Notes: I'm having fun writing this. I wasn't sure how good I would be at writing Harry (which is why this is Draco-centered), but I think I'm getting his characterization down okay. Please comment! I want to know how I'm doing!

Chapter Three: Welcome to Hell

It wasn't until Draco made it back home to the manor that the reality of his situation really set in. He was absolutely doomed. Completely, and utterly fucked up the arse sideways. His future, everything he'd spent the past seven years working for, could be undone if he pissed Potter off enough. Granted, they could at least have a civil conversation now. ...Without punching each other in the face, after having spent the past few years working in the same branch of the Ministry. But, their paths rarely crossed other than sometimes exchanging an obligatory polite greeting in passing. Now, however, they had to share an office and function in the field as partners. Yeah, he was screwed – assuming Potter's tendency to rush into danger head-first didn't get them both killed. Damn him and his hero complex. He took a shuddering breath and resigned himself to six months of absolute hell, comparable only to his sixth year in Hogwarts, but not quite as terrible as living with Voldemort. Hopefully Potter wouldn't accidentally try to kill him while he was busy crying in a girl's toilet again. All these years later, and the memory still made his insides crawl unpleasantly.

Once upon a time, he was a (mostly) innocent child who only wanted to be friends with Potter. As he got older, the disappointment over the rejection turned to jealousy, then to hatred. Yet, when the golden trio had shown up at his manor, he couldn't bring himself to turn Harry over to Voldemort. In the end, the stupid git had defended him at the death eater trials, and returned his wand. Maybe his wand wasn't as obedient as it should be, but Draco appreciated the gesture nonetheless. Harry might have killed Voldemort, but Draco wielded the weapon that did it. The thought was a sobering one. With a sigh, he wandered down the stone path that led to the manor as the wards didn't allow for apparition directly inside the grounds. ...What was he going to tell his mother?

Something seemed off about the manor grounds as Draco approached his family home – something he couldn't quite put his finger on. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and he wrapped his fingers around the handle of his wand that was hidden inside the sleeve of his robes. I'm being paranoid, he told himself and continued on the path, not letting go of his wand. He felt cold all of a sudden, not physically cold, but like his entire being was filled with dread. Fear, maybe, not just dread. Draco took a few hesitant steps forward. Someone or something was watching him, but from where? The manor wards should have been able to keep pretty much anything out. It felt like a dementor, but that didn't make sense. There hadn't been any dementors left after the war, had there? Draco gathered his wits and walked quickly to the manor. He prayed his mother was safe. Narcissa wasn't the most pleasant person in the world, especially after he chose to become an Auror, but she was still his mother and she cared about him in her own twisted way. It hurt to think on it, but Draco was pretty sure she was the only who did care at all about his well being. Once inside, Draco shut the doors behind him and the feeling of dread vanished. He found his mother sitting in the drawing room reading a novel of some sort.

"You're up late," He said cordially.

She glanced at him over the top of her book. "As are you."

"Long day at work," Draco supplied and sat in the chair adjacent to her. "I've been apprenticed to Potter," He added, unable to keep the utter misery out of his voice.

Narcissa marked her page and snapped the book shut. "Some would call that poetic justice, but you should use the situation to your advantage. Being seen with Potter will do good things for the Malfoy name."

"Fuck the 'Malfoy name'! This is my future, that I've sacrificed everything for! My fate shouldn't be his to decide!" Draco shouted, and flinched as his mother reached across the small mahogany table and smacked him across the face with murder in her eyes. She might have gotten older, certainly in more ways than one after the war, but Narcissa Malfoy was still... Narcissa Malfoy – even if her hair had gone mostly white save for a small stripe of black left on the right side of her face. Draco knew she cared, which she only expressed by pushing him to be his best, even though she very rarely showed actual kindness these days. She was tired; he knew that. They both were.

"Stop acting like a child, Draco." She said in an even, emotionless tone. "If currying favor with someone you despise is all it takes to find the redemption you insist on seeking, than you should consider fate to have been very generous indeed. Count yourself blessed to even have to worry about someone else deciding your path for you. The way things were, you're lucky that you are alive today to be angry about it."

Shakily, Draco touched his cheek where she'd hit him. It had been years since she'd smacked him, and she'd only ever done so once. The last time, he recalled, was was for telling her that Lucius was where he belonged – rotting in Azkaban. It was the night after the trial, and then that Draco had let go of the last shred of respect he had for his father. Draco, at least, knew that he had to admit that he was wrong, and take responsibility for his mistakes. Lucius couldn't do that. Instead, he made excuses and placed the blame for his own actions on others. Yet, there was a very good possibility that Draco was going to cock-up everything he'd done so far to prove to the wizarding community that he wasn't the monster they thought he was. Maybe he wanted to be that monster once, but now he knew better.

