A/N: Life got away from me this week! More updates coming tomorrow, however. Stay tuned. Disclaimer: While I love these characters more than I love a good mojito, they aint mine.

Chapter Four

"It's only water, it's only fire, it's only love

It's only slaughter, we're only liars, it's only blood

They're only thoughts that I'm having - thoughts safe within my head

You're only crying, you're only dying, you're only late."

-It's Only, Odesza

August, 1998

It was late afternoon, and the summer heat was finally lifting in Hogsmeade, the cool breeze filtering through the trees and whispering around the corners of the brick buildings. Draco headed south at the Hog's Head, approaching the largest apartment building in the village, which he had entered several times before to meet with a couple of the clients he had established in this small wizarding community. He entered through the heavy, oak door on the side of the building, which led to the rickety, wooden staircase he followed up to the 6th floor.

He hadn't meant to get involved with this line of work; in fact, he had avoided it for as long as possible when he had been evaluating his options, trying to scrape enough money together to keep up with his mother's bills. He had sold most of the valuables he still had in his possession - some of his fancier clothes, some trinkets and rings he was able to take with him before the ministry had began their investigation on the manor - but it had never been enough. He was barely able to pay what he needed to keep his mother admitted in St. Mungo's, let alone the cost of staying in the Leaky Cauldron until he finally was permitted to return to the manor. He had even tried going back to his house a couple of times to see what artifacts he was able to nick from his father's study, but the protective charms the ministry officials had cast around the house wouldn't even permit him to enter the long driveway leading up to the estate. He was completely and irreversably stuck.

He had gone into Knockturn Alley to procure some dittany and heal his splinched shoulder. Just as he had anticipated, the shopkeeper had approached him once more to ask him if he would be interested in selling any laethelixir, the bright blue liquid vial that he had been offered last time he was in the shop. Draco had refused, sure that he would be able to afford his expenses as soon as the ministry had sorted through all of his father's posessions in the manor, and added as much time on to his life sentence as they saw fit. The weeks came and passed, however, and he was only sliding deeper into debt and growing more and more desperate. He visited his mother every day, still managing to put on a smile and tell her whatever lies he happened to come up with (Potter was working with his contacts at the ministry to get Lucius another hearing, Draco had reconnected with a lovely, pureblood witch who was going back for her last year of Hogwarts in the fall), and then he locked himself in his room in the Leaky Cauldron and tried to not think about the fact that his mother was going to die, and that he was going to follow her to the grave much sooner than expected if he couldn't turn this around somehow.

It was with great reluctance that he ended up in Mulpepper's Apothecary only a couple weeks after he had purchased the dittany, requesting to speak with the shopkeeper about the opportunities he had available for a "sales associate". It was much easier of a process than Draco had anticipated; the job entailed visiting a list of clients that had already been compiled by several of the shop owners in Knockturn Alley, and taking whatever action necessary to avoid ministry workers and aurors. Draco would have to be quick on his feet and adaptive to ever-changing circumstances, as the ministry was currently going to great measures to investigate and stop the spread of this potion in the wizarding community. They claimed that, due to the addictive nature of the elixir, lethal overdoses were known to occur when the potion was administered improperly. Mulpepper denied this rumor most adamantly, insisting that none of the client base he had built had ever reported any such instance; it served as a fear-mongering tactic more than anything. Nevertheless, Draco would need to build his client list under the guise of a deliveryman for the bookshop adjoining the apothecary. The books he exchanged had been hollowed out to include a couple of the vials inside the covers to circumvent Ministry suspicion.

The repercussions of the war were leaving so many inside the community reeling in shock and despair, and the market for this type of quick fix potion had never been better. Draco had quickly found that word of mouth was making most of his commision for him - in most of the homes he delivered to, he would receive a name and address of a friend that was interested, which led to a grapevine of contacts almost faster than he was able to keep up. He had his regular client base and made his base salary off of the people who cycled through the potions every couple of days, and within a month he had started making enough money to break even with the amount of galleons he owed to both the hospital and the inn. It was steady, reliable work. He found himself spending more time making his rounds than sitting in St. Mungo's, but knew that he wouldn't be able to keep his mother alive more than a couple weeks if he wasn't working.

He rounded the stairwell to the landing of the 6th floor apartment building. The flourescent lights in the ceiling above were flickering vaguely, casting eerie, pale blue projections onto the peeling wallpaper in the hallway. He knocked lightly when he reached Apartment 617, checking both ways to ensure that he was not being followed. To his surprise, the door was not opened by a client, but by a small child who couldn't have been more than 4 years old. He checked the note that he had scribbled down at his previous stop, making sure that he had the address right.

"Who are you?" The girl asked, holding onto the doorknob with both hands and swaying back and forth lazily in her faded purple nightgown. She had stringy, dark blonde hair and very large, brown eyes. Draco heard another child begin to start crying from within the apartment.

