Long time no see! Sorry about the erratic posting, life is very busy rn and I'm a huge procastinator so not a good combo...Thanks for the comments aaand I hope you like this one!

A big thanks to Lucy for making this readable!


VI

22nd January

"Can you slurp any louder?" Draco hisses as he shoots Harry a surly look.

It's very early in the morning, the sun having yet to make an appearance through the smudged windows over the sink, and the two boys are alone in the kitchen.

Harry seems to not have gone to bed yet, if the bags under his eyes and his somnolent demeanour are anything to go by. As for Draco, he's up early after rolling around in his bed for the better part of the last hour. He's been having nightmares almost every night since they came back from the Snatchers mission.

Harry was in the kitchen first but hadn't said a word when an unsuspecting Draco walked in the dark room and started making himself a cup of tea. The raven-haired boy was perhaps too drowsy to get himself to announce his presence, too lost in his own musings to realise his arrival, or merely curious at the rare sight of a vulnerable Draco.

When the blond had turned around, looking to sit at the long kitchen table, he had seen Harry for the first time, and had stopped in his tracks.

The two boys had sized each other up for what felt like an entire minute. Draco's mind seemed to be racing with thoughts that could be read in the curve of his furrowed brow and in the twitch of his jaw. Harry, understanding his predicament, had stretched out his legs, propping them up on the bench on the other side of the table, so as to prevent Draco from sitting across from him.

The blond had resolutely ignored the other man's subtle suggestion to find someplace else and, refusing to give up the kitchen, had sat on the end of the dining table, the farthest seat from Harry. The two young men had proceeded to pretend they were alone. So much so, that Harry makes a point to pretend not having heard Draco's rhetorical question and first attempt at conversation, in favour of slurping on his second cup of tea.

Draco grinds his teeth in irritation. There's no bread left for toast so he has to settle for slightly stale crackers and jam, and he also has to put up with Harry. Without the other houses' tables and hundreds of students serving as a barrier between them, Draco has learnt that Harry folds over the newspaper to read it more comfortably and doesn't even flinch when his cup of tea leaves a perfect round mark on one of the pages. To the blond man's horror, he also squeezes a dollop of honey in his tea despite having added sugar. Draco scrunches up his nose in disgust and focuses his attention on the orange light that fills the room announcing the start of the day.

Above them, the creaking floor confirms the awakening of the house and its inhabitants, who slowly but surely start to make their way down for breakfast. Draco, having finished his crackers and therefore seeing no reason why he should witness Harry's love affair with the honey bottle any longer, stands up to leave. He cheeks the time on the clock behind him and makes for a hasty exit, but Harry's raspy voice stops him at the door.

"How's Hermione doing?"

Draco looks at him over his shoulder, but the raven-haired boy is stubbornly fixed on the patterns engraved by time and use in the wooden table. It's impossible to overlook the hesitation in his words and the embarrassment in his reddening cheeks. The blond seems annoyed, perhaps because everything seems to revolve around the trio since their return.

After they learnt about Hermione's sly scheme, her two friends have been up in arms against her. Ron's mad at her for abandoning them and not telling them about her plan, whilst Harry seems to be bitter at the fact that he's still categorically banned from rotation and practically on lockdown.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" comes Draco's slow, perfectly-enunciated response, no anger in his voice, just outright scorn. His disdain doesn't faze Harry, who looks at him now, a shadow of a grin tugging at the left corner of his mouth, as if there was a joke somewhere in his former classmate's words that he'd just figured out. Harry hangs his head again without further comment and Draco leaves the kitchen without preamble.

The sun, which hasn't been able to pierce through the heavy grey shield of clouds in weeks, now bathes the lobby in warm, soft light. Catching a glimpse of the outside world while he passes by a window, Draco closes his eyes briefly and breathes once with dread, as he starts climbing the stairs. A tray with a teapot filled to the brim and a tower of teacups precariously wobbling on top of it almost beheads Draco when it darts past him, seemingly in a hurry to get upstairs.

For the last two weeks they have been assigned only "house-elf chores", as Oliver, arm on a sling but still as eager as anyone else to get back on the field, has deemed fit to name them. He's too irked to notice Hermione's rictus every time she hears the term but, in any case, he's right. For whatever reason, may it be that he's still holding a grudge over them or he's too scared to send Hermione on an even remotely risky mission, Lupin has been sending Vivian's team on easy and boring stakeout missions or trips to the muggle supermarket a few blocks away.

