AN: I had some trouble with this chapter. I hit a bit of a wall near the middle, which could be why it's so short. I'd be interested to hear about any predictions you have for the next chapter! :) We're close to the end now… only two or so more chapters to go!

.oOo.

The proof is irrefutable. Kira has been using the Imperio Curse on Draco.

After the initial stir Harry had caused, the rest of the trial passes in a blur. Harry stands near the back as each of the accusations against the blonde are dismissed. He watches Draco stand with his back ramrod straight and his slate grey eyes focus on an imaginary spot somewhere next to the Minister's head. He doesn't seem pleased, but he doesn't seem surprised either. Harry supposes that's what happens when one gets accustomed to everyone stabbing them in the back.

Eventually, they stop seeing it as an act of betrayal and start seeing it as an act of human nature.

Slowly, as more information surfaces, the picture becomes clearer. Apparently Kira's magic had been too inadequate to keep him constantly under her control and instead, had simply used him as her puppet for short spells to do her dirty work. Draco admits, in a voice that sounds hollow and drained, that there are periods of the past few months in which he can't remember where he had been or what he had been doing. He admits – and anyone could tell it was costing him everything – that he had periods in which he experienced an unexplainable amount of resentment toward Harry. He had periods in which he felt as though he could murder Harry. That too is dismissed as the effects of the curse.

Once every single charge against Draco has been dropped, Harry meets Blackwell's eyes from across the room – they are black with murder. The hell-bent old bird won't be getting Draco's pretty little head on a platter after all, but she looks like she'd be willing to cut it off herself anyway, and repaint the Ministry with his blood. In a way, he feels that he can sympathize. He feels murderous too, but not for the same reasons.

The Minister calls a recess and dismisses Draco; he is free to go. And he does, without hesitation, without a word, and without looking at Harry. It feels like the beginning of a storm, with the soft pitter-patter of the rain against the pavement, steadily speeding up...

And you know you have no choice but to wait it out.

Harry follows him out into the corridors and watches him go with his shoulders back and his head held high. No one would know that he was broken at all, but Harry can still hear the hollow voice, and see the empty grey eyes. He's as fragile as a baby bird. "Draco!" he shouts. "Wait, please…" He takes a few steps, but stops when Draco does not so much as hesitate at the sound of his voice. It isn't as though he's been given a sign. Sometimes, there are no mixed signals, no reading between the lines… Sometimes things really are as black and white as they seem. Draco does not want to talk to him, does not forgive him, and does not want to be with him.

Harry swears he can hear the rain reach its crescendo.

.oOo.

The funny thing about having someone, even if it's only for a day, is that it makes you feel like life is so much… less when they're gone. You can't have realized it before you had them, but as soon as you do, you realize that you had been living a life that was a mockery of what it really should be... or what it could be. You can be content, but as soon as you meet them and as soon as you lose them, you realize content is not enough.

These are the melodramatic musings of one Harry Potter late on a Sunday night.

The weekend has passed uneventfully. He's spend most of it trying to compose a letter to Draco, and he still is. Trying, anyway. The debris of his efforts lays crumpled around his armchair, with the ink smeared hopelessly on the parchment, wasted, just like his words were while watching Draco walk away. It's stupid, truly stupid, to be worried for even a second about a man who probably doesn't worry about him at all, but Harry has never been able to help the way he feels. It's always been his one shortcoming, his weakness for his own feelings.

It was what had driven him to the Department of Ministries and into Voldemort's trap when he'd been a fifth year after all.

He pours himself a tumbler of scotch and takes it back to his armchair. He lifts his arms over his head and stretches. His shoulder cracks. Outside, one of the trees scratch at the window and he stares at the darkness as though he could make it out. After a minute, he picks up the quill again and stares at the blank parchment.

An hour later, he does it all again.

Two hours later, he's completely pissed and the words are starting to run together whether by his own hand or his blurring eyesight. In his drunken stupor, he pens two words, rolls up the parchment, and ties it to his owl's leg before sending it out into the night. What seems like a million miles away, Draco will open it and find both a prayer and a petition written across it.

I'm sorry.

.oOo.

The next morning, Draco's reply is waiting for him on the kitchen table. The bastard hasn't even bothered to get a fresh piece of paper but instead has penned his reply on the back of Harry's letter. With his eyes still blurry from a combination of a hangover and sleep, Harry squints to make out the words.

It doesn't matter.

He can't figure out if the arsehole means that his apology doesn't matter, or if the thing he's apologizing for doesn't matter. He clings to the hope that it's the latter, but he doubts Draco is that forgiving. Harry swears under his breath and lights the damn thing on fire, though he immediately regrets it as Draco's handwriting disappears into ash and leaves a scorch mark on his own table. He grabs the still smoldering remains and burns his fingers. He drops the letter. Swears again.