"I'm a friend of your mum's," Draco spoke, checking the note one more time. "Is she home by chance?"

"Are you our new dad?" the girl asked, keeping the door open only far enough for Draco to see into the entryway. It was filled with scattered laundry and what looked like piles of trash stacked against the walls. Draco blinked, slightly taken aback. He wasn't good with children; he didn't know how to respond to a question like this.

"No," he said, starting to wonder if this stop had been a bad idea. "Can you run along and get your mum for me?" The girl stopped swinging off of the door handle, and nodded quickly, shutting the door. Draco heard quick footsteps echoing down the hallway inside.

Draco took a step back, fishing around in his bag and sorting through his inventory, mostly just to distract himself as he waited. After several, long moments, the door opened back up again, and a tall, thin woman stepped out, another smaller child propped on her hip. This child was red faced and sobbing quietly, tucking his head into his mother's hair as soon as he saw Draco waiting in the corridor.

"Are you Draco?" The woman asked, pulling her hair out of the child's tight grasp, and causing him to cry louder.

Draco nodded, keeping his book bag secured at his side. He was feeling more uncomfortable by the second.

"I'm so sorry," she said, referring to the child who was continuing to sob on her shoulder. "It's been a little rough - my husband was killed in the battle in May."

Draco swallowed quickly, trying his best to remain level-headed.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, avoiding eye contact. He fiddled with the zipper on his bag once more.

"Look, are the potions - you know - safe for children?" She looked both ways up and down the hallway, even though Draco was sure there was no one else in the vicinity of their conversation. "My friend told me that he had given a bit to his son, that it seemed to help..."

Draco started to get a sinking feeling in his stomach. He wanted nothing more than to turn around and leave this place behind as fast as he could.

"I really couldn't say, I don't know." He zipped his back shut once more, taking a step away from the woman. The child on her hip continued to sob, his cries growing louder and louder by the second.

"Wait," she said, sensing that he was about to leave. "Don't go. I can pay you what you need, I have money." She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. It appeared as though she were fighting a cold, ontop of everything else that was going on at the moment. "I just need help. Please."

Draco hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to another as he wavered on the spot. There was no guidebook for a situation like this, but he had a terrible feeling about this whole situation. He wanted to just disapparate from this building entirely - maybe catch a couple hours of sleep in his room at the inn - but there were rules for these types of situations. Besides, he couldn't just leave this woman to tend to her suffering children on her own. His involvement with the war, no matter how reluctant he may have been at the time, meant he owed her at least a courteous explanation, or a promise of some kind of other assistance.

"If you don't," she continued, pulling her hair back away from the child's iron grip once more. "I'll just get it from someone else."

He looked from her face to the crying child and back again, still visibly uncomfortable. What if his actions seriously injured one of the innocent and fatherless children in her home?

"Please?" She repeated once more.

He noticed that her eyes were the same color and shape as her daughter's.

"It's 10 galleons for a vial," he said, finally unzipping his bag and retrieving a couple of books from within.

...

The hospital was more crowded than usual as Draco checked in at the reception desk, walking down the usual hallway to his mother's room at the end. He had decided to leave Hogsmeade after he had made his last delivery of the day. Rather than completing his circuit of regular customers as he was accustomed to on a Saturday evening, he went straight back to the Leaky Cauldron and took a long, hot shower, letting the steam from the water seep into his pores and wash off some of the guilt and revulsion from the day. He would like to have said it helped, but he could still feel the gravity of the situation he was in like an ever-present anchor tugging him slowly downwards, making him feel more desparate and trapped by the minute.

His mother was sleeping when he visited her room. Some days, as the healers told him, were better than others; some days she had the strength to sit up and carry on a conversation with him like nothing was wrong, and other days she would barely stir from her sleep the entire time he was there. He sat down at the foot of her bed, hoping that she would recognize his presence, would want to sit up and talk to him about the books he had dropped off (the latest of which was a muggle novel called "Great Expectations", that she seemed to have enjoyed,) but she didn't stir when he brushed her hand lightly with his own.

There was a new drawing that had been placed on her bedside table. He picked it up and smiled at the two figures interpreted on the parchment - one of them very tall with long, straight hair and a smile on her face, and the second a small boy with vivid, yellow colored hair who appeared to be holding hands with the woman. It was a sweet picture, like many of the ones the child had left in her room before. Draco had met him a couple times when the child was being shepherded by his father around the hospital wing. His mother had taken a particular liking to him, always asking engaging questions and usually having a couple spare pieces of chocolate to share with the boy. Draco couldn't help but think that part of the reason his mother took such measures to be kind to the boy was that he reminded her of her own son, who was spending less and less time in the ward these days.

"Mum?" he said softly, hoping that she would wake up. He squeezed her hand lightly, but to no avail - she continued to sleep, her chest rising and falling slowly, rythmically under the blankets.

