Title: System Discordia

Author: Eris Mackenzie

Rating: M

Warnings: Rape, torture, future slash (H/D), minor het, minor character death, adult language and situations.

Spoilers: SS, CS, PoA, GoF, Ootp, HBP.

Main Pairing: Harry/Draco

Secondary Pairings: Tonks/Remus, Hermione/Ron, more to come.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Summary: After a failed Death Eater rebellion headed by his father, Draco Malfoy is taken hostage and eventually found by Aurors. How will the rest of the wizarding world react to the fact that the Prince of Slytherin has a wish for the light? Post-HBP

A/N: This is just pretty much explaining where he is and why he's there and what has been going on since the end of HBP, so there's a lot of backtracking in this chapter. If you get confused, it's alright, there will be a little more explaining to come. For those of you who read before, the Infirmary scene has been bumped up to the next chapter because there was too many add-ons to fit it all in. I actually liked writing this chapter more than the original. It just felt like Harry was more of a normal guy (other than the fact that he is a wizard, etc., etc.) and had to worry about normal things along with those less mundane. Never thought I would have fun relieving all my times in Laundromats, but yeah…it was nice to write. Pretty pain-free. Review and tell me what you think!

This chapter is dedicated to my kittay, Binx.

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Chapter Two: Imperfect Little Pieces of a Perfect Little World

Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, "I will try again tomorrow." –Mary Anne Radmacher-Hershey

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ATTACKS: CRIMINALS OR CONSPIRACY?

By Lisa M. Dalton, reporter for The London Times

3 September 1996

Three more attacks have allegedly been confirmed as 'unrelated' by the British government in light of the ongoing concern of the public. The first attack occurred in an apartment building in Gloucester earlier last night, killing a total of 134 people including several children between the hours of 11 p.m. and 3 a.m. Though there have been numerous reports of people appearing right before the attack in 'odd-looking dresses' and what witnesses described as holding 'short sticks,' the official statement from the Parliament was that the first attack was devised by a controversial underground drug ring operating out of the targeted apartment building.

The second occurred at approximately 7:15 a.m. this morning in downtown central London, resulting in 67 deaths and 113 more casualties. According to several witnesses, there was a recorded large bang like that of an explosion before dozens of black-garbed men appeared and proceeded on what appeared to be a high priority chase through the crowded subway system. Though the whereabouts of these men are unknown as of yet, the chief of London's police division urges anyone with any information to call this number: (999) 181-8976.

The third attack occurred just a half an hour after the second, this time targeted at the Prime Minister at his home estate. Luckily, the Prime Minister did escape unscathed and was escorted to a safe location by a police squad. There has been an obtained suspect, but as of yet, there are no further details as to the person's name.

For more details, see page A2.

From his makeshift home in the small village of Godric's Hollow, Harry Potter swore softly and turned the Muggle newspaper to the next page. Familiar black-and-white pictures of people caught mid-scream in the burning wreckage of an apartment building assaulted him as he read down the column. The article he was going through was one he had read about three months ago and was smudged through with whorls of fingerprints, but he could not help but go through them again, as if he had somehow missed something important.

It was not as if he did not have enough to look over as it was. Harry had not had time to read through the last few papers that he had mailed to himself bi-weekly; he had been knee-deep in Horcrux leads that had all tragically ended in frustrating disappointment. The ones that he had read when now that he had the time, however, just proved what he knew all along: not only was Voldemort and his Death Eaters getting more bold, but they were going after Muggles, too--and the Muggles were starting to notice. Before long, Harry did not doubt that there would be mass rioting and panic if the government did not do something, and soon.

He sighed and dropped the newspaper down on the patched quilt of the hotel bed and rubbed his eyes. His glasses still got in the way; he thought absentmindedly about how he should get one of those I-Miracle spells. He had been reading through newspaper after newspaper for hours. The strain was starting to give him a migraine. There were two piles of newspapers on the bed, one Muggle and the other Wizarding. The similarities between the articles and stories reported in the two were almost frightening. Voldemort was hitting the wizarding world just as hard and relentlessly as he was chipping away the social order of the Muggle world.