He tries to occupy his mind with his own banging around the kitchen, opening and closing drawers to find the ingredients he needs for a hangover potion. His organization… or lack thereof… is ridiculous. The silverware drawer has no dividers, so when he opens it, the forks and spoons clink together in a tangled mess. He throws them in there right after he's done cleaning them in the sink. When he slams the drawer shut, he hears all of the utensils slide to the back of the drawer with a metallic thunk.

Draco Malfoy is a bastard.

It isn't his fault that he fell in with the wrong sort of person, that he hired the wrong sort of person, and yet, here he is, feeling apologetic for Draco's mistakes. All he had done was his job. All he had done was what was expected of him, just as he always had.

He takes the potion in one gulp, makes a face, and calls in sick to work. He's never called in sick before.

.oOo.

Another attack calls him back to Knockturn Alley, and he walks down the familiar street with his eyes downcast and yet alert. A shop sign creaks on its hinges and a man bumps his shoulder as he passes. It is just as friendly as the first time he walked down it as a boy.

As he approaches the meeting spot, his hand rests loosely on the hilt of his wand – loose enough to keep it close, but not tight enough to cause anyone alarm. The last thing he wants is to scare anyone away. "Mulholland." He studies the other Auror cautiously. Lately, he's been looking over his shoulder so much, he's surprised he hasn't gotten whiplash.

The other man gestures fluidly with his hand and Harry follows him down a narrow alleyway. He knows they're close to the body when the thick, metallic scent of blood reaches his nostrils, clouding his sense. No matter how much of his own he spills, seeing other people's blossoming out of their chest still makes him feel a little nauseous. It's a secret that many Auror's share. They never really become desensitized. Harry supposes that's the only thing that sets them apart from the people they hunt, because at the end of the day, they're both killers.

Their motives are just a little different.

He studies the body. "Christ."

Mulholland doesn't say anything, nor does he need to. The victim's arm is slick with blood and the flesh is torn. Ragged. The murderer's cut out the poor bastard's Dark Mark.

"This is the third one," Mulholland murmurs needlessly over his shoulder.

Harry knows there's only so many Death Eaters they can target before they go after his Death Eater again. The raven-haired man presses his lips together and runs his hand over his jaw. He thinks he might be sick.

"This is the last one," Harry corrects.

.oOo.

Shards of bright sunlight littered the ground as he walks along Knockturn the next day. It dapples the cobblestones with unexpected, almost fluorescent color. He wonders how the light gets in to place that has been so shrouded in darkness for centuries, if not longer. He takes a moment to lean against a dirt-smudged shop front to work up the nerve he needs to walk into Borgin & Burkes, though he doesn't really think there's enough time in the world for him to do that.

He studies the outline of the shop with a sharp eye, taking in the small rectangular windows that were positioned at equal distances along the top of Draco's shop. He knew, of course, that they did little to illuminate anything in the shop. The entire place seemed to be one big shadow once inside. He supposes that, right now, lighting is not one of Draco's top priorities anyway, nor has it ever been.

He takes the first few tentative steps toward the front door, remembering the first time he had done so, and the long conversation he'd had with the doorknob before he had entered. This time, he doubts he'll be greeted in the same manner, as he suspects that was Draco in a good mood. Surely now, he is just as dour and harsh as he had been during their sixth year, when he'd been doing Voldemort's dirty work in order to save his own skin… and his family's. There's something redeeming about the latter, but only a little bit.

When he finally pushes the door open, the sight of the blonde makes him freeze.

Draco looks up but not at Harry. His eyes look haunted and drained. "Have you come to kill me before they do?"

He grabs a knife, and holds it out with the hilt facing Harry with a strange, crazed smile on his lips. He's seen that look before – it's the look a man wears when he knows he is going to die and there is nothing he can do about it. Dust motes float lazily in a stream of light that pours through one of the windows Harry had seen from outside and glint like golden specks in the drab interior of the shop. "No one's going to kill you."

Draco laughs; it sounds empty and hollow, and makes Harry's heart ache. "Who will stop them?"

"I will. Do you need me to keep watch during the day? I'll stay over at yours and make sure the manor is safe, if you like." Harry is aware that he sounds a little foolish making these hefty offers that he knows Draco would never accept in a million years, even if he knew it would be the only thing between him and death.

The shop owner peers down at his fingernails which are chipped and the skin around them looks red and angry, as though he's been picking at it. "We've been doing this dance for years, Death and I. I'm tired of it. So fucking tired."

Harry starts to feel slightly desperate, because while yes, Draco is talking to him, this is the empty shell of the man he had known a few days before. He has to wonder how much of it is his fault. He has to wonder what he could have done to keep Draco from giving up like this. His dry wit, his scathing remarks are gone now and in their place is this defeat… this surrender.

"Draco, what do you want me to do?"

He turns away, and Harry realizes for the first time that he hasn't looked at him at all since he has arrived. "Leave me alone. Please."

Harry closes his eyes and he turns to leave, because what choice does he have but to respect the wishes of a dying man?

He only admits to himself later that he left the door open behind him in the hopes that Draco would call him back.