After The Flight

by bennybear

Alternative to Deathly Hallows, starting the night of Dumbledore's death and ending a few months after the final battle. The story is compatible to the first six books and contains spoilers for them. Special thanks to Sevena and duj for betareading.

10. Changes

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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Leaning back into the old wicker chair, Ron watched Ginny following their mother into the house.
This birthday had been a dull affair. Fleur and Bill had left early. They'd excused themselves with the baby needing attention, but Ron knew that Bill wasn't feeling too well. Tonks and Remus had dropped in for only half an hour.
He suppressed a sigh.
What was left of the once large and happy family?
His father and three of his brothers were dead. A fourth one was no longer a relative of his as far as Ron was concerned. Bill had what could be called a permanent illness, and his mother's health gave reason for concern, too.
The worst blow for her had been the death of the twins. Ron suspected she had secretly loved them more than her other children – despite the fact that they probably had got more telling-offs from her than meals. Perhaps she'd loved them so much because they had been this lively and mischievous... they might have reminded her of Fabian and Gideon, her brothers.
The news had come a few days after Voldemort's ultimate downfall; most people were still busy celebrating. Even his Mum had started to cheer up a little.
She'd suffered a heart attack when she'd read the note from the Ministry. Ginny had still been in Beauxbatons and Bill, after a full moon night, hardly able to leave the bed.
So, Ron had gone to the mortuary to identify his siblings. Harry had accompanied him. Harry – selfless and chivalrous as ever, his own problems notwithstanding. Ron was grateful beyond words to have a friend like him.
The sight had been horrible. Although, according to the Aurors, Fred and George had been dead for weeks by then, the half-rotten bodies had shown clear signs of abuse. Ron hadn't been able to keep any food down for three days afterwards.
There, in the mortuary, he had made a silent vow to withhold the full truth from his mother. It was bad enough without her knowing any grisly details. And Harry, Harry in his somewhat fragile mental state, had said something that had frightened Ron a great deal, "The worst is still to come."
Sadly enough, the gloomy words had soon proved to be true. Kingsley Shacklebolt, conducting a little unofficial investigation, found out that the twins had been caught smuggling Grade A Non-Tradable Goods. And Scrimgeour – or one of his zealous underlings, if not one certain Percy Weasley in person – had given them choice: either Azkaban or serving the Ministry as spies against the Death Eaters. In short, Fred and George had been bullied into taking on a clearly no-return mission. Rather than contacting anybody of the Order – and endangering them by doing so – they had trusted their usually incredible luck once too often.
They'd made a will, though. Harry inherited their premises at Diagon Alley on the basis that he'd lent them the money to buy the estate in the first place. Ron hadn't known that. However, he wasn't surprised.
The worst is still to come... Well, good news was indeed scarce, but not everything had gone from bad to worse during the last weeks.
Harry was looking forward to a career as an Auror, thanks to a clever move by Tonks. She had mentioned in the presence of notorious Rita Skeeter her firm belief that Harry would accept if he were offered one of the many vacancies in the Auror Department. The next day, the Daily Prophet had told the wizarding world in flashing, ten-inch letters, "Boy-Who-Lived Will Join Auror Corps". After this headline, Scrimgeour couldn't possibly take back what he never had said if he didn't wish to lose face.
Nevertheless, Harry was far from being happy. He sat around in corners, brooding. About what, was a bit unclear. Harry wasn't talkative, and Ron couldn't bring himself to drill into him. Maybe it was Dumbledore's letter, or Snape's true role, or the problem that Harry had to help Malfoy in some way. Perhaps it was all of the above mingled together.
If Ron had hoped the birthday would serve to brighten things up a little, he had been grievously mistaken. Today's newspaper had quenched any spark of cheerfulness.
Hogwarts was to be re-opened on September the first under the headship of none other than Dolores Umbridge. All former teachers who were still alive had been sacked. Except Binns who was, for obvious reasons, allowed to stay. Hagrid had been given twenty-four hours' notice to leave his cabin. His owl had come right before lunch with a scribbled note saying he couldn't attend Harry's birthday party because he had to find lodgings in Hogsmeade. He didn't want to move any further than that since Grawp still camped out in the Forbidden Forest.
The Hogwarts they'd known no longer existed, Ron mused. The odd saying that the quill was mightier than the wand had found a real-life example – Scrimgeour had ended an era with a few scratches of his quill.
Appointed as new house-teachers were Ludo Bagman for Slytherin, some woman Ron had never heard of for Ravenclaw, Cornelius Fudge for Hufflepuff and – and here Ron had been tempted to hex the blasted paper into oblivion – Percy Weasley for Gryffindor. Youngest house-head ever, younger even than Snape when he had taken over Slytherin.
There was no such thing as justice...
Ron suppressed another sigh.
He'd read another name on the list of teachers that didn't seem to belong there: Neville Longbottom. Neville was to teach Transfiguration. Ron didn't see how his former classmate could ever replace McGonagall. Like all of them, he hadn't even finished his own education. Yet, for the Daily Prophet as well as for the Ministry, being able to turn into a toad seemed qualification enough.
It was absurd.
Ron didn't begrudge Neville the fame. Neville had had a share in defeating Voldemort; nobody could deny this. However, whereas Harry steadfastly refused to appear at victory ceremonies or to give interviews, Neville enjoyed his sudden popularity. The poor chap didn't realise that he was only used as welcome polish for Scrimgeour's reputation. Of course, this wasn't his, Ron's, analysis but Hermione's. Though in all likelihood, she was right. She was almost always right.
Almost always.
Ron cleared his throat. He had to drop the bomb now.
"Did you know Malfoy is going out regularly?" he asked.
The question jerked both Harry and Hermione out of their reverie.
"But he can't!" they exclaimed as one.
Ron said nothing. He was the only one who checked on Malfoy. He went to Grimmauld Place at least twice a week. Saying he did so because Harry didn't feel up to the task was correct, but not enough. Something else drove him. He couldn't say, what.
"How can he leave the house?" Harry demanded. "If you think this is a joke, it's not funny."
"I'm not joking," Ron said. Somehow, Harry wasn't yet his old self again. "Every morning, he goes to a facility that the Muggles call indoor swimming pool. It's just down the street and then, at the second crossing, about a hundred yards to the right. Less than ten minutes on foot. I checked."
"But how, Ron?" Hermione asked doubtfully. "Who told him?"
"Dumbledore, obviously. Who else could have done so?" Ron said. "According to Malfoy, it took Dobby about five minutes to open the door to Kreacher's smelly den. And guess what they found among the jumble when they cleaned out the place – a tiny little slip of parchment. Seems that one of Dumbledore's notes wasn't burnt fast enough, and Kreacher got hold of it."
Harry scowled. "Good thing he didn't take it with him when he went to visit Narcissa Malfoy!" he growled.
"He couldn't have." Hermione shook her head. "He couldn't have removed it from the house once it was inside."
"How can you always be so sure?" Harry reproached her. "You said the house was perfectly safe, and Malfoy couldn't leave unless someone of the Order knocked him unconscious and dragged him out! And here we go! He's strolling around the city as he pleases."
"Harry, I couldn't know Kreacher stole-"
"Yeah, it's a bit frustrating not to have all the facts," Harry cut across her, very nearly jeering. "What business does Malfoy have anyway to go to a swimming pool?"
"He says he likes swimming," Ron answered. "And there is no need to shout at Hermione."
Harry glared at him. Ron didn't flinch.
Harry got angry rather easily these days. Somehow, their roles had been reversed. In former times, it had often been Harry's job to calm him down, especially when Malfoy had been the topic.
"Sorry," Harry mumbled.
Hermione acknowledged the apology with a curt nod. There was no smile on her face.