Orange juice is a very poor alternative to pumpkin juice, and chocolate just tastes better after chasing it around in the form of an amphibian, but Diagon Alley, a lacklustre ghost of what it used to be, has become a mere extension of Knocturn Alley. With only a few brave shop owners and a handful of Death Eater allies willing to open their doors to a quickly-decreasing clientele, it's safe to say that the trading hub of the wizarding world has seen better days. The implementation of a ration stamps system for potion ingredients, as well as exorbitant taxes on wands and books have motivated most wizards to turn to sleazy underground markets and dubious suppliers.

At arriving at Lupin's office a few minutes later, Draco sees the floating tray, now sadly immobile and devoid of magic, placed on the wide windowsill as there isn't an inch of space on the desk. Draco takes the last spot at the back of the room, reciprocating a greeting from Vivian. Lupin flicks his wand distractedly towards the door to shut it and takes a sip of his tea, waiting for everyone to settle down.

The mane of bushy brown hair seated right by Lupin's table seems to straighten up when Lupin coughs to draw everyone's attention, and Draco's eyes go glassy for a split second, as if a déjà-vu had transported him to an easier, lighter time, where Hermione always sat at the very front of the classroom, her attention never leaving the professor. He shakes his head once, and he looks up to Lupin, who has begun speaking."There's a group of Death Eaters west of Kent that's smuggling wizards, witches and magical beings to and from France." Oliver can barely contain his excited gasp, and Lupin makes a pause to send a disapproving look his way, "We believe they're recruiting allies all over Europe and Western Asia and sneaking them in. I'm assigning you, and two other teams to this mission. We've already started gathering…"

Draco seems to space out, ignoring the buzzing around him. It's not only Oliver anymore, but also Vivian with a curling smile plastered all over her face and Podmore with his chest puffed out and Wendy, spinning her wand between her fingers with a determined look. The former Hogwarts professor stops short. He's never been one to lose his temper easily, but trying times and a baby on the way have made him more strict, more afraid.

He's about to start lecturing them, as he has done before, about how this is not a game and they cannot get excited about war as they would about the Quidditch Semi Finals. But truth is, he's seen another war, and the better part of this one, and so he must know that gleam in their eyes, he must know it because he's felt like this before. Despite the guilt drawn on the lines of his forehead, he knows they need it. They need the high spirits of youth and the unconquerable fire that fuels them on, to the end of the world, to the end of hell and back if that's what it takes. He must know, too, from experience, that the gleam is gone in nights when the insomnia kicks in or in the mornings after a casualty, when they cry not over their dead partner, but over the uncertainty of who will be next.

Lupin knows they need it, and hopes it'll be enough, and so he inhales sharply and tells them about the other two sections they'll be teaming up with

:::

The new job gives them something to occupy themselves with, and routine slips back in and wraps around them like an old, comfortable blanket.

Working with the other two teams proves difficult at times, since Vivian butts heads with the other leaders constantly. Even though most of them benefit from socializing outside of Grimmauld Place, the days are long, and the temperatures are always below freezing. Patrols are usually at least eight hours long, and food is cold by the time someone gets it to them no matter how many warming spells. The wind blows without pause and such force that it's almost as if invisible pebbles were hitting their faces non-stop. When they finally return to Headquarters, their lips are chapped and split beyond repair and their hair is tangled with salt.

The smugglers move locations regularly, but they only have secured a handful of spots and they alternate between them. Eventually, the Order finds them. Their larger numbers and the roaring sea over the cliffs make for a magnetic atmosphere the night they strike. The three teams lurk towards the Death Eaters and circle them, victory already ringing in their ears, and the dark, moonless night as their sworn ally. When the signal is given, a myriad of flashes plough through the air like a firework show. Magic cuts through the hissing whirlwind and Draco groans with the first spell he shoots. It's been a while since he was in battle and there's yearning in his eyes for violence and retaliation. The power boiling in his gut spills all over his bloodstream like electricity until the magic finds an outlet through his wand.

It ends all too quickly and they're once more swallowed by darkness. As the waves crash savagely against the bluffs and sea-foam washes over the Order, Draco notices Hermione's eyes fixed on him. When he gets back to Headquarters, he sleeps for thirteen hours straight.