Harry opened his eyes after a few minutes and stared blankly at the faded, flower-patterned wallpaper of the room, thinking. Lately, the attacks on both wizards and Muggles seemed to be getting…sloppy, almost as if they had lost purpose. It was not like Voldemort to be so spontaneous and erratic. He shook his head. Then again, maybe he was just getting paranoid--like most of the wizarding world was nowadays.

The main reason of this for most was because the underground wizarding world was churning and roiling just under the surface in light of mounting activities on the Dark side. The multiple recurring Death Eater attacks had made everyone worried but the sudden, seemingly smooth halt lately unnerved even the most grounded of wizards.

A major rebellion had been reported last week that was probably the reason for Voldemort's ever-growing insanity, but Harry had heard no information on it lately. The Daily Prophet had reported it as one of the largest benefits for the Light side of the war since the Aurors had tapped into Voldemort's plans and managed to stop him from mass murdering hundreds of school children in a place in Scotland, the name of which Harry could not recall.

Harry did not know the exact number of Death Eaters involved in the rebellion but he did know that it was a major, major blow to Voldemort. The proof was when the wizarding world caught wind that Voldemort's forces were evacuated from both Northern Ireland and the southern part of England.

The coined 'Death Eater Rebellion' had the wizarding world up in arms when their homes and streets were suddenly flooded by curses, bodies, and half-dead Death Eaters. Granted though they were reluctant to the point of disgust, most of the Ministry and the common folk that were willing to help take in as many as they could. However, trials were still to be set up after the Death Eaters were well enough to appear before the Wizengamot.

Harry himself had grown worried about the troubling news, the unexpected action causing more thoughts to clog his brain than usual, but he had pushed it off with practise and focused his concentration on tracking the Horcruxes. So far, he had found only one, and that one alone had nearly cost him his life.

Dumbledore had been right when he guessed that Voldemort would have gone after another possession of Hogwarts' Founders. This one had been a prized tapestry of Helga Hufflepuff's, hidden away in the Founder's former estate in Scotland. The castle had been protected with more than just spells, there had been earth magic in near every tree and blade of grass growing within a mile radius that made it damned hard to even get close. A few trusted Aurors had helped break through the protections, though not without heavy casualties, and they finally made it into the ancient House of Hufflepuff.

Harry had, of course, been one of the first ones in once they managed to slip through, but the danger was not over yet. The castle seemed to have been bewitched to snare anyone of potential threat, and seeing as how every single one of them had been trespassing, they had been considered dangerous. Harry was lucky to have even found the tapestry at all, hanging oh-so-innocently on the wall of Helga Hufflepuff's private drawing rooms. He did not really remember much after that, just touching it and then a huge explosion that blew him backward, and then next thing he knew he was in Hogwarts' Infirmary. Despite the fact that he was no longer a student, Harry still continued to be treated as if he were one--medically, that is.

Harry took a small sip of bitter, black coffee and grimaced a little. The small Muggle inn that he was staying in for the time being had the crappiest tasting coffee in the world, but it sure did wake him up. Which reminded him, his monthly supply of Sleepless Potions were due to be picked up at Hogwarts that evening. He had taken the last one the night before last, and he was in dire need of it again.

Pomfrey was the one who actually brewed them--being skilled at potions was one of the many requirements of a nurse, after all--and though she did not approve, she still obliged by his wishes. Harry had not wanted to go anywhere and chance someone creating a stir by spreading rumours that he was addicted to potions and whatnot. Plus, as paranoid as it was, Harry just felt safer having someone he trusted brewing the concoction.

Harry sighed again after about fifteen more minutes and finally decided to give up on the papers, at least until tomorrow. Although it was nearly winter, the hostel was exceedingly hot (which, though he did enjoy to some extent, got a bit excessive after a while), and he felt grubby enough as it was.

He tried to remember the last time he had taken a shower and nearly blanched when he realised he had not taken one in…was it three, or four days? No wonder he felt so grimy. He took a despairing look around the room and, after taking in the piles of dirty shirts and trousers and the one or two odd socks strewn about, decided his clothes really needed a washing, too.

He got off the bed with a squeak of metal springs and stumbled over to the open bathroom door.