Ron missed it so badly. All year long, he had hoped for some quality time to spend with her once Voldemort was finished. He definitely could do with a bit more attention from her, a bit more body contact... But no such luck.
Hermione worked hard, studying old court files provided by Tonks or Kingsley, all day and a considerable part of the night. Tonks said there were thousands and thousands of dusty old parchments stored in countless vaults at the Ministry. Nobody seemed to care much about those documents, or whether somebody took them home for reading.
Unfortunately, Hermione hadn't found out much up to now. She complained time and again that a great number of legal decisions seemed totally arbitrary.
The only useful thing she'd dug out so far was a clause of the Reasonable Use of Underage Magic Act. It said that underage witches or wizards couldn't be held fully responsible for certain deeds. Believing some of the younger prisoners could benefit from this clause, Tonks and Kingsley had suggested an amnesty for those of Voldemort's followers who hadn't been of age when they'd received the Dark Mark. They hoped for Scrimgeour to relent because one of the teenagers in question was the Minister's niece.
Of course, none of them knew about Malfoy. The amnesty, should it be proclaimed, might apply to him, too. Technically, Malfoy had been underage when he attacked Dumbledore. It had been the night before his seventeenth birthday, and he had left the grounds of Hogwarts before the clock had struck twelve.
"Did you confiscate Dumbledore's note, Ron?" Hermione asked.
"No," Ron said. He hadn't even seen it.
"Why not? That would have been the sensible thing to do," Hermione lectured him. "Besides, you should have called me. I can Obliviate Malfoy."
"There's Dobby, too," Harry murmured. "I don't much like the thought of having him Obliviated."
"Right. And Dobby won't like the thought of having Malfoy Obliviated," Ron said. He had to admit that the strange liaison between the resolute house-elf and the Slytherin snob fascinated him. But he only did so in silence. Aloud, he added, "He is – how shall I put it – very protective of Malfoy."
"Well, yes, he's a house-elf and not going to break his word." Hermione heaved a sigh. "We have to find another solution for the Malfoy problem. Perhaps we should bring him somewhere else?"
"What about Godric's Hollow?" Harry suggested.
"No, the village is too small," Hermione said. "People would be curious about the stranger."
"Then back to the Menhir," Harry said.
"We can't enter it," Hermione reminded him. "I've told you."
Well, Dobby could. However, Ron decided to keep this piece of information to himself. Taking Malfoy to another hideout wasn't the point here.
"Look, I think it's best he stays were he is now," he said. "The house is as safe as any place can be. Right now, nobody can give away his whereabouts – not us, not Dobby, not even Malfoy himself. If they happen to catch him while he's outside, he won't be able to tell them where he's been hiding, no matter how much Truth Potion he's forced to drink. He can't lead them there. He can do nothing."
"He can give them our names," Harry said sullenly.
"And you reckon anybody is going to believe him?"
Harry looked up in surprise.
"I think Ron is right," Hermione said. "It's a Muggle area. Wizarding folk hardly ever go there. Only Order members did so for the meetings. Though lately, they've met at Professor McGonagall's. Besides, nobody is actively searching for Malfoy. Tonks once mentioned that his name appears on a list of people presumed to be dead."
Of course, Malfoy could run into an Auror by sheer coincidence. The question was whether people would recognise him. Ron doubted it.
"When he leaves the house, he's wearing such a Muggle cap, you know, that has a round part sticking out at the front. It casts a shadow over his face."
"He wears Muggle clothes?" Hermione asked, mildly intrigued.
Ron nodded. "Yeah, even I thought for a sec there was somebody else in the house. He looks definitely un-Malfoyish with the short hair and the tan and Sirius's old shirts. Dobby tailored them a bit to fit Malfoy better."
"Sounds as if he's having a great time," Harry said sourly.
"No, I don't think so," Ron contradicted him.
"He must be bored," Hermione said thoughtfully. "Perhaps I should get him something to read..."
Books! Hermione had just the blanket solution for any crisis or predicament. Ron couldn't help but roll his eyes. When he saw Harry do the same, he almost smiled.
"Why not?" the girl said with a stern look in Ron's direction. "Reading would keep him occupied, so he won't get any funny ideas."
"Right," Ron said as smoothly as he could. "Do you want me to ask him what kind of books he likes best?"
She shook her head. "I've already a certain book in mind. – Harry, would you like to see Severus Snape honoured?"
"Of course, " Harry said, sitting up straight.
"And would you agree to letting Malfoy do some useful work?"
"Sure." Harry shrugged.
"Okay," Hermione beamed at him. "I know how to combine both. You give Malfoy Professor Snape's copy of Advanced Potion-Making, the one with the many remarks and corrections. You tell him to do a full revision on the book."
"What would that be good for?" Harry asked.
"The purpose is to prepare a completely new edition, without the errors and flaws of the old one," Hermione answered. "Of course, in the introduction, it has to say that the late Professor Severus Snape, the most accomplished potion master Hogwarts has ever seen, made all the improvements."
"Hermione, nobody is going to print a book improved by Snape. Or revised by Malfoy, or whatever you call it," Ron objected.
"Well, isn't there a printing-press standing in the basement of the building Harry inherited from your brothers?" Hermione told him with a triumphant glint in her eye. "Anyway, the actual printing won't have to be done next week. Revising a scientific book takes time and care. There are more than one hundred recipes to test. For every correction Professor Snape suggests, Malfoy will have to brew the old version as well as the new one several times. He has to note down and evaluate every change or difference. I'd calculate with a week per potion. Plus, he has to redraw every picture and diagram because using someone else's illustrations is prohibited by law-"
Ron tuned out. He understood that Malfoy would be busy for years to come, and that was all he needed to know.
He looked at his wristwatch. It was a quarter to eleven. They had about thirteen hours to retrieve the Half-Blood Prince's book.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said to Hermione, who was now detailing what potion ingredients Harry should buy for Malfoy's experiments. The possibility that the Slytherin bloke might not be interested in her plans obviously didn't occur to her. "If we want to go to Hogwarts, we'll should do so now. Tomorrow at noon, a flock of so-called teachers will arrive."
Harry jumped to his feet. Hermione was just as eager to go.

They landed at the dark north side of the castle and hid their brooms amidst the shrubbery of dogwood and elder. It was well past midnight. Out of habit, they slipped in through the house-elves' entrance.
The hallways were empty and quiet as they had been in spring. And yet, there was a difference. Ron walked past the familiar paintings and suits of armour, knowing that he would not come back here for many years. He only might do so in the long run, in a distant, indistinct future, when he had children of his own...
His immediate future looked rather bleak. He had applied for two different apprenticeships last week – at Eeylops's and at Ollerton's Broom Repair Shop. Both Mrs Eeylops and Jamie Ollerton had told him very politely to ask again when he had N.E.W.T.s. Ron didn't quite see the point. Why would anyone need N.E.W.T.s to clean out birdcages?
They had reached the tapestry depicting old Barnabas the Barmy's pathetic attempts to teach trolls dancing. Harry walked three times past the opposite wall, muttering under his breath. The polished door appeared and they stepped into the Room of Requirement.
Despite the mountains of broken furniture, Harry had no trouble finding the right cupboard. He crouched down, pushed a cage with a five-legged skeleton in it aside, and pulled out the book once owned by Snape.
They left after little more than five minutes.
"Well, that really feels like in the old times, doesn't it?" Harry said. He seemed more confident and cheerful than he had been of late. "Anyway, what made you change your mind about this book, Hermione?"
"Well, as you kept pointing out throughout our sixth year: You can't blame the book for the reader."
She sounded a little too indifferent for Ron's taste.
Harry actually laughed. "I'd like to go for a little stroll," he said. "Would you mind me having a few minutes to myself?"