The following week is hectic with stakeouts and patrols, but their victory carries the team through it all and warms their bones during long hours in the cold. Their missions are always successful, and the lucky spell makes them confident, almost arrogant. Death Eaters attacks have died down a bit and Lupin looks as if he was getting more than two hours of sleep a night and gives them a whole weekend off. Harry and Hermione seem to work things out during that time. Their relationship is strained but they both look relieved when Harry makes a joke and Hermione rolls her eyes and elbows him in the ribs, as if everything had fallen back into place despite the chaos surrounding them.

Nobody says it out loud, but hope −discarded and hidden like an old, ugly scar for so long− spreads like wildfire, up until Julia Reid is found dead in her house and her nine-year-old son is reported missing. All efforts to locate and retrieve him are in vain, and his small body is later found out by a group of muggles in a hiking trail somewhere in Scotland.

The house is quieter than normal, almost as if the whole structure was holding its breath, when the two sombre wizards arrive at Headquarters with the news: no traces of torture have been found. Everything points to the fact that the little boy tried to get to her mother's murderers, bits of someone else's skin still under his nails, as if he had tried to attack them. Allegedly, he accidentally side-long apparated with the Death Eater, who then proceeded to end his life.

After Draco's team returns from their search, cut short by a patronus-delivered message, he stays alone in the living room for a long time, looking straight into the fire. His eyes seem to hurt as he rubs at them, and he finally gets up.

The young man is about to enter the kitchen when he hears whimpering and a suffocated voice that's gently shushed by another. He retreats and heads for his room. His footsteps are heavy as he starts climbing the stairs. Deep in thought, he straightens his slightly slouched spine when he catches a glimpse of long black hair that he's quick to identify with Wendy sneaking into Oliver's room. Perhaps, if he wasn't so tired, he would raise a surprised eyebrow, but as it is, he keeps climbing the stairs, face completely blank.

The door to Lupin's office is ajar and when Draco passes by, he hears Lupin's soft voice and sees Harry sitting on one of the armchairs, his back to the door and eyes fixed on his former professor, who is out of sight. Draco seems to briefly entertain the idea of listening to their conversation but he hears snippets of a phrase, "...but James was such a lightweight, we all…" a shy, pained laugh that sounds wet with a sniff prevents Draco from hearing what follows but he's already turning away, "...none of us could hold our Firewhisky like Lily did, she used to…"

Draco walks down the corridor and the voices fade away behind him. He starts undoing his muggle coat, which he never bothered to take off before. When he gets to his room, he finds that someone's already sitting on his bed.

Hermione seems stunned when she looks up at him, and he frowns, as if wondering how long she's been there. The young woman stands up hastily and Draco drowns a groan in the back of his throat as he barks out, "What do you want?"

Hermione doesn't miss a beat, and it almost seems like she's prepared what to say. "Where do your loyalties lie?" Draco looks up to the ceiling. He scrunches up his long and pointed face with a pained expression, not in the mood to comment on her pomposity.

"Get out, Granger," he sighs, tired and impatient as he carelessly discards his coat on top of the chair by the door.

"You could leave, hide, flee the country, or even try to go back to them… you have enough information on the Order that they might spare you"

Taking three strides, and passing the intruder by, Draco slumps down on his bed. He reaches down to untie his boots' shoelaces as he mumbles humourlessly, "I don't think a long-distance relationship is what Walburga and I need right now."

"Do you believe in our cause?" Her question sounds more like a demand from the Wizengamot judge, and Draco clenches his teeth as he starts peeling off his socks. When he looks up at her, his jaw is so sharp it might cut at the touch.

"What cause is that anyway? Playing the saviour and practising poses in front of the mirror for the press?" he scorns.

"Recognition?" Hermione snorts, "That's what you think we're after? That's completely ridicu−"

"What is completely ridiculous," and there's heat in his words now, "is your conviction that you're the good guys and they're the bad guys. There's a lot of grey in between, but you lot choose not to see it."

"Oh, yeah actually, Voldemort seems like a nice guy, I'm just biased," Hermione bites out, and she takes a couple of steps forward, cheeks flushed, and her unruly mane floating behind her like a cloud.

Draco doesn't respond, just lets out a pained moan and takes his jumper off.

"You know what we stand for."

"Suicide," he retorts, and his exhaustion is clear in the position of his shoulders, his tousled hair and the light stubble that covers his chin.

