Disclaimer: I own nothing.


CHAPTER TEN

Two and a half years earlier, Hermione hesitantly pushed open the door to Harry's room, left slightly ajar and admitting just a faint glow of light into the hallway. Harry sat on his bed, cross-legged, so deeply enthralled in his textbook that he barely glanced up as she entered.

"Harry," Hermione sighed. "You told me you were sleeping better." Frowning gently, Hermione took a seat on the foot of his bed.

Harry glanced up, then shrugged. "Not tonight." He seemed to consider returning to his textbook, but after a few seconds, sighed and looked back to Hermione. "You know what the date is tomorrow, don't you?"

Hermione tucked her hair behind her ears, nodding. "Of course I do, Harry. Is that what's bothering you?"

"It's not…" Harry trailed off and Hermione could see his eyes wandering. "It's just weird, you know? It's September first, and we're not going back to Hogwarts." He blinked, refocusing on Hermione. "I thought after Voldemort was dead, everything would go back to normal, is all…"

"Harry…" Hermione bit her lip. Harry looked awful – the trials, funerals, award ceremonies, reporters – they were all taking their toll on him in a way that even the last seven years hadn't. And she knew that wasn't all.

After the battle at Hogwarts, Harry had quietly pulled Ron and her aside, telling them with as few words as possible what had transpired in the Forbidden Forest. He didn't leave anything out; in fact, he was extremely straight-forward, but his story nagged at Hermione for weeks. She'd even asked him to repeat it, once things had calmed down a bit, and still something continued to bother her. Until finally, another afternoon of sitting through endless Ministry hearings and trials, Hermione realized why it all sounded so wrong. This was Harry, Harry who couldn't keep his emotions in check for the life of him, and everything about his story sounded as if it were from a textbook. There was no emotion, no personal connection. Harry told the tale of his death as dispassionately as if he were speaking of a man who'd died hundreds of years ago.

"It's not like we can't finish school," Hermione offered, although she knew that wasn't the main reason for Harry's distress. "And since we're doing our courses from home, there will be much more time to study! No mandatory breaks between classes, closed library hours…"She smiled, quite energized by the thought.

Harry raised his eyebrows, smiling as well. "Hermione, I think you may be the first person ever to literally study themselves to death."

Hermione snorted. "Well, if I want to get into the Observer training program, I have to finish by winter term. That's the latest they'll take new admissions."

"What exactly is an observer again?" Harry asked, a smile still lingering about his lips.

"Honestly, Harry." Hermione made a show of rolling her eyes, the relief at seeing Harry smiling and talking vastly outweighing any indignation of needing to explain her career choice yet again. "It's a bit like a Muggle social worker. Except, obviously, there are many more complications involved, since we're looking after witches and wizards."

Harry nodded. "I knew that…"

Hermione licked her lips. "And what about you, Harry? Have you figured out what you want to do yet?"

Harry gave her a look. "You already know what I want to do, Hermione."

"Yes, I know," Hermione said tightly. "Be an Auror… Oh Harry, it can be so dangerous! I understood why you wanted to do it before, of course, but now… I mean, haven't you already done enough?"

"If I can survive the Killing Curse two times, I think I can survive being an Auror," Harry replied in a flat voice, his gaze wandering again.

Hermione flinched and looked down at her lap. "Of course you can, Harry." She raised her eyes, watching him imploringly. "I just don't understand why you think you have to."

The silence in the room seemed to thicken with every second, becoming almost palpable when Harry failed to reply for several moments. When he finally met Hermione's gaze, she was shocked by the raw, implicit emotions she saw lingering in his eyes.

"Saving other people is the only thing I've ever known, Hermione. What else would you have me do?"


Draco drifted slowly toward consciousness. His whole body felt warm and fuzzy, somewhat akin to the sensation of being drunk, he realized, rolling lazily to his side. Whatever Harry had given him the night before, it had sure as hell worked.

A soft snore from only a few feet away prompted Draco to jerk wildly in surprise, snapping open his eyes and raising his arms defensively at the same time. Only once the initial rush of adrenalin had faded did he realize what exactly he was seeing.

Harry sat drooped in a half-contorted and truly uncomfortable looking position in the bedside chair, head lolling to the side, mouth half-open. Draco thought he could see a bit of drool glistening on the side of his mouth.

"Potter!" he said loudly.

"Wha-!" Harry yelped and promptly tumbled out of the chair, landing in a less than graceful heap on the floor. He shook his head slowly before looking up at Draco with a thoroughly irritated expression, blinking owlishly.

Draco smirked. "Morning."

Harry scowled and rubbed the side of his eye. "What the hell was that for?"

"You were in a strange position," Draco replied innocently, sitting up but not forsaking the warmth of his blankets quite yet. "I didn't want you to get a stiff neck."

