Harry looked at the clock on his bedside table. It was only seven in the morning, but he was wide awake. He sat up and put his legs to the floor. In front of him, on the other side of the room, Harry could see a body, lying perfectly still. For a moment Harry contemplated whether he should wake the git and see him out of his bedroom, but he decided against it. Seven o'clock was a too early an hour to seek out a confrontation. That didn't mean that Harry was planning to play nice with Draco, and so he didn't bother to be silent or leave the lights off when he put on his clothes.

Although he didn't think it very likely that there were other people residing in the house beside the Malfoys and him, Harry still made a point of going down the stairs silently. While descending, he was sure he could feel the house-elves' beady eyes staring at him. It unsettled him badly enough to miss the last step. He stumbled and fell, making enough noise to wake a resident he had completely forgotten about. The curtains in front of him flew open, and Mrs. Black presented herself in full glory.

'Shame brought upon the noble house of my fathers! Blood traitors, filth. Such dishonor!'

When she saw who had been the person to disrupt her so early in the morning, she stopped her usual repertoire with a gasp.

'MURDERER!' she bellowed. 'You vermin; filthy Slytherin murderer! Oh, the noble house of Slytherin... BEREFT BY YOU.'

Harry couldn't get himself to move, let alone to do something about the scene playing out in front of him. He just stood there and let the shrilling shrieks wash over him, followed by waves of pain in his still sensitive brain. Soon, Tonks came storming out of the kitchen. As soon as Mrs. Black caught sight of her, she began wailing about disgrace brought upon the Black family. Tonks frantically started pulling at the curtains, returning the insults with equal fury and a few added swears.

At last, the house returned to its usual quiet.

'Oh, Harry, good to see you! I was hoping I'd run into you one of these days. Quick, come to the kitchen,' Tonks babbled, grabbing Harry by his arm and pulling him along with her. He was dropped onto one of the kitchen chairs. Tonks sat down next to him.

'I didn't think you would be up this early. When I heard my dear great aunt, I was quite surprised. Usually, only Narcissa is up at this hour, and she is much too… elegant to make noise. Still, thought she must have knocked something over, so I didn't do anything. Narcissa and her boy seem to know how to handle the monstrous woman. Only when I heard her screaming about – ' She didn't seem to dare finish her sentence.

Harry had been caught by surprise by Tonks' sudden appearance. He had expected her to be home, but the tired look on her face told Harry that she must have been out all night, busy for the Order. It was a pleasant surprise, she had seemed happy to see him and the feeling was mutual. However, the implicit mention of Snape made him feel uncomfortable.

'Really, though, it's quite a relief that for once I'm not the person making her come out from behind her curtains.' Tonks grinned.

'So ehm,' Harry began. 'What brings you out here at this ghastly hour?'

'I had guard duty, you see. When I was done, I thought I'd bring some food to you all here. Figured Moody might be so busy with keeping you all from being killed, he might accidentally starve you,' she said, pointing to a pile of food on the kitchen counter.

'Do you mind?' Harry asked as he stood up. Upon seeing the food, he had realized he could do with some breakfast. Tonks shook her head. Harry saw a kettle and poured some water in it to make tea, before investigating the pile. After considering his options, he decided to go for some toast and a juicy looking orange.

Harry put down a cup of tea in front of Tonks and set himself down to eat.

'I heard Moody had a go at you, last night. Hope he hasn't been too hard on you. He can get horribly carried away sometimes. Doesn't have much consideration for other people, when that happens,' Tonks said. Harry nodded, thinking that she must have experienced it many and many times, having had him as her supervisor.

'Remus was there,' Harry said, 'he tried not to make it last too long. But well, it was still well after midnight. It was, well, tiring, I guess. I'd rather not think about it, in fact.'

The rest of the conversation was light and meaningless, and Tonks' yawns started to follow each other more rapidly. Harry thanked her for doing groceries and bid her goodnight. When he had finished his orange, he threw his plate in the sink – someone who could magically do the dishes should do them, Harry thought. Then, he made his way back upstairs, careful not to make any noise this time; he didn't think he could stand another episode this morning.