Hermione stays silent for a few seconds, and he ends up searching for her eyes. She's frowning, personally affronted. "You really think we'll lose?

"I know you will," he's quick to spit out, "You haven't seen what I have."

"So what are you doing here?"

"Isn't it enough for you that I'm here at all?" he responds irritably as he rubs at his eyes again.

"I need to know you won't betray us."

Her voice sounds small now, her arms crossed over her chest. The self-righteousness and anger are a façade that's slipping off. The blond slumps down in his bed, taking his long-sleeved shirt off, so that his torso is naked.

"I'm not going to tell you what you want to hear because it's not true, and you already know," he grabs his wand from the pocket of his trousers and waves it at the curtains so they shut close.

Hermione follows his movements, eyes fixed on the tattoo that adorns his right arm, and once again stays silent. Draco follows her gaze, looking pained now, and real anger starts creeping from his chest towards his neck and face, leaving a trail of red on his skin. "Don't be stupid, they made me drink a gallon of Veritaserum, I wouldn't be here if they hadn't made sure I wasn't a psychopath."

"Then what is−"

"For Merlin's sake Granger," he raises his voice, "I'm fighting, I'm risking my life just like you are."

"But why?" Hermione lets out through gritted teeth, like she's holding back from hexing him.

"Who the fuck do you think you are anyway?" he retorts, "Shacklebolt gave me the green light. Don't be so egocentric as to think I need to answer to you, too."

"I want to hear you say it," she relentlessly demands.

"I fight because otherwise I would go crazy," he says, standing up and taking a couple of steps towards her, "I fight because I haven't ever made a choice for myself, except for this one. I want something, and I won't let you or Lupin or anyone get in the way of me getting it. You want to hear me say I will die for Potter like the rest of you would? Fuck off, I'm not part of a cult. You want to hear me say I will never betray you? I can't say that." He towers over her, their eyes glued together and their faces uncomfortably close, "And neither can you. This is war, you need to get the fuck down from your high horse and realise everyone has an agenda."

"Your mother−", she starts, her voice soft and finally understanding. His frustrated huff makes the curls on her forehead waft in the air for a second.

"Get out," Draco interrupts her as he turns her back to her.

This time Hermione doesn't fight back.

7th June

Draco walks down the small path, the shadow of hundred-year-old oaks protecting him from the hot sun. He clutches in his hand a bouquet of flowers.

The gardens and the small cemetery have been neglected for months, but instead of finding the unkempt bushes displeasing, the over-grown grass dancing in sync with the breeze's seems to lend the place a sense of peace and other-worldliness. He reaches the end of the path and crouches down by the freshest grave. He seems out of his depth, not quite knowing what to do.

He's been sleeping quite well lately, but his eyes are rimmed red. A few days after talking to Hermione in mid-May, he was dispensed from any obligation with the Ministry and their front against the Dark terrorist cells and has regained access to his Gringotts vaults. It was obvious that Hermione had interceded on his behalf because the high office in the Ministry had even though it appropriate to write him an apology. At first, he had been angry, but he's got money for new clothes and flowers. He sleeps well, at least as long as the nightmares don't find him.

He sighs and lays his flowers on the grave with care.

"We need to stop meeting at cemeteries, it must be a bad omen, don't you think?" Draco's neck snaps back to meet the new voice. Andromeda is standing just behind him, a bouquet of flowers, much better arranged and bigger than his, in her hands.

"Carnations were always her favourite," his aunt says, pointing at Draco's bouquet. "She would have turned 43 today."

Draco nods his head, acknowledging her words awkwardly. They stay silent for a beat, and then he asks, "Where's the baby?"

"He's in good hands," she responds quietly, crouching down in her black robes to leave her bouquet by Draco's.

She stands and looks at him for a long time, "You know they wanted that Potter boy to be his godfather?"

Draco doesn't miss the obvious resentment in her voice at pronouncing his former classmate's name. He glances at her and nods. He most likely didn't know and definitely doesn't care, but he's not surprised. Andromeda seems a bit annoyed at him, as if expecting him to say something, and when he doesn't, her whole demeanour changes and she gives him a disconcerted, sad look.

"I guess no one told you…," she starts, and Draco gets distracted by a small bird flapping its wings overhead as it gains altitude, flying away from the cemetery, away from Malfoy Manor. "It was Remus really, who wanted Potter, but Nymphadora wouldn't have it. She chose you to be Teddy's godfather."