"Not at all," Ron, delighted to see his friend this happy, answered quickly. "Just make sure you don't walk into Filch."
"Don't worry," Harry said dismissively. "We'll meet right outside the elves' door where we've hidden the brooms."
With that, he turned and walked down the corridor.
"What is he up to?" Ron asked Hermione.
"Saying goodbye, I suppose. – Now come!" She tugged at his sleeve.
"Where to?"
"To the library, of course."

The door to the library wasn't locked. They went in, and Hermione started immediately to collect books from the shelves. She didn't have to search much. Apparently, she knew by heart where everything stood. She also never stopped to ponder whether to take a book or not. Soon, Ron got the impression that she was ticking off the titles on a mental list.
The stack of tomes grew rapidly.
"Er, Hermione, how do we carry so many books? We have no bags."
"We can use Hovering Spells," she said over her shoulder while she walked into the Restricted Section.
"But we're here on brooms," Ron said, following her.
"Aren't they quality brooms?" Hermione said, handing him two large, leather-bound volumes about Advanced Transfiguration. "Aren't they designed to carry two persons each?"
"Yeah," Ron said. Hermione wasn't quite as skilled a flyer as he or Harry. Although she'd done fine on the journey here, he wasn't sure she could manage an additional load on her broom. "Are you really going to take our body-weight in books?"
"No, because I want to take away Professor Snape's supply of potion ingredients as well. Or, at least, what is left of it. We used up most of his stock when we devised the curse-breaking potion."
Ron was momentarily speechless. When he had recovered enough, he asked, "You don't feel like you're stealing, do you?"
"No, I don't," she said firmly. "I'm borrowing these books. I'll bring them back the day Hogwarts has a decent headmaster again. They fired Irma Pince! They fired her along with all the others. The new librarian is William Wagstaff! What do you think will happen to first editions worth about two hundred Galleons like this one?" – She held out an immensely old-looking tome to him – "And as for the potion ingredients, I'm only going to take Professor Snape's private property. Professor McGonagall told us what was his when we worked down in the laboratory. I think he would agree."
Ron agreed with her, too. If he could, he'd steal the whole castle. The thought of Percy and Umbridge reigning here made him almost physically sick.
Hermione conjured up ropes that wrapped themselves neatly around the stacked books. There was both grace and determination in the way she swung her wand. Ron couldn't help but admire her. There was such an amount of will power, and it resided in such a slender and exciting body...
He watched her putting further charms on the books. Her every movement made her hair dance around her slim form.
"Entrance Hall!" she commanded, and the books rose into the air. They glided towards the open door, and out of it, and vanished from sight.
Ron cleared his throat. It didn't help. His question came out as a half-croak.
"What if Filch finds them?"
"Hardly," she said, completely unperturbed. "I sent Hagrid's owl back after lunch. I asked him to invite Filch to a farewell drink and to make sure he gets sufficiently drunk."
He gaped at her.
"You have been... planning to come here tonight?"
"As a matter of fact, yes."
He just stared. She was amazing. She was gorgeous. She was... irresistibly female. His eyes travelled down her cheek and along her jawbone. The urge to trace this same line with his lips was overwhelming.
"I want to sleep with you," he stated, his voice low and imploring. "Now."
"Right here?" she asked. "Here in the library?"
"No. Up in my dorm." His words were a mere whisper. "In my bed."
She smiled. He knew that sort of smile: promising, and demanding. He felt her invade his mind. It was all right. She would find naught but images of her own thighs and the place where they met, seen from, say, five inches distance. He could think of nothing else.
"Come," she purred and took his hand.

Nigh on two hours later, Ron was bouncing down the stairs to the dungeons. Yes, bouncing was the accurate verb to describe the way he moved. Or the way he felt. He felt absolutely great. He felt like singing, like jumping, like dancing.
All of a sudden, Hermione, who was running alongside him, stopped in her tracks.
"I can fetch those potions ingredients alone," she said. "You should go and find Harry."
A pang of guilt quenched Ron's euphoria. He rushed to the house-elves' entrance. Harry wasn't there. The brooms were untouched.
With no idea where to start a search, he hastened back into the castle.
But he was lucky – Harry was sitting in the Great Hall, at the Gryffindor table. The wave of relief that flooded Ron's veins swept back the feeling of joy and ecstasy.
Drawing nearer, however, Ron saw that Harry had put his glasses down. His eyes were red, the lips dry and cracked, and ugly blotches spread all over his face.
"Harry... what happened?"
"It's okay. Don't worry," Harry said, his voice oddly muffled. "I needed this... this bit of solitude. Thanks for giving me a few minutes alone."
Merlin's grace, a few minutes!
Ron, his brain still soaked with the bliss of the last two hours, attributed Harry's tears to the strange reluctance Ginny had shown lately to spend time with him.
"Is it to do with my sister?" he asked softly, sitting down next to his friend.
"Ginny?" Harry asked in surprise. "No, I just... oh, I see what you're aiming at." He sighed. "Well, I don't know with her. She's changed. The girl that came back from Beauxbatons seems not to be the same one that went there a year ago. Maybe it's just my imagination."
Harry wasn't imagining things. Ginny had changed. She was more earnest, more poised. Perhaps he should call it more mature, Ron mused. Then again, Ginny had lost half her family, too. Why would this affect her less than him?
"It's hard to cope, Harry, when all your family and friends are equally laden with grief and worries." Speaking, he realised how fortunate he was to have something unspoiled to hold on to. Hermione's love, the privilege of sleeping with her, gave him a chance to escape reality, even though only for short bouts of time.
"I know," Harry said slowly. "I don't blame anyone, and your sister least of all. She's lost her father and three of her brothers. Another brother and her mother are seriously ill. And there's nothing she can do about it. For me, this has always been the worst: to sit and watch bad things happen, to have no power to stop them from happening." He put the wet hankie away and went on with more determination, "Ron, I want to learn everything that Kingsley can teach me, all the tricks, all the clever methods, all the spells and counter-spells. I've already learned more from him in six weeks than in all the DADA lessons together. It's not as if I wish to serve Scrimgeour and his bureaucrats, but I must not waste this chance. I always wanted to become an Auror. Fortunately, there are still some of the old crowd in the Auror Department, people I can trust. Dawlish is Scrimgeour's man, no mistake about that, but he doesn't have much say. The man in charge is Gawain Robards. I guess he is all right, although he wasn't in the Order. He's an independent mind, Kingsley says. He's not the type that bows and scrapes."
"But Harry, I thought you'd made up your mind long ago," Ron said, rather baffled by his friend's lengthy speech.
"I signed the parchment, yes, but I had misgivings. I think I still have them. In my heart of hearts, I know one day I will have to decide between a career in the Ministry and my conscience. When this day comes, Ron, be a friend and remind me not to behave like a complete arsehole."
"Err, yeah..." Ron mumbled. For lack of words, he put his arm around his friend's shoulders.
"Thanks," Harry said gratefully.
Ron wasn't sure why Harry was giving him thanks. He'd done nothing. He hadn't even said anything remotely helpful.
"This school has been my home, for I had none other," Harry said in a low voice. "The people here have been my family. And now, that is over."
"You can always stay at the Burrow," Ron said, trailing off. There were more than enough empty rooms now.
"All last year, I was somehow imagining I would come back here. I wasn't consciously planning to do my seventh year. It was something underneath, right beyond where you can grasp it," Harry continued as if he hadn't heard him. Then, after a pause, he added, "Yes, I will stay at the Burrow, with your Mum – don't worry. It's really weird, you know, I own three houses and I don't feel like living in any of them."
Hearing his mother mentioned, Ron recalled something Hermione had told him, between kisses, about half an hour ago. He became aware of how torn he was between love and friendship. He couldn't let Hermione go alone; he couldn't leave Harry behind.