Weak, yellow light flooded the rather drab bathroom and reflected dully off the manila floor tiles when he flicked the switch. Whoever decorated had tried to make the bathroom as clean and sanitary looking as possible using mostly whites and creams to paint with, but years of dust, humidity, and grime just made the whole room look slightly washed-out and sickly. It was meagre, but there was working water, a shower, and a sink. Harry was not complaining so long as it served its purpose.

He did not have very far to walk in the small bathroom to get to the shower, and he twisted the knob to get the water going. He had not been here long enough to know how long it would take for the water to warm, but he had been in enough hotels and inns to estimate that it would take at least two or three minutes. While he was waiting, he unzipped the jeans that he had been wearing for two days straight and relieved himself.

Steam was starting to fog up the mirror when Harry looked into it. He winced a little at his reflection. Although his body was still a bit bony, awkward around the joints but still muscled enough to keep from looking anorexic, his skin was a pasty colour, and big, black circles were under his eyes as a testament to how little sleep he had been getting. His hair, still as unruly as ever, had not been cut since around September and had now grown past his ears; he flicked a few strands out of his eyes and made a mental note to get it trimmed.

He undressed and groaned when he finally got into the shower. Though the water was still a little lukewarm and the pressure was shot, it felt so very nice. He closed his aching eyes and turned his face into the slow jet. The chipped tub floor added an interesting texture to his tired feet, too, and he rubbed them absentmindedly against the grittiness.

The sound of splattering water drowned out his thoughts, and he was grateful for the temporary silence. He barely had time to sleep anymore; he was constantly searching, building up defences, tearing down Ministry rules, ploughing through documents and books, scanning through so many artefacts and damn near killing himself trying to follow through on leads. Hence the Sleepless Potions and endless coffee escapades, he thought wryly. He had become very close friends with that particular caffeinated substance in recent months. Thank little gods for small favours.

Eventually, Harry reluctantly forced himself to get out of his little piece of heaven , and he lumbered out of the bathroom into the bedroom. Fat droplets fell from his skin and made numerous splatters, but he did not really care that he was dripping all over the floor. It was not like the water was going to disintegrate the ceramic tiles or anything.

He flung the wet towel on the ground randomly when he was done with it. It was a cheap towel, one of those ones that were thin and rough before they were even used and just barely wrapped around his hips. For a moment, Harry wondered why he stayed in such crap hotels when he could afford a bloody four-star should he choose to. He shrugged mentally at this as he pulled his pants and then his trousers up. He really did not have a reason other than the fact that smaller places tended to attract less questions, and the less questions the better. Another bonus was that when he stayed in Muggle hotels, he had a less chance of being recognised, which was always a bad thing.

He glanced at the letter sitting on the table and recalled his thoughts before he had started reading the newspapers earlier as he tugged on the rest of his clothes. Harry had sent Hedwig on her daily run to the Order of the Phoenix--he did not trust anyone enough to tell them where he was--and had received some surprising news.

Number twelve Grimmauld Place, which had been the Order's headquarters for nearly half a year as Harry had given it up for use just as Sirius had done, had been deemed unsuitable for further use. The reasons why were purely for security and minor complaints, nothing even particularly serious, but there had been an unanimous decision for the headquarters to be moved to Hogwarts itself. So many students had already been taken out of Hogwarts since the death of Dumbledore so that there was more than enough room. Many of the Order also hoped that perhaps they could recruit more seventh years, within consideration of their age and education, of course.

Harry himself had not felt disregarded at any extent; if anything, he whole-heartedly supported their decision. He could understand why they would want to move, especially with the convenience of the castle's own magic and the closeness to the Order's leaders. And, if anything were to happen, such as another attack, the Order could react without wasting precious time getting there. However, this left Harry with the slight problem of finding something to do with the bloody mansion now.

Harry tugged on his grey track jacket before leaning over and gathering the small, scattered piles of clothes here and there. Luckily, he did not have many clothes to begin with (it was just easier to travel that way), so what he did have could fit quite easily in the small, white, netted bag he carried to do laundry. Though he liked a good Scourgify charm as much as the next wizard, every once in a while he liked to clean them the Muggle way. The small village around the hill that had once held his parent's home might have gone downhill since he had last lived here, but at least they had a Laundromat.

