Chapter One

The First Sign of Trouble

Draco hung up the phone and smiled. Tuck knew a few guys over here, and he said there was nothing in the pipeline about Max Cross. Tuck also said that if Draco—he still called him "Drew"—didn't get his ass back to New York sometime to congratulate Bonnie on making honor roll, said ass was going to get kicked. Draco had promised that he would visit next summer, as he'd spent all this summer dealing with bad press and a recovery from having his leg stripped down and rebuilt. Apparently, Lisa hadn't been too torn up about not seeing him—criminals, her daughter could be around, but she drew the line at known murderers. Tuck said she'd come around, she just needed reminding of how many times Draco had saved Tuck's life in the past. At least Tuck was happy to see him ditch the cane. He thought it was weird there was nothing to be done for his missing eye, and thought Draco was crazy not to attempt to regain his original facial structure. Pomfrey had offered to try to rebuild his face, but Draco decided he'd rather be asymmetrical than look like his half-brother.

As he started walking, still smiling, a very pretty young lady started smiling back, and he felt his face twist into a grimace. She shot him an angry, hurt look and strode past. He was over that, and had no use for him who were attracted to dangerous men. There was really only one woman he wanted, anymore. Which meant he was destined to be alone, because there was absolutely no way he could have a relationship with Vianne Edwards. They hadn't spoken since his identity had come out nearly five months ago. He'd barely spoken to Ran, and they'd seen each other every day until the end of the term last year. That hope was lost to him.

Ah, well, at least he had good news to take back to Hogwarts, where he was heading right now. After a summer alone in Malfoy Manor, he was moving back to the school for the fall term, which started in two days. Well, two pieces of good news, really. Max Cross wasn't acting up, and Draco hadn't touched a potion of any kind in a full week. Since Potter had started firecalling him every night, he'd managed to stay away from it a little more all the time, and today marked a week of solid nothing. Of course, it hadn't been particularly pleasant. He had lost all the weight he'd gained at Hogwarts over the last year, and he knew his eyes were a bit bloodshot and ringed in dark circles from a lack of sleep. But he felt . . . free. His step, though still hitching, was lighter now. He was starting to feel like he was truly his own man.

At first, he'd had to try very, very hard not to resent the fact that it was Potter calling him up to check on him. But over the last three weeks, it had become less of a struggle. In fact, as lonely as Malfoy Manor was, he almost welcomed the opportunity to talk. They'd started talking less about his progress and more about him. Draco had been given the chance to explain himself to the only man he thought he truly needed to offer the explanation to. And Potter had explained a few things to him, as well. They were working their way toward understanding each other at last, now close to ten years since the incident that they'd thought had made such an understanding impossible.

He Disapparated as soon as he was sure no one could see him, turning and aiming himself for the path leading to Hogwarts castle.

Draco thought Potter would be in the rooms he shared with his children, but not a single member of the family was in it. He didn't know where they all might be, and didn't really care where Potter's children were, so he headed for the first place he could think of—the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom where Potter would be teaching in a few days' time. Luckily enough, Potter was there, hunched over some kind of magazine, mumbling something to himself.

"Potter, hello. I've just arrived, and I wanted to let you know that I spoke to . . ."

When Potter turned around, Draco trailed off and stared. What in the name of Salazar was wrong with the man? He looked simultaneously like he'd swallowed Bubotuber pus and watched someone die. Well, Potter had watched several people die after all, he reminded himself, but he was only reading a magazine.

"Potter? Is something wrong?"

"Crash is just a funny nickname," he whispered.

"Potter, start making sense or I'm sending you to the mental ward at St. Mungo's."

"Sirius. We call him Crash."

"I am aware of that."

"Because he's so careless. He's always hurting himself."

"I know, Potter. I saw him do it, when I was here a few weeks ago. He fell down an entire flight of stairs. I watched you mend his wrist."

Potter nodded slowly, and struggled to control his face. "He hurt himself badly last week." He was still whispering. "Madam Pomfrey wasn't here. I had to take him to St. Mungo's, and he was chattering on like it was going out of style. Before we left, every Healer on duty knew his entire medical history. So it could have been anyone."

Draco had no idea what Potter was getting at, and he nodded to the magazine. "What's that you're reading?"

Potter held up the magazine. The glossy cover spelled out Wandwork Weekly and had a picture of Potter's young son sitting on a bed in St. Mungo's, whitefaced but plainly interested in the proceedings, as they reattached the boy's left leg at the knee. Draco's eye widened.

"What happened?"

"He 'borrowed' my wand when I fell asleep writing out a lesson plan after dinner."

"Is he all right?"

"He's fine. He's even been a little more careful this week."

"Then what's the problem?"

Potter's eyes were on the magazine again. "How dare you?" he hissed at the pages. Then, abruptly and without reason, he dropped his face into his hands and let out a harsh choking sound.

"Potter?"