"Harry," he said tentatively, "Hermione says she's going to Beauxbatons."
"Yes. And you're going to go with her." Harry's tone wasn't that of a question.
"Er... I haven't decided, yet."
"Do it. I'll lend you the money." Before Ron could protest, he added, "You can pay it back once you earn your own living."
"You sure?"
"Definitely. Look, Ron, they won't give anyone a decent job who hasn't N.E.W.T.s. And they won't give anyone N.E.W.T.s without a full and proper exam. They didn't do this for Neville and me because they like us. Offering us well-regarded positions was just politics – oh look here, our young heroes go straight on to a magnificent career, applying their skill to noble purposes... It's no more than a pompous show for the public; Scrimgeour likes getting good press. I'm not so naive anymore as not to see that."
"But if I go with Hermione, you'll be all alone."
"I'll stay with your Mum. Tonks and Remus are also here. And Malfoy."
"Oh yeah, I forgot. You sure he can replace me?" Ron tried to joke. He was afraid Harry would lapse into brooding again.
However, Harry laughed. It wasn't a carefree laugh, but it was a laugh. "Do you really think we can trust him with this book?" he asked, stroking the textbook that lay before him on the table with an air of reverence.
"Well, trust a Malfoy... " Ron shrugged. "For the moment, he's quite docile. Of course, we have no guarantee he stays this way."
"Dumbledore was a great believer in giving people second chances. I think I've figured out, why. He needed one himself. Perhaps Malfoy deserves one, too. He didn't actually kill anybody although it was a close shave with the poisoned mead."
He looked at Ron for consent.
"Yeah, I know," Ron said heavily. He wondered how Malfoy now felt about the episode. Back then, he had surely not cared much whether or not he accidentally killed a Weasley. "I'd like to hear him apologise one day. Not necessarily right now and certainly I don't want to hear him just mouthing words. I'd like him to feel sorry, genuinely sorry, for what he did, and to admit it."
"Okay. That's settled, then," Harry said, sounding reassured. "Unfortunately, we still have another problem – the paintings of Phineas Nigellus. One is in what will be Umbridge's office very soon and the other one is, well, you know, where. Nigellus could drop her hints about my guest."
"We've got to get rid of them!" Ron burst out, startled.
"Get rid of whom?" Hermione asked, sitting down opposite him and Harry.
"Phineas Nigellus!" Ron told her. "We must get the portrait out of Dumbledore's office-"
"We can't," Hermione interrupted him. "The paintings are glued to the walls with Permanent Sticking Charms."
"We can remove the other one," Harry said.
"Too late," Ron said, frowning. "He's surely seen Malfoy long since. What can we do? If that hag Umbridge finds out she'll ruin Harry's whole career!"
"Perhaps I have an idea," Hermione said. There was a glow of stern determination on her face. "We can't do anything about the portraits. They are charmed to support the headmaster, whoever this may be. But to Umbridge's misfortune, we can prevent her from consulting them."
"Let me guess," Ron said, unable to hide his grin, "Hogwarts. A History?"
"Depends," Hermione said, smiling warmly at him. "About the specially charmed portraits, I read in the book. How to seal the Headmaster's office, I learned from Professor McGonagall. – Come on boys, we're running out of time."

"This isn't the normal type of password," the girl explained on the way. "Professor McGonagall detailed the subtleties to me. She had me help her when she changed the code in May."
"You know the current password?" Harry asked.
"Yes. It's Albus has moonstones for dinner."
"That's nonsense," Ron said, shaking his head. "How can anyone eat stones?"
"Exactly," Hermione said. "It's not enough to make the password hard to guess. You also have to make sure no-one utters the crucial words by sheer coincidence."
"Like Dogs are herbivores?" Harry suggested.
"That's a good one." Hermione beamed at him. "I think we can use it. Perhaps we should specify the dog's race."
"Poodle, beagle, Alsatian, Labrador, collie-"
"Hold it, mate," Ron interrupted. "That sounds good: Labradors are herbivores. It kind of rhymes."
"I agree. Labradors are good choice. They're not widely known in the wizarding world," Hermione said. They had reached the gargoyle that guarded the entrance. "Now, put your left hand on the gargoyle and repeat what I say. Ready?"
They nodded.
Hermione took out her wand and placed her free hand on the stony head. Ron and Harry followed suit.
"I take back Albus has moonstones for dinner," she said solemnly.
Ron and Harry repeated her words.
"The new password is Labradors are herbivores," Hermione stated.
Ron and Harry said the same.
"Vallus Validus!" Hermione intoned, swinging her wand.
"Vallus Validus!" Ron said, mimicking her.
"Vallus Validus!" Harry added with a flourish of his wand.
Hermione lowered her wand and stepped back. "Well, that's it. Now, it will take nine people to overrule the password, then twenty-seven and so on until someone figures out what additional spell Professor McGonagall used."
"It will get a bit crowded here with so many people," Harry observed.
Hermione shrugged. "That's not our problem. Any of us," – she pointed to Harry, Ron and her – "can undo our password if necessary. To overrule McGonagall's again, you'll need two assistants, though."
"Bloody brilliant," Ron said under his breath. Umbridge and her staff would stand here, shouting in vain random passwords for days and weeks and months...
"I will add a little refinement," Hermione said, giving him a passionate look. "I think I owe that much to Umbridge." She made a complicated movement with her wand and murmured, "Respuere Gelidam!"
"What does this spell do?" Harry wanted to know.
"Everybody using a wrong password will get doused in icy water," she said calmly. "It's a gargoyle after all, isn't it?"
Drawing each other vivid pictures of a dripping wet Umbridge stomping her feet with white-hot rage, they were chuckling and giggling all the way down to their brooms.
Rain greeted them when they exited the castle. It poured down steadily since no breeze was moving the heavy clouds.
"All the better," Harry said. "We don't have to worry about being spotted."
He and Ron fastened the luggage on the brooms while Hermione performed several Bubble Charm Spells to keep the books and the stuff from Snape's laboratory dry.
They mounted their brooms and then, with one last glance back at the old, stately building, they seared up into the grey morning sky.

- - - - -

Draco sat in the room he privately called his study. It was furnished with a large table that might have come from the drawing room, a desk of normal size, three chairs, two empty cabinets and an old, but elegant sideboard.
He had collected any item in the house that might be useful in a study: old quills, a bottle of ink, some parchment, and six books. Five of them were old textbooks that had belonged to either Regulus or Sirius. The sixth, a badly worn paperback containing cooking recipes, had "M. Weasley" written on the cover. Dobby had taken this one with him when he next had left the house.
The little chap went out often. He seldom said more than when to expect him to be back. Draco could but speculate where the elf was going other than to the Menhir. From there, Dobby fetched books – one at a time because he wasn't capable of Apparating with heavier burdens. ()
Draco saw no chance for himself of going back to the Menhir. He couldn't access the Floo Network. He had neither broom nor wand, and trying to Apparate without the latter came pretty close to suicide. For using any of the Muggle means of transportation, he would need Muggle money. Besides, he didn't have the nerve for travelling this slowly across half of Britain. Walking the short distance to the indoor swimming pool each day took already all his courage.
Then again, he needed the regular escape from the gloomy house. He needed the exercise. Strange as it seemed, the physical exhaustion made him feel better. He was calmer and more confident after his routine hour of swimming. Walking back from the pool, he was less afraid of being discovered and arrested than on the way there.
The Muggle facility held its own perils, though. One afternoon, the place had been teeming with teenage girls clad in colourful nothings. The mere sight had driven him into a state of uncontrollable arousal. Since he had been wearing no more than bathing trunks too thin and too tight to hide his desire, he had practically fled into one of the changing cubicles adjoining the shower room. There, he had given in to the pressing urge – very quietly so, swallowing the moans of self-inflicted pleasure lest he could be overheard from the neighbouring stalls.