When he opened the door to his room, he was hoping with all his might that Malfoy was still asleep, or gone. The latter seemed to be the case, so Harry walked to his trunk at ease. He was rummaging through his stuff to find parchment and a few schoolbooks, when he heard the door open. He looked up to see Malfoy walking up to him in long, resolute strides. Before Harry could even open his mouth to say something, he felt a fist crash into his face. Harry stumbled back, his ankles hitting the trunk, almost falling over onto his bed. At the last moment, he regained his balance. Harry was so dumbstruck that it didn't even occur to him to launch himself at Draco. Instead, he just stared at the boy in front of him.

'I heard Mrs. Black, this morning.' Draco's voice was small and shaky and the determination with which he'd stalked towards Harry, seemed to have left his body the moment of impact. Draco didn't seem to know what to do next, his uncertain eyes lingering on Harry's filled with confusion. 'You killed him,' he whispered. Hearing his own words, the anger stirred again within him. 'You, you, ah fuck,' Draco said, now holding onto the fist with which he had punched in pain, taking in the damage he himself had inflicted in the collision between fist and face.

'How could you?'

Only now, Harry noticed a warm sensation on his face. Slowly, he brought his hand of to his face, where he found blood was gushing out of his nose. He quickly ran his finger along his cheekbone, which had also been hit, and thought he could feel a bruise starting to form. He pinched his nose closed. When he realized just how heavily it was bleeding, he held his other hand underneath it to serve as a cup, so as not to bleed all over the carpet and made his way past Malfoy, towards the bathroom.

Bent over the sink, waiting for the bleeding to stop, he reflected on what had happened. It struck Harry how affected Malfoy seemed to be by Snape's death. After a little while, he figured it was only natural. After all, Snape had been his guide through his entire school career, much like Dumbledore had been to Harry. Of course, Harry couldn't help thinking, much of Snape's guidance had consisted of blatant favouritism. Regardless. He thought about the loathing he had felt for Malfoy when the roles were revers, when he was watching him point his wand at Dumbledore, threatening to kill him. It had sickened Harry to see how desperate Malfoy was, that he had even been capable of attempting such an action.

It was that exact moment when it hit Harry, the amplitude of what he had done. He had killed a man. He had done what Draco could not. Not even because he was forced, not because his parents were threatened. He had just… killed. Out of anger and hate. Simply because he couldn't bear to see the person alive. The realization of what kind of monster he was lurched at his insides so violently that he had to throw up. He heaved and he heaved again. When he thought he was done throwing up, he saw the blood from his nose mixed with his own vomit, and he had to throw up again. Without looking, he opened the tap. He let it run for a while, then let the water drain away. He repeated the action a couple of times and the sink slowly cleaned itself.

The bleeding of his nose that had almost stopped before, had begun again, and Harry was left with a dirty sour taste in his mouth. He went to get his toothbrush from his trunk. Malfoy was reading a book on his bed, his right hand lying limp next to him. Silently, without making eye contact, Harry got what he needed and disappeared again.

Draco, Harry realized, had been the first one to show anger for what Harry had done – that is, if you don't count Mrs. Black, and Harry thought senile portraits shouldn't count. In fact, he had been the first one to even condemn his actions. So far, all Harry had got were reactions of concern met with disbelief and sometimes a tinge of disappointment, but that was it. Being met with the hatred Harry realized he deserved was almost refreshing. The interrogation with Moody and Lupin had been horrible. Harry had had to tell every single detail he could remember – which was mostly anger, and a couple of curses he had tried before taking more drastic measures – and they had just listened. Moody had been completely stoic, showing neither approval nor disapproval. Lupin had even shown sympathy, telling him on his way upstairs that Harry couldn't blamed. But Draco knew the truth, as did Harry. It had been a repulsive action, driven solely by hate.