He hurried out down the stairs and out of the inn's door before anyone could say anything to him, not that anyone really would. A trail of cigarette smoke and chatter followed him out into the street.

As he strode purposefully down the narrow, cobblestone street, he went past one of the cars parked on the side. He thought, as he stole a half second glance at his distorted reflection in the chipped red paint, about how he would already have his driving license by now if he had been a Muggle. Now that was strange; imagine, the Great Harry Potter as a mere Muggle. That would be the day. All the same, it would be a whole lot easier just to drive somewhere instead of walking or, occasionally, flooing from place to place.

Harry had successfully passed his Apparition test the year before, but he disliked the squishing feeling and the fact that if he were to be splinched while on a lead, he would most certainly be--in the bluntest of terms--fucked. Also, Harry had a tendency to check in at Muggle hotels frequently enough that he would not want to be caught popping from one room to the next without warning.

Yeah, Harry wished he had his driving license.

There was a little silver bell above the door to the Laundromat (why, Harry had no idea) that tinkled softly when he pushed it open. He was happy to see that there was no one else there and set his bag of clothes down on a wobbly fold-out steel chair near the large front window. As he did not see the point in buying his own, he dug in his pockets for the change he needed to purchase the little boxes and bottles of laundry detergent in the machine bolted to the wall. He finally found the correct amount a few minutes later along with lint, an old candy wrapper, and a safety pin.

All-in-all, it took about an hour and a half for Harry to finish washing, drying, and folding his clothes. He was just tempted to throw the clean clothes into the bag he had brought them in and be done with it, but the cleaning ethics instilled in him from cleaning after the Dursleys for years adamantly refused, much to his annoyance and defeat.

It was chilly and near sunset when Harry left the Laundromat. No one was about in the small village in accordance to the weather. The crisp air that was trademarked to mid-November swept down the street and made Harry pull his grey jacket tighter, fingering his wand stowed in the front of his jeans. He was grateful again that the skies had managed to hold off on snow, as an unusual feat as that was. A rustle of dry leaves crinkled their way past Harry's feet to be lost in the gutter.

A sudden snapping noise like a twig breaking broke the quiet. Harry spun around quickly and instantly drew his wand, his breathing in a tell-tale hitch as he searched for danger. He frowned when he saw no one, and his eyes flitted around the corners and shadows for a flicker of movement, the flick of a robe.

However, he was bemused when he heard a small meow. He sighed as he realised what it was.

Harry chuckled self-consciously, shaking his head at his paranoia, and looked at the small black kitten curiously watching him by the kerb.

"Christ, you gave me a scare," Harry said, sounding much more relieved than annoyed.

He crouched down near the kerb and held out his hand. He did not really like animals, but it was just a kitten, not one of those demon dogs from hell that chased people everywhere they went.

"Here, kitty, kitty." He snapped his fingers gently once or twice. The kitten just looked at him like he was a two-headed ogre and stayed where it was.

"Come on, baby," he cooed.

Finally, after a few minutes, it walked cautiously over to him, wariness shining in its eyes. Harry wondered if it was possible for animals to even have such emotions; the notion of the kitten being an Animagus crossed his mind, but he dismissed it almost immediately. That would either be one hell of a shitty form, or a wizarding child genius.

The tiny cat sniffed his fingers, then rubbed its side against his hand. At this sign of acceptance, Harry gingerly picked it up, searching for a collar or identification tag. When he did not find one, he stood up from his crouch.

"Hhm…where are you from, little one?" Harry asked absentmindedly as he studied it. Its black fur was sleek but dirty and matted, clearly in need of a bath, and could almost fit in his hand. However, it did not appear to be sick, at least outwardly, and its lime-coloured eyes were clear and bright.

He frowned when he noticed it was shivering. Forgetting momentarily about fleas and ticks, Harry huddled the kitten in his jacket. The poor thing, it probably did not have a home, and it was so small, most likely hungry, too, by the looks of it…and with winter almost here….

Harry almost groaned when he felt his hero complex kicking in. No, no, he did not have the time, resources, or patience to take care of a kitten right now. He had enough on his hands; he was just managing to take care of himself, damnit! He could not -

The kitten meowed from its place huddled near Harry's chest and looked at Harry with its big eyes.