He was resolved not to subject himself to such embarrassment again. As a result, he now went for his daily swim at eight in the morning when he had to share the pool only with a small number of aged people. They were so frail they had to be pushed in wheel chairs. Nurses or, perhaps, Muggle healers lowered them into the water and helped them move their feeble limbs. None of them paid any attention to the lone young man swimming his rows, and Draco pretended not to see them.
All the same, images of sparsely dressed girls had found their way into his dreams. He occasionally woke up in the middle of the night, the trousers of his pyjamas wet and sticky. He was, however, far from complaining. Dreams about kissing nude girls were rather enjoyable, especially compared to the ones about growing silvery-white fur.
He glanced over at the pitiful assembly of books resting on the sideboard. Bound in dark leather, the old volumes looked very decorative. They were also absolutely useless.
Should he beg?
Weasley dropped in just about every other day. Why, remained a little unclear. He came here under some pretence or other, poked around without apparent purpose, and asked Dobby pointless questions.
Despite the outward ineptness, Weasley had found out pretty quickly and with surprising ease about his and Dobby's discovery concerning the house. To Draco's astonishment, he hadn't made a fuss. He had simply stated, "Well, Malfoy, it's your neck you're risking."
Draco wasn't sure what to make of Weasley's comment. Was there no actual risk in leaving the house? The area was clearly Muggle territory. However, whereas Muggles could be kept away from the wizarding world they had no means to keep witches and wizards out of theirs. Or did his old Gryffindor nemesis want him to be caught? If something unpleasant happened outside the house, Potter was – technically – not responsible. But was such scheming not a bit too sly for Ronald Weasley?
Dobby did not object to Draco's excursions to the swimming pool. On the contrary, he encouraged him. Could the elf have established safeguards alongside the way? Could elves do that?
Of all misconceptions that Draco had been entertaining in his life the one about house-elves being an inferior race might be the most erroneous. House-elves could perform stunning magic without a wand. Maybe here lay the true reason why they were forbidden to own one. Wielding wands, they might turn out to be the greater experts at magic.
Was something similar true for the goblins? And the giants? The centaurs?
There wasn't even proof for the theory of purebloods being better at magic than Muggle-borns. You merely had to compare Granger to Vince or poor, deceased Greg. Or to compare her to him. She had beaten him in every exam, no matter how many hours he'd spent swotting up on the topics. The only time he had outwitted everybody had been the evening when he had introduced downright riff-raff to the school – thugs and a bloodthirsty monster that considered every breathing creature as prey.
Draco sighed. He got up and stepped to the window.
It was a beautiful sight. There were old trees – oaks, elms and magnolias – and scores of flowering shrubs. Butterflies danced around a group of buddleias in the bright sun of an early August afternoon. In the mornings, the scenery sparkled with dew. And in the evening hours, the trees cast deep shadows on the narrow footpaths that meandered beneath them. Even on rainy days, the park was a picture of perfection with its myriad of dripping leaves, stretches of wet lawn, and little puddles and runlets of water.
It had only one flaw: It didn't exist.
As soon as Draco opened the window, the park vanished. It was replaced with the grey walls of neighbouring buildings, an ugly shack for bicycles and a vast assortment of dustbins. There was no smell of jasmine drifting in, and the only plants were a few tenacious dandelions that had managed to break through the thick layer of black asphalt covering the whole yard.
Draco considered the enchanted window an example of what magic could truly be. Instead of using your talent for destruction, you could create things – beautiful and enticing as this park, or else, long lasting and handy as a Menhir. Such objects were monuments to the skill and inventiveness of the witches and wizards who crafted them.
But there were also moments, when he thought this window might serve as a metaphor for his life – a mock prospect barring the view at dull reality.
He sighed again and leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the windowpane.
The unoccupied afternoons stretched endlessly. He had nothing to fight off boredom. No books to read, no tasks to do. Dobby had very markedly frowned at him when he had polished and re-arranged the glassware in the drawing room for the third time.
He had nothing but his troubled thoughts.
Worst of all, he had nothing to answer the questions that haunted him.
There was a knock at the door.
Draco turned round, surprised. It was far too early for dinner.
"Come in," he called.
The door opened with the familiar, faint creak.
Draco gasped. Striding into the room was Harry Potter, the hero in person.
"I've got to talk to you, Malfoy," he announced, not bothering with preliminaries.
"Yes," Draco said, keeping his reply as brief as possible. Luckily, there was a large and massive table between the two of them.
However, before Potter could say or do something, Dobby burst into the room.
"Harry Potter! Such a pleasure to see you!" he cried, but added in the same breath, "Harry Potter, you are not going to pick a fight with young Mr Malfoy, do you?"
Potter smiled at the elf.
"Hi Dobby. Don't worry. I'm not up to fighting."
"Oh, good..." Dobby said, visibly relaxing. "You see, the situation is difficult for me. I promised Professor Dumbledore not to let anyone hurt young Mr Malfoy, and he didn't say anything about exceptions. But I can't allow you to be harmed, either, Harry Potter. This is really very difficult."
"Don't worry," Potter repeated. "I have only a few questions."
"Questions?" Dobby asked, uneasy again. He quivered a bit, when he said, "Young Mr Malfoy will give back the little piece of plastic as soon as he doesn't need it anymore. I will see to it."
Potter looked blank.
Draco stifled a groan. Of course, he knew that Dobby had nicked the annual ticked. But he was too Slytherin to tell the little chap to bring it back... Besides, the Ministry recommended a whole list of charms for Obliviating, Confunding, and Repelling Muggles. Why was there a difference if an elf used such tricks?
"Dobby, what are you talking about?" Potter asked, puzzled.
"The nice Muggle woman who sits at the entrance of the swimming pool owns several boxes filled with these plastic things. I took only one. She won't miss it."
Potter frowned at Dobby for one or two seconds. Then, he rounded on Draco.
"Malfoy, you have Dobby steal for you?"
"No, he did not order me! I do not take orders!" Dobby cried, not letting Draco say a single word. "I am a free elf, and young Mr Malfoy didn't even know the Muggles had such a fine swimming pool. The woman at the entrance doesn't ask money from people who show her one of the plastic things. That's why I borrowed it."
"Are you saying this was all your idea?" Potter asked, turning back to the elf.
"It was," Dobby said proudly.
"Oh well, Dobby, you're always good for a surprise," Potter sighed. "Would you mind leaving us alone for a while?"
Dobby looked sceptically from one man to the other before he nodded. More to himself than to Draco or Potter, he muttered, "I'll be at the ready," and slipped out of the door.
"He meant well," Draco said softly. "There's no need to punish him."
"I wouldn't dream of punishing Dobby!" Potter snapped.
Draco raised his hands in a soothing gesture. Why couldn't they communicate civilly?
"I just suggested you shouldn't," he said. "Could we agree, for once, to be of the same opinion?"
Potter didn't respond. He gave him a long, scrutinising look, then he straightened up and moved his shoulders a little as if to shake off something.
"I've got to talk to you," he announced for the second time. "Apart from the stuff Dobby pilfers for you, you're living quite comfortably on my expense. I would like to get some service in return."
Draco swallowed. Serving Potter – Merlin's grace, what did the guy have in mind?
"I want you to do a full revision on this book," Potter continued, producing something wrapped in brownish paper from inside his cloak. "A scientific revision."
"Scientific work?" Draco slowly asked after half a minute of stunned silence. "I never realised you held such an esteem for my abilities."
"Is this a refusal?" Potter's tone was far from friendly.