Harry couldn't help but wonder what Dumbledore would have thought of him, knowing he had killed someone. Harry thought he had known Dumbledore well enough to know that, regardless of the fact who and why Harry had killed, he would not have approved. He remembered the conversation he had had with his headmaster at the end of his second year. Dumbledore had known that Harry had abilities to devastate, but he never would have suspected Harry to use them. Imagining the disappointment that would have shown in Dumbledore's eyes, Harry felt worse than he had since that fatal night. At the thought of Dumbledore, Harry's feet instinctively started to carry Harry towards the room in which he knew Dumbledore lay in state. When he reached the door, he didn't dare enter, scared of what he would find – half hoping the room would be empty, that Dumbledore had walked out of the room early in the morning after a night of deep sleep.

When Harry did slowly open the door, he could see a pair of feet. He had to force himself to open the door entirely and step into the room. Closing the door behind him, it felt as if Harry's existence reached no further than the four walls between which he was held, and that the rest of the world had simply faded away into nothingness. Observing his mentor's body, Harry found that he felt surprisingly little. He wasn't sure what he had expected of this visit. Maybe, he thought he would have broken down in sobs, wishing he'd been dragged along into the great unknown. Maybe, he had expected great shock at a most gruesome sight. Neither came even remotely close. In fact, his mind was in a calm, analytic state. Harry noticed how Dumbledore was wearing the same dress robes he had worn when the two of them set out to collect the locket. The locket which, he realized in that moment, he didn't have anymore. It didn't seem to matter. His eyes rested for a while on the hand that had looked like it had started to deteriorate long before Dumbledore had been dead. Harry still didn't know what had caused it. Vaguely, he wondered if a functioning hand might have saved Dumbledore, but he doubted it. Another thing that sprang to Harry's attention was the room's smell. He would have expected a corpse to smell badly. The room however, smelled quite pleasantly, a fresh smell that Harry thought had a hint of orange to it. For half an hour, Harry stayed in the room, leaving his eyes to wander Dumbledore's body. As Harry was contemplating all the moments he had shared with Dumbledore, tidal waves of self-hate were alternated by tsunamis of hate for Snape, washing over him and leaving him to feel cold and stiff. Finally, he couldn't bear it any longer, and left the room.

The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was cool and dim. The small windows in the wall opposite of the door to the hallway were so dirty that they allowed only a small amount of light to enter the room. Even so, Harry could tell that the weather had to be a lot better than it had been the last time Harry had been outside. He held a glass underneath the tap and let it fill. Slowly, he made his way towards the door that he assumed would lead him to the garden. When he stepped outside, he felt the most wonderful combination of the warmth of the sun and the coolness of a fresh breeze caressing his skin. The sky was stark blue. He took a look around the garden. He was standing on the patio, on which a round cast iron table stood, with four cast iron chairs around it and several flower pots on the sides of the patio. It was a few meters deep. A stairway led down to the rest of the garden. It was narrow, like Harry would have expected from a garden the heart of London, but incredibly deep. Harry couldn't believe that any garden in the center of a metropolitan city could be so large; he figured it was magically enlarged. The garden was enclosed by a high dry stone wall, maybe two meters tall. Dark green ivy was growing on most of the wall. Harry thought that the garden, although neglected, looked beautiful. A cobble path leading to the back of the garden had become almost invisible under the moss and the weeds. Trees and bushes were scattered around the place, not allowing Harry to look all the way into the back of the garden, leaving him wondering just how deep the garden was. The only part of the garden that looked like attention had been paid to it in recent times was a small patch of soil that Harry recognized as a kitchen-garden, although it did not have vegetables in it like carrots or tomatoes. Some of the plants Harry could identify because he had learned about them in Herbology classes. Others were a complete mystery to him.