"It's just not fair," Draco pouted.

"Stop sniveling. This is beneath you, and you know it. If I have learned a single thing in this life, it is that nothing is fair." Narcissa chastised him. If Draco felt regret, it was for upsetting his mother, not for what he had said. "Draco, the way you carry on about Potter – have always carried on about Potter, it seems almost like you fancy him. Keep in mind, that won't do your reputation any favors if others see it that way," Narcissa commented irritably and swept out of the drawing room.

Draco swore under his breath and carded his fingers through his already disheveled white-blonde locks. Did it really look that way? Him? Fancy Potter? He'd rather bugger a blast-ended skrewt. It was no secret that he was gay. Well, not since Blaise fucking Zabini outed him to the Daily prophet a few months ago. The headline still made him cringe. 'The Death Eater Who Shagged Me', it had read. The fiasco nearly cost both of them their jobs, as Blaise was technically his superior and sleeping with him was apparently an ethics violation. The idiot should have known better. The sex hadn't even been good, if Draco was going to be honest about it. Blaise wasn't exactly patient, and Draco hadn't been entirely convinced it was a good idea. All around, it was an experience he would give anything to forget – except that no one would let him forget it.

Lucius, from his cell in Azkaban, had gone out of his way to send an owl with a howler at least twice a week. Usually they were the normal 'you're a disappointment' type of thing. Sometimes they were particularly venomous, and called him everything from a ponce to an abomination. Lucius had, in no uncertain terms, disowned him as his son and as a Malfoy. Narcissa, oddly enough, was neither surprised nor particularly upset. She had just shrugged, tossed the Daily Prophet into the fireplace beside her, and told him to at least shag blokes with a little more class than Zabini in the future. Other than that, his mother hadn't brought the subject up again. He almost wished she would. Deep down, Draco was very conflicted about his interest in men, and had been since he first started thinking about it in his early teens. His upbringing, obviously, taught that such things were off limits. Narcissa, he assumed, was simply beyond caring anymore. It hadn't been until the mess with Blaise that he'd actually found the courage to try anything. Really, he wished he had someone to talk about it with, to sort out the mess in his head. Still, who would he tell? The idea of having a heart to heart with his mother about his sexual insecurities was laughable.

"Fuck me," Draco whinged and vacated the tea room. "And fuck you, too." He added as he passed Lucius' portrait in the hall, and his likeness started ranting about him being a filthy blood-traitor, and a disgrace to his ancestors.

Draco headed straight for the bath, deciding that it just wouldn't do to go to bed smelling like Potter's spare muggle clothes – not after his mother's comment. He sighed and sank into the bubbly, lavender scented water, letting the warmth ease the tension out of his body. He didn't even know what time it was, just that it was definitely after midnight. Just as he let his eyes slide closed, and rested his head against the edge of the huge white marble tub, he heard a low growling nearby. It sounded like a dog, but not any dog he'd ever heard. Draco sat bolt upright, his heart pounding in his chest. His wand was on top of the writing desk in his bedroom, and he was arse naked in a bathtub. How was he going to defend himself? He was able to cast most basic charms wandlessly, but he hadn't mastered hexes or defensive spells without one yet. The sound didn't come again, though.

"I'm a train wreck. On fire. Fucking Potter, wait, no... Not fucking and Potter in the same sentence," He groaned and sank back into the bath, his heart still racing. He was imagining things; that was the only logical explanation. Nothing could have gotten through the wards. He was being paranoid. But then, paranoia was second nature to him after sharing his home with the Dark Lord and his minions. It wasn't the first time it had gotten the better of him, and wouldn't be the last. Maybe he really should see a mind healer. His mother, and more than one of his trainers in the Auror program, had been on his case about it for ages. 'Paranoia can save your hide in this field, Malfoy. In your case, however, having an anxiety attack while fighting off dark wizards is probably going to be how you die.' - That was what Jennings, one of his first trainers, had told him at least. Draco may or may not have agreed with him. Mercy, his defensive charms trainer, had told him that she thought he had what muggles called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and that maybe being Auror wasn't good for his mental health. He'd liked her, in spite of her being a muggle born. She was an utterly selfless woman who, if she hadn't been killed while cleaning out a death eater safe house a month ago, Draco might have considered talking with about his gay crisis.

...Gay crisis. Maybe Potter was gay. He had a pet kneazle for fuck's sake. With his fame, he could have literally any woman he wanted – so why didn't he? It had been what, five years since he broke up with the Weaslette?