Draco shook his head. He would like nothing better than to get his hands on this book, whatever it was. After more than a month of starvation, any topic was welcome.
Quietly, because he had no desire to get another taste of Potter's quick temper, he asked, "Would you care to tell me what the book is about?"
"Oh, it's Advanced Potion-Making," Potter said, pulling the wrapping away. "The textbook we used in our sixth year."
Draco didn't have to glance at the sideboard to know a copy of Advanced Potion-Making sat already there. Most of the textbooks used at Hogwarts hadn't changed in decades. His disappointment must have been showing on his face because Potter suddenly said, "I take it you're not interested."
"I didn't say that!" Draco retaliated, reminding himself too late that he mustn't give Potter a reason to get angry. The way Potter now glowered at him boded nothing good.
"All the better. Hermione reckons you're skilled enough to do it." Potter put down the book on his end of the table and placed a small roll of parchment beside it. "Here are her instructions."
Granger. She was probably the only person who could come up with an idea like re-assessing an old textbook. Doing so might have only the semblance of useful work but it would keep him occupied for many months to come. He desperately longed for something to do, for anything to do. Brewing potions was just fine.
"For a proper revision, I will have to test the recipes," he said.
"Sure. Write a list, let's say until next Friday, with everything you need. I'll get it."
"I will need a wand," Draco said promptly. He had a slender chance, but it was worth a try.
"No way," Potter said curtly.
Draco had expected nothing else. To his wonder, Potter elaborated.
"The Ministry has established new regulations concerning wand trade and possession. Ministry officials have to supervise any purchase or any other change of ownership. If you accidentally damage your wand or lose it, you'll have to go through a ridiculous, time-consuming rigmarole of filling out forms and submitting written explanations until you get a permit to buy a new one." There was a strange hint of bitterness in Potter's voice as he went on, "Nobody is allowed to own more than one wand at a time. Spare ones are to be confiscated. Anyway, I wouldn't let you have a wand if things were less tight. Quite frankly, I don't trust you."
This was no news, not at all, but it hurt. The nature and intensity of the feeling troubled Draco more than the injury itself. He was sorely reminded of the pain that his father had caused him by insinuating, time and again, what a failure he was. He had never been good enough at anything, not even at being bad.
"I know you hate me." His voice sounded less firm than he wished, but he had to speak up. He couldn't bear with such treatment anymore. He couldn't accept that the sole difference between his old life and the new one should be the replacement of the person who did the telling. And the telling off. "There's no need to rub it in."
"It's just the plain truth. I see no point in pretending," Potter said, less harshly than Draco had feared. "I don't like you, Malfoy. I never did. Though I wouldn't call it hate. At least, I don't hate you enough to let them do you in."
Shuddering, Draco closed his eyes. Needless to ask who they were. They were the many who had been raised to believe – like him – in the fallacy that there was glory in killing.
"Dumbledore spoke to me about mercy. About choice and that he was willing to help me. I didn't get it. His concepts were completely alien to me," he said, opening his eyes to look straight at Potter. "Thanks to him, my hands are clean today. But the people you're referring to won't bother with such subtleties, will they?"
"No, not really. They think the best assurance against bloodshed is shedding blood."
"And shedding mine would be helpful?"
Potter shrugged. "The aim is to eliminate everyone who might fall back into their old Death Eater ways. I guess they would consider you a potential danger if they knew you're still alive."
Draco's breath caught.
"Well, yes, you've been declared dead on the basis that you've been missing for more than a year. For sure, that was half an excuse on their part," Potter went on, sounding almost apologetic. "I saw the official parchments only the day before yesterday. The good thing is, nobody is snooping around looking for you. As long as you keep a low profile, you're quite safe here. On the other hand, some of Scrimgeour's hard-liners might not think twice about finishing you off should they happen – just by accident – to find you. Nobody would ask questions; they'd only straighten out a little legal error."
Draco struggled to comprehend the consequences. He was dead, legally dead. Not a ghost or a ghastly Inferius but – what?
"They just decreed I wasn't living any longer? Why?"
"They were keen to seize your family's property – the treasures at Gringotts and the mansions. Being rid of you made that a lot easier."
Draco shook his head in utter bemusement. He hadn't thought, not for a single moment since he'd learned his parents were dead, about his family's wealth. He'd completely failed to realise that he was the heir to several estates and huge piles of gold. Now, he was glad to have never dwelt on such thoughts.
The shock still left him speechless. A few scratches of Scrimgeour's quill had rendered him destitute as well as non-existent...
"I didn't expect you to take such news this stoically," Potter said, eyeing him curiously.
Draco let out a single, bitter laugh.
"I'm not Gryffindor. I don't challenge injustice on principle."
There was nothing for him to gain. Any attempt to stop the pillaging scoundrel of a Minister would lead to his own destruction. Besides, not the gold in all the vaults at Gringotts could bring his mother back... He wrenched his thoughts off the sad topic for fear that he went to pieces in the presence of Potter.
Potter continued to stare at him, and Draco forced his focus back on the conversation.
"So you are here to offer me a job as an act of charity?" he asked, trying not to feel humiliated. He had nothing left; he didn't even own the clothes he was wearing. He had nothing left than bare life, and even that he had to conceal from the authorities in order to keep it.
Potter shook his head. "This isn't about money. I've never bothered about money. When I was younger, I had none at all, and now, I can easily afford the occasional basket of provisions that Ron brings here. – No, the purpose of this book-revising is to honour Severus Snape."
There was a strange undertone in the last sentence.
"Why do you wish to honour him?"
"I have my reasons," Potter said, obviously not inclined to share these reasons.
"Well, I owe him," Draco said, hesitantly. "He helped save my life. He may be a murderer b-"
"Don't!" Potter burst out. "Don't call him murderer!"
"But..." Despite his determined efforts to forget, the jet of green light emanating from Snape's wand and hitting Dumbledore squarely in the chest was one of Draco's clearest memories. "...he killed Dumbledore."
"That's what people were supposed to believe."
"I saw it happen," Draco said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "I was there."
"I know. I was there, too."
"What?" Draco gasped, suddenly remembering the second broom.
"Dumbledore told me to put my Invisibility Cloak on. Then, he Stunned me – instead of Disarming you. I could do nothing, neither move nor scream. Just watch. First you, than the other Death Eaters, finally Snape."
Draco swallowed. Potter knew. He knew!
"Unfortunately, I missed the punch line," Potter continued. "Did you realise what really happened on that tower?"
"Punch line? Honestly, Potter!" Draco croaked, scandalised. All at once, he felt dangerously close to tears. "That wasn't a joke!"
"Well, in a manner of speaking, it was. A hoax, a ploy, whatever. And it was on our expense, yours and mine. There, we do have something in common."
He regarded Potter intently. The Gryffindor didn't look as if he was lying. Why would he be having him on, anyway? Their fights had never been petty taunts, but always unadulterated warfare.
"They used Legilimency that night! Dumbledore asked Snape to kill him. They'd agreed to taking such a step long before we ever stood on that tower."
"That's insane..." Draco muttered, but certain memories rose in his mind like bubbles in a seething potion: Dumbledore trusted me. He got what he deserved... We must agree to differ on that, Draco. It so happens that I trust Professor Snape... I don't think you will kill me, Draco...
"Yeah, maybe, but it was Dumbledore's grand plan," Potter carried on. "The deed made Snape Voldemort's favourite, the topmost Death Eater who hardly ever left the boss's side. Only this way, he had a reasonable chance to destroy the last Horcrux at precisely the right moment. He did so in the end, buying me with his prompt action an opportunity to strike."
"He's... dead?"
"He is. And I find no words to say how sorry I am. Most people aren't interested to hear them, anyway. Therefore, I thought the book might serve somehow to get him, eventually, the recognition he deserves."
