Rue

The Ministry for Magic, rebuilt, was a rabbit warren, worse than ever before. For some, though, it was far more secure. No more would the edifice of Wizarding law and order be easily penetrable by any passing Hogwarts student with a will and a way and some Polyjuice Potion to spare. But then…there was no need for that, was there?

Kingsley Shacklebolt believed in transparency. No more, either, would the doings of the Ministry be shrouded in darkness and intrigue. Every employee was subjected to a most rigorous hiring process; even the venerable Wizengamot had been revamped to reflect the New Order.

There would not be tolerated, however, slip-shod slip-sliding into ethical quagmires on the part of the people in charge of Wizarding government. Accountability, responsibility and integrity were the key words of the day. And even a Death Eater could be deserving of forgiveness…and employment.

That was perhaps the most important act Harry Potter had ever accomplished. When Voldemort died, so had died a whole grubby, thorny, muddy bracken of disreputable underbrush layers, the petty evils that thrived in the shade of his evil. As a tree falling in the forest brings along others with it—the weak and the shallow-rooted—so ended a generation of apathy: that miserable soul-killer, responsible for more death and misery than any evil Dark Lord had ever conceived of.

Tom Riddle had been the condensing prism, the focusing lens of the accumulated apathy of Wizarding ages, the distillated, concentrated result of eons of careless cruelties and fractured ethics. Harry Potter shattered that distorted lens and broke the illusion permanently. Kingsley Shacklebolt had made it his life's mission to keep the air clear of the fug of pointless hatreds, of small misunderstandings. Still, the new Ministry was designed for its residents protection. It was a fortress, built even to resist fifth columns. If one wished to be safe, if one required privacy, one chose the Ministry as a haven.

The Ministry corridor was thus endless and dull. When Draco Malfoy emerged from his meeting with Kingsley Shacklebolt, he turned by the discreetly nondescript door that led to the Minister's office and sagged against it. Jerked his chin up instantly, for there was Harry Potter, iconic Hero, striding along with a swish and flare of scarlet-blood Auror robes, the gleam of black knee-length boots and shiny brass buttons. Harry Potter: still scarred, still with that hair, still with those much-mended specs obscuring his face.

No…not hiding eyes old before their time, those re-bent black frames…instead, turning the world back upon itself, rather. Fending it off with the opacity of carven, polished jade, reflecting through refraction.

Harry Potter. Two words, one man: engraven indelibly upon every cell in Draco Malfoy's person, from cock to earlobes to lips to the harried muscle beating bluntly behind his ribcage.

Four years gone already, so the broad shoulders outlined under the cape were more than understandable. An Auror, so the closely outlined thighs and calves that Draco caught glimpses of beneath the quiet, but efficiently determined flap of uniform garb were entirely feasible. A married man, so the golden band on one finger was perfectly sensible.

A father. Of two, with another on the way. They desperately hoped for a little girl this time, or so the Prophet reported.

Direct gaze, never swerving; determined gait, never ceasing. With barely a ghost of a nod to acknowledge Draco's presence, Harry Potter swept on past him, not missing a beat.

And did not notice—seemingly-the quick faltering hand extended involuntarily after him, nor hear the whispered hiss, barely an intake of a breath: the 'Harry!' that kissed the settling air currents of the narrow taupe-hued corridor and fell flat, deflated.

Deflected.

Did not hear, did not see, did not wish. Did. Not. Want.

Draco, who'd tensed into the arc of a drawn bow, who had ceased aught else solely to stare hungrily after this one solitary figure, came undone in an infinitely slow process. Crack and pop went the spine, straightening; blood sizzled along his arteries, till one could imagine his very skin, steaming.

"I cannot."

He addressed the empty space where Potter had just been, with eyes fixed straight ahead, well-kept hands (excepting always the actual fingernails; nibbled) in lax fists at his sides, his measured pace solid and brisk. No stomping, no flurry; no swagger—not Harry. A thoughtful man, grown from a boy who'd had trouble controlling his strongest emotions. Potter, the very epitome of 'hero', emerged phoenix-like from the ashes of his past.

"I cannot!" he bit out, snapping teeth on it.

What Kingsley had just agreed to, reluctantly, was his golden opportunity; perhaps his last one. He'd lobbied for it, plotted for it and pulled in favour after favour. He would not waste it. And with a whirl of his own fine robes, his very best professional ones and carefully chosen to 'convince the Minister this action is absolutely necessary, and don't fret the expense' robes, Draco Malfoy spun away from the stolid door at his back (his sole form of support during the whole of that endlessly long, soul-rending, solitary walk down that deserted corridor, when he-who'd-been-simply-'Harry'-once did not a thing more than spare Draco Malfoy a terse nod of acknowledgement, same as he would any colleague in passing; when Harry Potter, Auror, had pinched his remembered lips just-so taut and kept his chin pointed firmly toward the end of the hallway, looming—the end of the line, literally, as it split into a T-intersection there; the acid rising in his throat had nearly swamped him)

…and fled the scene of his not-quite snubbing. For it would not stop him. Nothing would stop him, not now.

And fled back to his own Auror cubicle, with a fiery vengeance built and born of fury, fed on glum despair…waxed wroth to blazing by Potter's bland dismissal.

It would not end this way. Draco wouldn't have it. Snape would be his weapon; had even claimed he was willing to be so used. Dear Severus. Sworn to always protect him.

With a decided stomp of heel-toe and a glint in his grey eyes that betold woe to any who dared stay him, he went. Woe and rue, cried the muffled squeak of shoe on lino—and perhaps, as well, some collateral damage done to Malfoy's carefully reconstructed reputation.

Not that he cared for that. Potter was in for a decided surprise, a change of circumstances that would be far-reaching.