"No. Don't go there; don't even think about it. Stop," Draco berated himself aloud. Why did he even care? Potter was, and always would be a complete wanker. Kind of a shame, considering he was pretty fit. Again, not going there, he reminded himself. Not with Harry, arsehole who saved the world, Potter. Draco stepped out of the tub and wandlessly dried the water from his skin, inhaling sharply as the cold air hit him. He threw on his silk night clothes and flopped face first into his bed. He fell asleep, or passed out from exhaustion, a few moments afterward.

It was cold. Draco's breath rose before him in hazy clouds as he stumbled through the undergrowth of a lush ancient forest. Was it the forbidden forest on the Hogwarts grounds? He wasn't sure. He didn't spend a whole lot of time there; he was scared shitless of the place after that detention from hell in his first year. Something was following him; he could hear its grunting breaths as it followed. Draco ran, pulling his robes up above his knees, hoping he wouldn't trip and fall on the massive tree roots that covered the forest floor. In the back of his mind, he knew there was a river nearby. He'd be safe if he could make it to the river. The further he got, the less life there was in the woods. The trees grew thinner, and the undergrowth turned to dead leaves and husks of small shrubs. The sounds of birds singing, which had been almost deafening in the beginning, slowly died out as well. All he could hear was the sound of his own labored breathing, and the steady, nearly silent footsteps of the thing following him. Panting, and gasping for breath Draco pressed on and ignored the pain as his lungs burned for air. He could hear the river now. Just a little further. His footsteps became shaky, and he wobbled unsteadily on his feet as he crashed through the silent woods.

"Can't..." He whimpered, and snagged his foot in the lifeless roots of a long dead tree. He fell hard, knocking the wind out of his chest. He cried out in pain as he felt the bones in his trapped leg snap under the pressure of his weight. He heard it again, the growling he'd heard in the bathroom. Sensing his death, he turned to look at the thing following him. A hulking beast of a dog stood over him, glowing yellow eyes lolling back in its head as it inched closer. Its body seemed to be made of a thick, black smoke and the air around it smelled like putrid, rotting flesh. Draco screamed as it lunged at him.

He woke up screaming and drenched in sweat – just in time to smack his head on his nightstand as he rolled right out of his bed, and onto the floor with a loud thud. Panting and gripping a stitch in his side as if he'd actually been running like in the nightmare, he snatched his wand from the nightstand.

"Lumos," He gasped, and screamed again. The dog was there, lurking in the shadows and revealed by the wandlight. No, not a dog, Draco knew. A Grim. He panicked, and bolted out of the room. The Grim followed. He escaped the manor through a side entrance in one of the servants' corridors, not daring to lure the thing near the west wing where his mother stayed. He kept running, right to the edge of the woods surrounding the manor and stopped. The woods from the dream. It had probably been these woods. He couldn't go there. Just as the Grim lunged, he disapparated on the spot and landed on his arse in the atrium of the Ministry. Gripping his wand so hard that it threatened to break, he took stock of his surroundings. He could sense it nearby, outside perhaps. The Ministry's wards were too strong for it to enter. With his heart hammering a hole into his ribcage, Draco got into the nearest elevator and smashed the button for the Auror department's floor so hard with the butt of his wand, that it cracked the glass covering it.

Without even knocking, he kicked open the door for Potter's office, hoping to find the bloody Kirin statue and smash it to pieces. Now that he was starting to think again, he knew what he'd seen and it had something to do with it. It had to. Was that what the muggles who died had been running from? A Grim? It made sense. It wouldn't take a genius to recognize death itself when they saw it.

"Malfoy?" Draco stopped in his tracks and looked up. Potter was sitting on his couch in a fetal position with his knees drawn to his chest. Princess sat beside him, nuzzling him, and completely ignored. He was in a set of ridiculous red and yellow striped pajamas, and wearing a pair of slippers with moving snitches sewn on them. Draco looked down at his own bare feet, and emerald green silk bed clothes.

"Fuck." He mumbled and folded his arms across his chest. "Potter, what the bloody hell did we do? How did we summon a fucking Grim with that stupid muggle ritual?"

"So you saw it too? I thought I was losing my mind," He replied, obviously shaken.

"It was chasing me through the woods, the ones surrounding my manor, I think. It was a dream. But when I woke up, it was there. In. My. Room." Draco ground out, pacing the office like a caged animal. "I apparated here, I think it followed me but it can't get into the Ministry because of the wards. How did it get past the manor's wards?!"

"Same here. Except in my dream I was running through the streets of muggle London near my house, and it cornered me in an alleyway. I think it can't get in my house, or tell where it is exactly because of the Fidelius charm and wards, but I could see it outside. It was just sort of pacing back and forth on the sidewalk outside." Harry answered, staring up at him with wide eyes. "You know, at first I thought it was Sirius, but then I remembered, that well... That he's... Dead."