Was this one of the fundamental answers? Snape had been, despite appearance, Dumbledore's man, and murdered his true master in order to deceive the other one?
Draco's mind was groaning under the overload of information. For fourteen long months, he had been left to his guessing. Now, he was showered with facts. Unlikely, disturbing, outrageous facts. He felt like drowning in them.
"May I have some time to think things over?" he asked.
"What's there to think over? I've told you the facts. Severus Snape wasn't the coward and traitor I believed him to be. You admitted that you owe him," Potter summarised. "You can repay a part of your debt by doing the revision. You'll draw the pictures and diagrams and the like. You'll brew the potions; I'll do the spells if necessary. I'll get you the equipment and ingredients. I'll also take care the book is printed and sold."
"Are you suggesting we should co-operate?"
Potter shrugged. "We can give it a try."
Draco took several deep breaths. Potter offered nothing less than a truce.
Why not... He had nothing to lose in accepting the outstretched hand, Draco pleaded with himself. He was yearning to do something. Something useful and wholesome. Something normal, something that would meet with appreciation.
Should he take the plunge and say yes?
He was confident that he would manage even the more complex potions. All he needed was time to figure out the subtle details. And time he had enough.
Would Snape consider this a way of making amends?
"How do you intent to honour Snape with the revised book? Dedicate it to him?"
"I haven't thought about dedicating it to someone, yet," Potter said. "In any case, Severus Snape will be the author."
"Isn't that Libatius Borage?"
"Well, this is a very special copy here. Have a look," Potter said, opened the book and pushed it across the table.
It was the recipe for the Draught of Living Death, and someone had scribbled all over the page, so that the margins were as black as the printed portions. Glancing in Potter's direction for permission, Draco picked the book up.
He took his time reading. He needed the break. If Potter grew impatient, so be it.
There was so much he had to mull over. Random thoughts popped up while he scanned the list of ingredients – Dumbledore's kind words for the terrified would-be assassin, memories of childhood toys that were now Ministry property, Snape's enigmatic conduct that had never given away the man's true loyalties... He couldn't concentrate on anything. He was too used to his long hours of contemplating to make decisions on the spot. Well, coming to that, he wasn't used to making decisions.
With an inward sigh, he perused the list of ingredients again. One item was crossed out. The word Sopophorous was hardly legible between the tiny, cramped handwriting. "Crush with flat side of silver dagger, releases juice better than cutting," the remark read. Hang on, these were altered instructions!
Now with genuine interest, Draco read on. "Add a clockwise stir after every seventh counter-clockwise stir." That was clever. It would cause the potion to turn the required shade of pale pink sooner.
"Who made those notes?" he asked, looking up.
"Snape. This was his book when he was in school."
"Snape's? How did you get it?"
"Well, Slughorn gave it to me because I had none at the beginning of the year."
It took Draco a moment to work this out. As he came to a conclusion, he very nearly laughed.
"You cheated, Potter?" he chuckled. "You cheated?"
"Well, that's a matter of perspective," Potter answered, not batting an eye. "I merely followed the instructions in my textbook."
The dry reply caused even more chuckles.
"Why do you think this so funny?" Potter demanded.
"Because this is marvellous. It's the first thing I hear from you today that's got nothing to do with war, or death, or vengeance. Just imagine such a life – cheating teachers, getting detention for petty crimes like turning the fur of Mrs Norris blue, courting girls instead of-" his voice failed him from one second to the next. Instead of fighting a war our fathers started, he finished the sentence in his mind.
Potter looked distinctly worried. As Draco saw the frown deepen, he hastened to return to their topic, " I... sorry... I got carried away. Do you want me to copy down the hand-written portions first? The original is too valuable to risk spilling potion all over it. It should be kept safe somewhere."
"Does this mean you will check over the book?" Potter asked, still nervous.
Draco hesitated. Too readily, he'd always consented to whatever was expected of him. Would he make just another mistake if he agreed to Potter's proposition?
"Excuse me a moment," he muttered. He half turned away and said loudly, "Dobby?"
Crack. The elf appeared a split second later, looking ready to throw himself between the fighting parties.
"Dobby, Harry Potter here," Draco said, using full names like elves preferred to do, "wants me to work for him. Do you think this is a good idea?"
"But this is a great idea!" the elf beamed. "I will be very happy if you get along well with Harry Potter, young Mr Malfoy."
"Thanks. I only wanted to hear that," Draco said, nodding to the little chap.
The elf gave the slightest of bows and, smiling quietly to himself, left.
Draco turned back to a rather confused looking Potter. "All right, then. I'll do the revision. Even if none of the other reasons will hold, I owe Dobby a favour."
While he spoke, Potter's expression became one of incredulity mingled with plain shock.
"Did you expect me to say no?" Draco asked.
"I don't know what I expected. Certainly not that you would ask Dobby for advice."
"What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing. Perhaps I didn't expect you to do something that wasn't wrong."
There Potter went again. The distrust ran so deep... The fears were, at least to a considerable extent, mutual, and Draco had to admit that he had no inkling how to bridge the gap.
"There is something else," Potter said. "Sit down."
Draco reached for his chair and sat down, watching with apprehension Potter doing the same at the other side of the table.
"Do you remember the incident in the bathroom?"
"I... I was about..." Draco said and fell silent. Where should he start? How to convey the twisted inner logic of his life to someone as unalike to him as Potter?
He stole a glance at Potter's stern face, seeing muscles twitch in the jaw. Potter did not seem to feel too comfortable, either. How would he? What had happened in that bathroom had been the culmination of six years of hatred and hostilities.
Draco felt his heart hammer in his chest. Perhaps this was the moment to do what he had never done before – giving voice to his angst.
"My father cheated on my mother. Not once or twice, but perpetually." Potter looked utterly bewildered and made as if to speak. Draco hurriedly raised his hands to silence him. He couldn't stand any interruption now. "He slept probably with every au pair girl that came to our house. When he got tired of one of them he sent her away and hired a new one. I was six, eight, ten years old and I didn't comprehend what was going on. I genuinely believed the girls were sacked because they neglected their duties in educating me. I strove hard, even back then. I didn't want to disappoint my father. Yet, the results of my best efforts always fell short of his expectations. Or so it seemed. Maybe saying my education wasn't coming along well enough was only his excuse for replacing the girls after one or two months. But I felt like I was a failure.
If anybody had told me... If I had spotted him kissing some such girl, if my mother had said something or, perhaps, Dobby...
My father was my role model, my idol; what he said was the essence of truth. It was true because he said it. Never, ever, a shadow of doubt crossed my mind.
Maybe, if I had known that he was by far less perfect than I believed, than I was led to believe, or than I made myself believe, then, perhaps, things might have gone differently.
The way it was, I walked down the path I had set out on in the beginning, and I never looked left nor right. Of course I wouldn't, since I had the right direction, whereas everybody who didn't share my father's opinions was either sadly mistaken or deliberately naughty. Don't look at me like that. I'm just telling you my truth now. This was what I thought of you: You had either to be really stupid or extremely arrogant. I never found another explanation for your behaviour. It didn't occur to me that I might be the one who was wrong. That's the cruel irony of being a fool – you never realise that you have a subscription to foolishness."
"Malfoy, I wanted-"
"No, please, hear me out. You can judge afterwards." Draco could sense the pleading tone in his voice. He didn't mind. He needed someone to listen to him. Nobody ever had. Worse, even if anybody had been willing to listen, he wouldn't have had the courage to talk.
"Okay, fine," Potter said, oddly hesitant. "You thought your way was the right one. Does this have to do with our fight in the bathroom?"