He thought back to the young children he had encountered earlier that day, and a deep, overwhelming feeling of misery overcame him. He brushed away a tear as soon as he felt it on his face. He didn't want that to be the first thing his mother saw when she awoke.

"I'm sorry I haven't been round as much as I should have been," he said, pretending that she was able to hear him, mostly for himself. He could hear the clock ticking on the wall, and the healers bustling up and down the hallway. His mother was probably in a deep, dreamless sleep, not to be troubled by either his apprehensions or excuses. Regardless of whether or not she could hear him, he began to talk to her as he always did when he visited. He told her about his day, about what the weather was like outside, about all the things he was sure she would have wanted to hear about his father. It was theraputic in a way, to lie to her in a way that made his circumstances seem much better than they were. He knew it always made her happy to hear these things, and it brought him some kind of perverted, nearly delusional satisfaction to hear the words coming out of his own mouth.

He stayed at the foot of the bed, his hand stroking hers gently for what felt like an hour, until a healer opened the door and mentioned that they would be wrapping up visiting hours shortly. He nodded in response, wiping another tear away from his cheek before wishing his mother goodbye, planting the usual kiss on her forehead as he left.

...

The shadows of the streets were growing longer as he returned to Diagon Alley. He had apparated, as he usually did, just down the road from the Leaky Cauldron, in hopes of finding something to bring back to the inn for dinner that wasn't fried bar food.

He halted mid-step as he passed the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, advertising the new broom that could accelerate at twice the speed of the Firebolt. It wasn't the model broom in the window that caught his attention, however. It was a tall, dark haired wizard with round spectacles who was wearing a faded denim muggle jacket and examining one of the boxes lined up on the shelf nearest to the window. He instantly felt a jerk somewhere behind his navel, not dissimilar to the feeling of disapparation that he had just experienced moments earlier. He wanted to vanish again, to disappear from the street so he wouldn't have to have to be taunted by Potter's smug, handsome face through the window. He thought back to when Potter had kissed him, of the firmness of his grip on Draco's wrist but the nearly impossible tenderness of his lips... That memory had been what kept him moving forward, the single spark of happiness that he relied on when everything else seemed to be falling apart.

He stopped in the middle of the street, watching through the window for a couple moments, observing Potter, admiring the way he studied the Quidditch book in his hands, the way his eyes roved across the page, his brow furrowing slightly in concentration. Part of Draco wondered if there was any way he could wander inside without making it too obvious that he had found Potter here. He could casually pick something up off the shelf as well, pretending not to notice Potter, and then could pretend to be shocked that they were in the same store together. He wasn't sure what he would say - maybe he could make a crude joke about Potter always looking for a new broom to ride, maybe he could suggest that they grab a drink in the Leaky Cauldron together, and then they could just see what followed afterwards.

His fantasy was derailed only a moment after it had begun when a familiar, redheaded witch appeared around the corner of the aisle, holding a broom servicing kit and pointing out something to Harry on the box. He laughed, tossing his head back and placing the book in his hands back onto the shelf. She looked pleased with herself for illiciting such a reaction from him.

Of course. He had forgotten about the Weasley girl. Of course Potter had gone back to her; their relationship had been all anyone seemed to talk about at the end of his 6th year when Draco had far bigger concerns on his mind. He watched them through the glass, the way they were smiling and teasing each other, her short, blue dress that was clearly carefully chosen to attract his attention...

He couldn't take it anymore. He closed his eyes, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks and continuing to walk down the street. He focused on the furthest building in his line of sight, and pressed on, disregarding the witches and wizards he passed on the cobbled road, not even flinching when a photographer captured his picture with a bright flash when he had almost reached the Leaky Cauldron. He didn't stop until he had reached his room, and had pressed his back against the closed wooden door. It was as if all of the pain he was feeling had led to this moment; he slid down to the floor, beginning to sob uncontrollably. He was struggling for breath, keeping his eyes squeezed shut tightly so he couldn't see the laethelixir stacked in piles around the room.

He never imagined his life would end up like this. He was supposed to have gone to healing school, he was supposed to have an intelligent, supportive boyfriend, and parents who were both accepting of him and alive to care about him. He had every opportunity provided to him to accomplish great things, it had just all gone wrong. He needed to think of a way to fix this without having to peddle off the rest of the supply surrounding him, the books stacked up 12 high on the desk and overflowing from boxes strewn around the floor. He had to find a place to live, and he had to get himself out of this mess.

After several minutes of slow, intentional breathing, Draco finally stood up, wiping the dust off of his slacks. As much as he loathed the idea of reaching out to someone else to fix his problems, he couldn't do this alone. He needed to ask for help, and he had no one else to turn to then the only living member of his family who wasn't dead, on their deathbed in St. Mungo's, or imprisoned in Azkaban. If he had learned anything from his father, it was that wizarding blood was more important than any other type of bond that could be formed. He only hoped that, for his own sake, his aunt still believed the same thing.