The man's shoulders shook, and Draco was quite alarmed. He tried to convince himself that he wasn't really sitting in Potter's office watching him cry over a magazine article, but it didn't really work, what with Potter's absolutely silent sobs unnerving him. Unable to think of anything else to do, he reached out and took the magazine from the desk. It was opened to the article written about Sirius Potter, a.k.a. Crash, and Draco had only to skim a few lines to discover the problem. He was shocked.

He didn't know how shocked until he heard the pages rustle and realized he'd dropped the magazine on the floor. "But . . . but . . ." he sputtered. "That's not true." He sounded outraged, he thought with a sort of detached surprise. Why was he so upset? It wasn't him or his child. But the article was so glaringly, blatantly ridiculous that Draco had to wonder how this Wandwork Weekly even functioned.

"What a pile of trash," he said simply, kicking the magazine out of the way. "Potter, you're the Savior of the wizarding world. You think anyone of them are going to believe this rubbish about child abuse? Merlin's beard, you're Harry Potter. No one will stand to hear you accused of abusing your son."

Potter looked up at him, his face red and damp and miserable. "It's only their second issue and they sold out their printing in one day."

Draco didn't know what to say to that. "Listen, Potter, people might read it for a laugh, but no one's going to honestly believe it. If they did, they'd have shipped the kids off to their mother by now." Oh, please don't let them be there already, he thought, remembering their absence.

Thankfully, they didn't seem to be, for Potter just shook his head and stared at his desk. "I wish she was here," he muttered. He seemed embarrassed that he'd had that little breakdown in front of Draco. Draco wasn't sure what to do. It wasn't as though Potter hadn't seen some of his weak points by now. He'd firecalled Draco one night to find him huddled on the floor in front of the fire, trembling nearly uncontrollably and desperately waiting the distraction of his conversation. Draco managed to reach out a hand, pat Potter's shoulder, and tell him things would work out.

"After all, with the number of people who'll be here watching your every move, it will be a little hard to hide your tyrannical rages and outbursts of violence," he quipped.

Potter shook his head again, unable to smile or even look up. "Thanks, Draco," he said quietly.

Potter had taken to calling him that recently. He hadn't been able to bring himself to return the favour yet, no matter how many times he reminded himself that co-workers ought to be on a first-name basis. But having to watch him cry certainly was a step in the right direction. He almost felt an instinct of protectiveness for the other man right now, as if he would step in the way and shield Potter from further outrageous accusations. Maybe it was just that he looked like Draco himself did—entirely too thin and weary, almost haunted. He hadn't been sleeping, either.

"What were you saying when you came in?" Potter asked him.

Draco shook his head, as if that would clear it of the shielding instinct. "Only that my Muggle contact hasn't caught a word about Cross."

"That's great," Potter said honestly. "My cousin hasn't seen hide nor hair of him, either." He frowned. "Maybe that's not great. Maybe he's planning something."

"Oh, let's not go borrowing trouble. It's more likely he's realized he can't get the house or me, so he's giving up."

Potter shrugged. "I hope so. But you're right. We'll worry about him when we find him. Kingsley's got Dan looking out for him, too."

"Good."

"Well, how are you?" Potter asked in a lighter tone, getting up.

"Clean."

"I'm glad," Potter replied, and Draco allowed himself to feel some pride in himself. "I knew it wouldn't be long."

"Did you?"

"You've already proved you've got the determination for it. I figured you just needed someone to report to."

"Thanks for your help." It had gotten much easier to say thank you lately, he reflected, even to Potter. "I'm not sure I'm there yet, but I'm well on my way."

Potter managed a smile, though he clearly wasn't feeling it. "I'll keep an eye on you."

Draco nodded, swallowing his pride yet again.

"I've got to go get Charley, Professor Thumbley was watching her for me," Potter said, excusing himself. Draco stepped aside to let him pass, but he stopped in the doorway. "Oh, Dorcas, I was just coming to get her."

"Well, here she is, the lamb. Fresh from her nap."

Draco peered out into the hall to see Thumbley carrying the squirming, red-haired toddler toward Potter.

"Daddy!" the little girl yelled, stretching her pudgy little hands out toward him.

Harry—it was impossible to think of him as "Potter" when he was being a father—took her, and immediately threw her up over his head, caught her, and swung her around. She shrieked in a really ear-piercing way, and Draco winced. It died down to uncontrollable giggles as Harry rubbed two days' growth of beard carefully on her neck, and her laughter was like the sun coming out from behind thick clouds.

"Daddy, let's play outside!" the two-year-old commanded, and her daddy agreed.

"Thanks, Dorcas," he said humbly, tucking Charley firmly against his side while he carried her.

"It's no trouble, Harry," she assured him with an affectionate smile for his daughter. "Your Charley is an angel."

Harry grunted as the squirming child kicked him in the ribs. "Yeah, an angel all right," he wheezed.

"And don't you worry about a thing, Harry. None of us on the staff believe that nonsense in that new weekly. We know you would never do such a thing."

Dorcas marched off without knowing the effect her words would have, but Draco saw it. Just like that, the clouds covered the sun again.