Harry had set himself down in one of the chairs on the patio and was enjoying the feeling of sunshine on his skin, eyes closed, when he heard movements from further back in the garden. He opened his eyes, and saw a figure making their way towards the house. As they came closer, he recognized them as Narcissa Malfoy. She did not look as well-composed or as neat as usual. Instead, she had several streaks of mud on her face, and her otherwise so carefully groomed hair was up in a messy bun. When she noticed Harry observing her, she cast a smile. As she came closer, however, she screwed her face up in a frown a little, before returning to a neutral facial expression.

'Why, Mr. Potter. Good morning,' she said politely. 'Would you mind if I joined you? I'll just get something to drink, then I will be right back, if you consent.'

Harry nodded. Shortly after, Mrs. Malfoy returned, carrying a glass of iced tea with her. When she saw Harry's empty glass she apologized – how impolite, she thought he had had something to drink still. Harry waved it away and invited her to sit.

'Had a rough morning, Mr. Potter?' the woman asked, gesturing at his bruised and swollen face. Harry felt unsure how to answer that question. Really, he didn't feel the need to tell Mrs. Malfoy that her son had lunged himself at him.

'You could say that,' Harry murmered.

'Would you like me to patch you up? You really do look ghastly, I am afraid.' Unsure how to answer that statement, Harry just nodded and said a thank you.

Swiftly, Narcissa took Harry's chin in her hand and turned his head to look at her. She did it with surprising softness and elegance, automatically guiding his head in the right direction rather than pulling at it. The soft touch subdued Harry's unease at the thought of having a Death Eater's wand inches away from his face. She uttered some simple healing spells, articulating with utmost precision. Harry was sure he could have done it himself, even if he wasn't too experienced with Healing Spells, but let her go about. Narcissa Malfoy took her time to make sure the job was done neatly and thoroughly. This gave Harry the opportunity to examine her from up close. Even though her appearance was not immaculate as normal, Harry still thought her the epiphany of elegance. The features on her face were soft and, while not friendly, polite. She really was a fair woman. The clothes she was wearing were unlike anything Harry had imagined a Malfoy to wear, but that might have been because she was working out in the garden. It missed the usual stiffness that he associated with a Malfoy. The skirt she was wearing reached just above her ankles and was light and airy, a sallow blue. Above the skirt, she was wearing a blouse that was off-white. The sleeves were rolled up, which brought Harry to notice her perfectly pale arms. She did not have the Dark Mark. It surprised Harry. He desperately wanted to ask her about it, but felt it was inappropriate, especially with her wand so close to his face.

'It was Draco, I take?' she asked him.

'Sorry?' Harry hadn't been paying attention. What had been Draco?

'Your face, of course, Mr. Potter,' Narcissa said in an almost amused tone. 'Snape was right about your attention span, then,' she mused. Harry had really – really – wished that she hadn't said that.

'You know,' she said after examining Harry's worried face for a short while, 'I don't blame you.'

She must have noticed the surprised look on his face, because she continued: 'The Wizarding world is in a war, Mr. Potter. Your side is better off without Snape.' Harry wanted to protest, say that it didn't matter that it was better for his side - it had been morally wrong – but he kept his mouth shut. Although Mrs. Malfoy missed the obvious air of authority around her, Harry felt that, much like Professor McGonagall, she was not someone to go against.

'When Draco heard my dear aunt, he let his emotions take a run with him, I imagine. He is horribly upset – how can he not be? You must understand that. I hope you haven't done him too much damage.' Mrs. Malfoy's voice was benevolent, friendly even, as she was talking about her son.

'I didn't hit back,' Harry said. As he said it, he felt both proud and shameful. Shameful, because he had just stood there and let himself be punched, too flabbergasted to do anything about it. Proud, because he felt Draco had had every right to want to punch him, and for once he had not launched himself at the boy like some sort of animal.

'Although, I guess, my face was harder than he'd expected – I think he might have broken his hand when punching me.'

Narcissa Malfoy smiled. 'I suppose he is still walking around with it. Merlin knows his Healing Spells aren't nearly as good as his Healing Potions.'