Harry bit his lip, debating. He could not just leave it there, but he could not take it with him. It was probably flea-infested and whatnot and, although there had been no signs saying otherwise, the inn he was staying at probably did not allow pets. He had managed to smuggle Hedwig in, but a kitten….

However, Harry thought with relief, maybe there was a pound (is there any such thing in England? That's what we call it in America, but it could be different) or something where they would take it in. Yes, that was it! He would take care of it just for tonight and then find a place for it tomorrow. There, simple.

Grateful that he had found something to do other than let it slowly freeze to death in the cold, Harry resumed his walk down the street. It was not too dark yet, but the temperature was steadily dropping every minute. The kitten shivered again, and Harry tucked it closer.

It took less than five minutes to get back to the Griddle Inn. Harry was grateful when he finally cleared the doors and the warmth hit him like a freight train, instantly warming his chilled limbs.

Careful to make sure the kitten was hidden, Harry walked past the dim front room to the stairs. There was a fire lit in the centre fireplace near the bar, but the lights were turned down low, giving the rather small room a cosy glow. For a moment, it reminded him of home, Hogwarts. He suddenly remembered the long chats with Hermione and Ron in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room; Neville would be messing around with the newest plants he had managed to find and Seamus and Dean would be busy with a game of Exploding Snap while Fred and George went about teaching Ginny how to best keep up her troublemaking.

Had anyone been around him, they would have noticed how the air suddenly got cold. But then, no one was.

When he got to his room, he was surprised to see that it was already 7:35 p.m. He shrugged a little and set his clothes down on his bed. Oh well, he still had time to eat dinner and go through some papers before he had to go to Hogwarts to pick up his potions. He mentally checked for his Invisibility Cloak and remembered that it was in his wardrobe, right where he always kept it.

He took off his jacket slowly, swapping hands to get his arms out, and laid it on the bed. Sharp, tiny claws dug into his sweater when he tried to put the kitten down, too. He swore softly when the tips scratched him none-too-gently, not enough to break skin but enough to sting a little.

"Come on," he coaxed soothingly. It seemed to calm the kitten, because it let Harry remove its claws from his jumper and set it lightly on the quilt. He brushed a bur off of the kitten's coat and frowned again. It really was dirty. Perhaps he should give it a bath. He did not want it getting dirt all over his bed.

He sighed again; well, he supposed he could wait a little to eat dinner, couldn't he?

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To say the least, by the time he was done, Harry was not a happy camper.

Now he remembered why it was a bad idea to give cats baths--cats hate water. He had scratches all over his arms (despite the fact that he had worn long sleeves) to prove it. For being so small, it was a vicious little thing. Still, he had finally succeeded in washing the damned thing. He had also discovered by accident that the kitten was a she.

He wrapped the kitten up in a towel and rubbed it gently to dry her off as he picked up the phone installed in his room. He was hungry but did not feel like going downstairs, so he was just going to order up.

"Room service," came a disgruntled, slightly hoarse male voice.

"Um, yeah, this is Room 7. I'd like to know what is on your menu tonight, please," Harry said politely. The kitten started slipping out of the towel, and Harry quickly grabbed it again as he waited.

"Well, we just have what was served for dinner. Roast beef sandwiches, homemade vegetable soup an' bread, an' a fruit cup," the man replied gruffly. He sounded like he had either just woken up or was a smoker. Probably both.

Harry nodded absentmindedly as he listened to the man rattle off what was available. He had not expected a French buffet or anything; this was a small village, after all. Personally, Harry was not a picky eater and would eat just about anything that was cooked and was not magicked to dance around and sing songs. And even then, he could be tempted.

"Er, alright. Could you send that up, please?"

"Room 8?"

"Seven."

"It'll be there shortly."

The man hung up not a second before he stopped talking, and Harry put the receiver down with an annoyed look.

He glanced at the clock again, which read 8:18 p.m. He quickly calculated the time it would take for him to eat and head off for Hogwarts and guessed that he would arrive there a little after ten o'clock or so. It was not too late; Harry usually went to get his supply after dark. He just did not want to go during the day and chance running into Hermione or Ron or someone else he knew. It was not that he was estranged from them or anything, it was just easier to talk to them through letters and occasional visits rather than physical confrontations. Seeing them always brought up…emotions that he would rather not deal with at the moment.