"This is absolutely, one hundred percent, your fault, Potter," Draco accused, panicking. He needed to get his shit together. He couldn't let Potter see through his facade of being a relatively collected, functional human being.

"Yeah, I know. I know," He replied, not even arguing. "Hermione's in the library downstairs trying to see what she can find."

"Granger?" Draco asked, frowning. "What does she think she'll find in the sodding library?"

"Weasley, she married Ron, remember? But yeah. That's just what Hermione does. Something went tits up? Hit the library," Harry explained, reaching down to pet Princess' head. "She's always been like that, and somehow always finds the answers."

Draco sighed in defeat sat down beside Princess. She looked at him expectantly, and he patted her on the head. She didn't bite him, purred, and made herself comfortable in the spot between him and Harry. Draco let his head fall against the back of the couch and screwed his eyes shut. He felt a meltdown coming, and he couldn't think of anything worse than Potter being a witness to it.

"Where's the bloody statue?" Draco asked, without opening his eyes.

"In the cursed objects vault," Harry answered wearily.

"Good."

"Uh huh."

The silence that followed seemed like it would never end, and was interrupted only by Princess purring. What seemed like an eternity later, Hermione came running back into the office. Potter must have woken her up in the middle of the night, Draco reasoned. She wasn't wearing night clothes like they were, but it looked like she'd thrown on the t-shirt and jeans she'd been wearing the day before. Her bushy hair stuck out at odd angles, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

"So, I have no idea how that 'ritual' worked. Technically speaking, it shouldn't have done anything. There must have been some other sort of curse on the statue that you missed, Harry," She said, plopping down into the chair behind his desk like she owned the place. "Oh, hello, Malfoy. Pleasant dreams, I take it?"

Draco only grunted in reply and hid his face in his hands.

"You two are the worst Aurors ever. Why would you think doing this was a good idea? Even if the spell looked like bogus, I haven't seen anything where those ingredients are used for something benevolent," Hermione admonished them when they didn't answer. "Everyone would be so disappointed in you, Harry! And you, Malfoy, I thought you were trying to be better than this!"

"Hermione, stop. It's not his fault. It was my idea," Harry insisted miserably.

"Quit playing the hero, Potter. I didn't stop you, did I?" Draco snarled.

"You tried to. Like six times," Harry countered.

"It doesn't matter whose fault it is! You're both going to die if you don't find a way to banish it! There's nothing in the library," Hermione replied, sounding defeated. "I will get to the bottom of this, though. In the meantime, I think you should go back to Grimmauld place and don't leave. Draco, you should go as well unless your manor has wards to keep it out. It's probably for the best if you two stay close to each other."

Draco stared at her in silence. Had she just called him by his first name? "No. I can't leave my mother in the manor alone. What if it goes for her instead?"

"If you explain the situation to her, perhaps she would be willing to stay here in the ministry, or allow some Aurors to strengthen the wards on your manor?" Hermione suggested, as always the voice of reason.

"Actually, is it too late to just let it kill me? She will disembowel me with her bare hands if she finds out about this," Draco replied sheepishly.

Harry snorted with barely concealed laughter. "If she didn't kill you over that article in the Prophet a few months back, I doubt she'll kill you for this," He quipped.

Draco almost wanted to hug Hermione for the sour glare that she gave Potter.

"Don't call the kettle black, Harry," She admonished him. "I'm going to get us a cuppa, and we're going to figure this out. I'll be right back. Try not to kill each other while I'm out."

"I am absolutely not going to have some kind of stupid sleepover at your house, Potter," Draco drawled, trying to think of how to strengthen the manor wards. His main concern was was his mother, and how to protect her without her finding out about this particularly embarrassing screw up.

"Kind of a shame, Malfoy. I was looking forward to painting your nails, while we bond over watching muggle chick flicks together all night," Harry snapped back.

"You'll just have to make do without me, darling," Draco said, wondering when the hell Potter had gotten so sarcastic. He decided it was a good change. If nothing else, it made their passive aggressive verbal sniping a little more entertaining. "On a more serious note, I'm going home. I'll strengthen the wards, and then I'll help Gran – Hermione with her research. I'm sure the archives in the manor will have something relevant."

"Fine, but it's not my fault if you die," Harry commented dully.

"I don't need you to save me!" Draco snarled a little more venomously than intended.

"What makes you think I want to?"

"Nothing. Piss off, Potter."

Draco stormed out of the office, barely able to suppress his rage. Harry was still a total twat, all these years later. Why would he expect otherwise? He hoped Potter wasn't sitting there laughing at him as sulked out of the office. He couldn't have looked particularly intimidating while barefoot and in wrinkled silk pajamas.