought, but he kept quiet as they escorted him over to the hospital wing's Floo and asked Madam Pomfrey for the powder.

The last thought had actually struck a spark inside him. He thought about it all the way through the Floo, and the horrible whirling, and the way that it spat him out of the fireplace onto the floor and Draco laughed at him and Mr. Malfoy cast a charm that cleaned the soot off him.

Maybe being Henry Malfoy would be more natural when he heard it more often. Maybe he should try to be around the people who said it, too, as long as they were kind to his friends, and not just the people who called him Harry.

Maybe.

.....

"How worried were you that I would seek out and kill the Muggles, son?"

Harry refused to meet Mr. Malfoy's eyes for a few minutes. They were in the formal White Sitting Room where Harry had only been a few times, mostly for lessons in Malfoy history and wizarding politics. Mr. Malfoy had told him he didn't have to study beyond a certain level, but there were things he had to know that Harry Potter wouldn't have had any idea about.

"I was really convinced," Harry finally said.

"Why?"

Harry looked up. "Because—you followed Voldemort during the first war. I know that. And I know you said it was the Imperius Curse, but I don't believe you."

Mr. Malfoy gazed back at him thoughtfully. He looked a lot like Draco and less like him, Harry thought. Which was ridiculous, because he and Draco were identical, and he knew that. But it was the way it felt, anyway. As if Draco was closer to his father because he had grown up with him, and so his face was pointier and his eyes were colder like Mr. Malfoy's.

"Perhaps some aspects of this discussion should wait until you are older," Mr. Malfoy said. "But one thing I can tell you is that things have changed because of who people thought you were. I will no longer follow the Dark Lord, should he return. I will no longer freely use the word 'Mudblood' or attack Muggles."

"Because of me."

Mr. Malfoy nodded.

"Not because you decided on your own to be a good person."

Mr. Malfoy settled back on the couch with his arm stretched over the back of it. He wore dove-grey robes that were only a few shades darker than the couch. Harry thought he looked elegant, and also that he himself would never look that way.

"What does good person mean?" Mr. Malfoy murmured. "I did things that I am not proud of. On the other hand, I promise you that Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor Snape have done the same. They were allowed to find redemption. From what you said about the meeting in the Headmaster's office, you are even willing to allow Professor Snape a chance to reinvent himself with you, and he was horrible to you personally in a way that I was not. Why does he have the chance and I do not?"

"I—" Harry stopped, because when Mr. Malfoy put it that way, it didn't make a lot of sense.

Mr. Malfoy nodded calmly. "I know that part of it might be because he is a professor at your school whom you only have to deal with at certain times, and not your Head of House. I, on the other hand, am your father. Our connection is permanent, and one that cannot help but distress you."

"It's weird," Harry said firmly.

"I would like to ask you a question, Henry, and please answer me truthfully."

"Is this about the Dursleys?"

"It touches on them only indirectly." Mr. Malfoy sat there and was patient again until Harry nodded, at least. "Now. Did you have any adult who cared about you when you were younger? You mentioned that some of your teachers recognized something was wrong but your—keepers managed to talk themselves out of it. Was there anyone who maintained a relationship with you outside that? Any neighbor? Anyone who tried their best to teach you? Another Muggle, or even wizard or Squib, who watched over you?"

"Not unless you count Mrs. Figg. She was the neighbor that my rela—I mean, the Dursleys left me with when they didn't want to be bothered with me."

For some reason, Mr. Malfoy had gone absolutely still and tense, but Harry didn't know why. That was one of the least objectionable things the Dursleys had done, all told. "You said her name was Figg? Do you know what her first name was?"

"Arabella, I think?" In Harry's mind was a hazy memory of Aunt Petunia saying that once.

Mr. Malfoy closed his eyes. "I know her," he explained, while Harry was still staring at him wondering exactly what was going on. "A Squib, one of Dumbledore's followers. She was probably there to watch over to you." He sneered. "And it did nothing, of course."

"I never knew that," Harry said softly. Mrs. Figg had never spoken to him about the Dursleys' treatment of him. She might not know some of it, like the being in a cupboard part, but she would surely have seen him wearing big clothes and how thin he was?

There really hadn't been anyone who had cared about him before he came to Hogwarts.

Harry sat there with a sinking sensation inside him, and almost missed Mr. Malfoy's next question. "Sorry, sir, I didn't hear you," he said, shaking his head.

"You don't need to call me sir. I would be pleased if you would refer to me as Father."

Harry tightened his mouth and looked away. "Sorry. It's too soon."