Draco slowly nodded. "Well, yes, my way led me straight into this room. Only once – and that was a fortnight before we met in said bathroom – I was tempted to stray from my path. Rather than to embrace he opportunity, I fought it. And when I saw myself losing the battle, I asked Madam Pomfrey for a potion that would help me to drive the peculiar ideas from my mind. I should add in her defence that she knew nothing about my doings. I lied to her as I lied to everybody – to Vince and Greg, to Snape and to the ghost girl that dwells in a u-bend. Myrtle was nice to me. She didn't know my name; she didn't know what the Mark on my arm meant. I lied to her, nonetheless.
I suppose you want a clearer answer than the one I can give. On that day in the bathroom, I was about to say Crucio. I cannot tell whether I meant it. It takes heartfelt hatred to bring it off.
I learned at a young age that hurting other people was an effective means to discharge frustration. And frustrated I was a lot. I failed much too often. The harder I tried, the less I achieved. With every day, I drifted farther away from my goal of becoming like my father, or, more exactly, like the image I had of him.
For years, teasing and taunting had been enough. But things got worse. Oh yes, I relished treading on your face the evening we arrived at Hogwarts. I daresay I relished it at least as much as your entourage enjoyed treading on Vince and Greg a year previously." He paused for a second, puzzled to see the shame he felt reflected on Potter's face. "But that day, I was beyond mere frustration. There was nothing but despair. Fear practically paralysed my thoughts. I don't know how these feelings might have affected the curse. I don't know what I would have done to you if you had not dodged it."
Potter's eyes had gone wide. He sat there, absolutely motionless, and stared at him.
Did he expect a more explicit apology?
Draco knew he felt sorry. He regretted every minute of his life that he'd spend hating everybody but the people who deserved hatred. But did he feel sorry for what he might have done to Potter or just for himself?
"I didn't know what I was doing to you, either," Potter said at length, breaking the creepy silence.
"Snape told me afterwards that you misspelled a hex," Draco said tentatively.
"He lied. Open the book where there is a corner folded down. Page one hundred and forty nine."
Draco complied. Page one hundred and forty nine was as much covered in black handwriting like any other one.
"There in the margin, you find the curse I used on you. It's captioned 'For Enemies'."
Draco found the incantation instantly.
"Sectumsempra?" he said. "I've never heard that one."
"Yes, you have. You heard me bellow it at you. I didn't misspell, and the curse did exactly what it was supposed to do. The point is that I didn't know what it was supposed to do. I – I admit that it was more than a bit foolish of me to use a spell of which I didn't know the effect."
How very typical of Potter – rushing into action without thinking. Then again, Draco reminded himself, he had tried to Crucio him. In some way, they got even.
His scars had healed so thoroughly he could hardly make them out although he knew where they ran. Scars you can see in a mirror...
What about the scars on his soul? Those who had caused them could not apologise anymore. Potter, however, did feel guilty as Draco could tell by the look on his face. The realisation shocked him more than anything else he'd learned today.
"I can't change what happened," Potter said awkwardly. "None of us can. We'll have to make do with the past we've got. But the future is ours to shape."
Future. Life. Draco dared to hope for the first time in fourteen months. He would like to live. He would like his life to be worth living.
"I always wanted to be my father's perfect son. I tried hard, and look, where it got me. I think it is time for a change. I should do something as unexpected of a Malfoy as co-operating with you."
"Fine," Potter said and got up. "See you next Friday."
Draco rose to his feet, too, following the rules of formal politeness that he'd been taught in his childhood. A bit of decorum would not worsen his situation. However, before he could think of an appropriate phrase to utter – strictly seen, Potter was the host and he the guest – Potter stopped halfway to the door and came back. He went to the window.
"How did you do that?" he demanded. "This park wasn't there before!"
"I did nothing," Draco said, carefully maintaining a two steps distance between him and Potter. "Dobby reversed a spell that had made the pane looking like frosted glass. The park isn't real, though. There is an enchantment placed upon the window."
"It's beautiful," Potter said softly.
"It is," Draco agreed. "Sometimes, there are even animals."
Several days ago, he had seen them wandering under the light of the full moon. Only in the choice of these animals the mysterious creator had gone slightly wrong. A stag and two dogs – the smaller of which had fairly looked like a wolf – would hardly roam together so peacefully. Draco would have preferred smaller creatures, anyway. Kneazles or-
Should he beg?
All things considered, there might be no other way.
"May I-" he broke off, cleared his throat, and started again, "May I ask you a favour?"
"Oh, indeed?" Potter snarled, taking his gaze from the sun-bathed park. "What else can I do for you?"
Draco bit his lip while he tried his best to ignore the sarcasm. Of course, there were plenty of Slytherin stereotypes that fitted for someone making requests in his situation: arrogance, egoism, maybe impudence.
"May I?"
"Spit it out," Potter retorted gruffly.
"I need a book," he said as composedly as possible. "Dobby Apparates to the Menhir every day to fetch one of Dumbledore's, but he keeps coming back with manuscripts about charming goats into giving more milk or with tomes full of ancient runes. I don't think it's his fault. I rather suspect there is an Anti-Theft Charm of the kind that is often used in libraries or book stores: If you try to smuggle out a book illegally, you'll inevitably end up with a wrong one, preferably with one nobody wants to buy or borrow. Well, be this as it may, I do need something about Animagus Transfiguration. No specific title, anything dealing with aspects of becoming or being an Animagus would be fine."
"A book about Animagus Transfiguration? What are you up to?"
"I can't take any deliberate action. I have no wand. But... there was this episode in our fourth year. Do you remember how that madman turned me into a ferret?" he waited for Potter to nod before he continued, "I keep having dreams about being a ferret. I'm afraid I will wake up one day in a bed that is ten times too large for me. And I have no idea how to change back without help-"
"Merlin's beard, Malfoy!" Potter exclaimed. "Don't you think we have enough difficulties already?"
"Look, Potter, this is just coming my way. I didn't ask for it."
Potter's expression softened ever so slightly.
"Yeah, right. I'll see what I can do. Hermione has recently acquired a number of useful old tomes..." He trailed off as if embarrassed by mentioning Granger or her books.
"Thanks..." Draco murmured.
An uncomfortable silence ensued as neither of them seemed to know what else to say.
"A ferret," Potter sighed at last. "A ferret... Tell Dobby to alert me if he ever encounters a ferret in the house."
"Okay."
Eyeing him up and down with a peculiar intensity, Potter added, "However, an Animagus form like this might come in handy in emergencies. There're lots of hidey-holes for little mammals."
"I'm no Animagus, yet. Nor is it sure that I will become one," Draco said, amazed at Potter's ability to see some positive facet even in the most bizarre problem.
Snapping into action, Potter snatched the book from the table and thrust it into Draco's hands.
"There. Make yourself useful by making a copy, page by page, word by word. And write the shopping list so that I have enough time to get everything. With the worst imaginable selection of bureaucrats in charge, there is no predicting what they outlaw next. Perhaps the purchase of boomslang skin for the reason of preventing runaway Death Eaters from using Polyjuice Potion. I wouldn't put it past them."
Draco, holding the precious book, only nodded.
"Well then, see you on Friday."
This time, Potter did leave.
Draco watched him exit, murmuring a hushed Good-bye.
He remained where he stood for a long time. Regarding the peaceful scene that pretended to exist outside the window, he waited for the turmoil in his mind to subside.
In the end, he found himself able to sum up the conversation in one sentence.
He had been given a second chance.

- - - - -

() I wrote this before learning from Deathly Hallows that house-elves could Apparate three people at one go. I have left it unchanged because I promised to keep to my original plans. These plans said that Harry and Draco had to reach an understanding, which wouldn't be necessary if Dobby could simply Apparate Draco back to the Menhir.

Author's note: Special thanks go to duj, my kind and patient beta-reader.