They still were not happy that Harry had made them stay at Hogwarts; Harry had told Hermione that she should not waste her brains and future, and Ron needed to be there to help keep her stabilised. Hermione, as unhappy as she was, had grudgingly agreed to stay at Hogwarts for her final year, given that Harry would continue to write her every single day and visit every weekend. Well, Harry had written quite faithfully for a few months, but after a while, everything started piling up on him, and before he knew it, he had not heard from her in weeks. It pained him that he was forcing them away--even he could see that--but there was nothing he could do. He loved them both more than anyone else. He could not bear to put them in any more danger than they already were. Of course they worried about him being on his own, hell, everyone did, but as he was technically of age in the wizarding world, there was nothing anyone, including the Order and the Ministry, could do about it.

A knock on his door brought Harry back to the present, and he managed to detangle himself and the kitten and hide it away in record time. He made a small shushing sound as he shut the dresser drawer and then turned around.

"Uh, hi," Harry said, a bit too quickly as he opened the door. An overweight, middle-aged man stood holding a tray on which sat two slices of thick, sliced bread, little packets of margarine, and what he assumed was a bowl full of vegetable soup.

The man grunted unattractively and held out the tray. His stained plaid shirt stretched unbecomingly over his beer belly. Harry fought off a wave of disgust. He was unpleasantly reminded of Wormtail.

"Here's your order," he said gruffly.

Fighting the sudden urge to sneer at the man, Harry took the proffered tray and smiled.

"Thank you," he replied a little stiffly.

Harry watched as the man nodded curtly and turned around. Harry followed his movements until the worker had gone down the wooden steps before he finally shut his door.

Harry heard the small mewing sounds and set the tray down on the small table next to the door.

"Okay, kitten, hold on." Harry walked over and retrieved the kitten. He smiled a little at the way she clawed her way securely onto his jumper. The smell of the vegetable soup was spicy and made his mouth water; his stomach growled against his consent.

Retrieving the tray and sitting cross-legged on the bed while the kitten played, Harry noticed that despite the unsavoury look of the man who had brought the food up, the soup actually looked scrumptious. He took a bite of the bread and found out his assumptions were correct: the bread was freshly made, probably earlier that day. Well, Harry thought as he ate a spoonful of the thick soup, that was small town cooking for you.

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Harry yawned as he stood. It was just past 10:10 p.m. and he needed to get ready to leave. He had finished his dinner long ago; the tray, bowl empty and margarine packets still unopened, sat on the edge of the nightstand next to the bed. The kitten had thankfully fallen asleep after dining on the milk that had come with the meal. He stretched languorously, bending his torso this way and that until he heard his neck give a satisfying crack.

He went to the loo, washed his hands, and returned to the bedroom, heading for the small wardrobe. He fingered through his clothes until he found what he was looking for. In the back, hung up inside out so that Harry could see where it was, was his Invisibility Cloak. The material flowed like silk over his fingers as he pulled it out. He would not put it on until he got outside, where he would then Apparate to Hogsmeade; due to the fact that he could not just Apparate straight onto Hogwarts' grounds, Apparating to there was the next best thing. From there, he was to go to The Three Broomsticks and floo to whichever school fireplace was available for connection. Routine, as always.

He took one last look around and opened the door.

As Harry made his way down the steps, it was a bit more quiet than usual. Shrugging it off as a result of the cold weather, he stepped off the last stair and weaved his way easily past the unoccupied tables to the door.

The warmth was instantly stripped from him as he opened the door. Tendrils of cold air wound their way through his clothes and down his throat and nostrils despite the fact that he was wearing a t-shirt, jeans, a jumper, and a jacket over that.

Checking to make sure that the coast was clear, Harry flipped the cloak around and disappeared with a 'pop'.

End of Chapter Two.

A/N: Yeah, yeah, I know I took forever with updating, but please forgive me (or if you feel the need to flame ;) and press the review button. I'll be muy muchos happy if you do!