"Right." Harry shook his head again.

Draco crossed his arms loosely. "Which leads us to the question of why you were sleeping in here in the first place…"

Harry's face reddened slightly. "I came back to keep an eye on you," he muttered. "Falling asleep wasn't really the plan."

"Harry Potter, watching over me while I sleep – how things have changed," Draco said. When Harry didn't immediately rebuke him, he started to feel a bit awkward. "Won't Weasley have something to say about you spending the night in the same room as a Death Eater?" Draco laughed self-depreciatingly. "Apparently I have plans to murder you as soon as possible, after all."

Harry gave him a look. "How's your head?"

Draco shrugged and glanced away. "Fantastic. How else would it be? Oh, wait, could it possibly feel like I was drugged and interrogated by an Auror last night?"

"And speaking of Ron," Harry continued, ignoring him, "he's gone for a few days. I'm hoping you and I can figure a good deal out before he's back."

"Sure thing," Draco muttered. He glanced back at Harry, annoyed to find him still watching him with the same odd expression. "What?" he snapped.

Harry seemed to consider him a moment before answering. "Are you sure there's nothing that happened in Azkaban that might be related to all of this?" he asked slowly. "Things that shouldn't have been going on?"

Draco's blood froze in his veins, and forcing himself to keep a steady gaze on Harry became almost physically painful. "I don't know what you're talking about," he replied flatly. "And obviously, if I did, I couldn't tell you anyway. Remember that nasty little memory-charm we've been working on lately?"

"That's not what I'm talking about." Harry frowned. Getting to his knees, he reached for Draco's wrist. Draco honestly didn't think he could move at the moment, so he didn't bother trying, not even as Harry gently turned his left wrist upwards, revealing the ugly tattoo marking his skin.

"These scars," Harry said softly. "Voldemort isn't responsible for these. Your Mark was examined during your trial, I would've remembered." He paused, taking a slow breath. "Did you do that to yourself?"

Draco gave a shaky half-laugh. "Are you asking if I tried to kill myself, Potter?" He swallowed. "I know I've failed at everything else I've ever tried, but even I could figure out how to off myself if I wanted."

Harry continued to frown, not letting go of his wrist. "Then someone else did it. Who?"

"Why the fuck does it matter?" he tried to jerk his arm free, but Harry only tightened his grip. Draco glared at him. "I promise it's not a special magic scar like yours, Potter. No half-dead Dark Lord is going to come jumping out of it, so you can stop worrying."

"You were in a Ministry controlled prison," Harry went on. "A prison with rules and regulations about how its occupants are to be treated. Most of the witches and wizards working there are former Ministry workers, who know those rules and regulations."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the rundown of Ministry procedure, Potter. I'm truly amazed you didn't last longer there."

"You just told me you didn't cause these scars yourself, Malfoy. So that means someone who works in Azkaban came into your cell –"

"Leave it, Potter…" Draco ground his teeth.

"– sliced up your arm, probably left you bleeding for awhile, because those were not healed magically –"

Draco clenched his free fist.

"– and judging by the number of scars, I imagine this happened what, six or seven times?" Harry stared at him with a strange expression. "Why wouldn't you ever say anything? People can't just do those kinds of things to other people, Malfoy. If you had reported this –"

"Oh, fuck off!" Draco finally managed to yank his arm free. He slid off the bed quickly and stepped out of Harry's reach. Harry's bewildered expression only made him angrier. "What kind of utopian world do you live in, Potter? People don't 'do those kinds of things to other people' – are you serious? Well, that must be a recent development, because the world I grew up in was exactly like that. People do whatever the fuck they want – sometimes they get punished for it, most of the time they don't. For Merlin's sake, Potter, think about the man I grew up with! Dear old Dad was a shining example of a role-model, after all."

Harry looked at him steadily. "I'm well aware the world's not fair," he said slowly. "But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try to do the right thing whenever we have the chance."

Draco stared, heart pounding hard.

"I'm sorry," Harry continued, standing quickly and heading to the door. "I promised I wouldn't badger you about Azkaban. But… if it means getting any closer to figuring out the memory charm, I will." He pulled open the door. "I'll start breakfast. The potion is supposed to be taken with food anyway, so you should probably come down pretty soon."

Draco sat down slowly on his bed. A strange feeling was creeping through him, one he couldn't quite name, accompanied by a gradual slowing of his pulse. Why did Harry keep doing that? Acting like he cared… like Draco's problems were somehow worth worrying about… Draco hated it.

Worse things happened to people every day. Draco didn't see himself as anything more than a statistic, an example of what bad circumstances, and bad decisions, could do to a person. And it's not like he hadn't brought the majority of it on himself anyway. Draco sighed, dropping his head into his hands. He'd like nothing more than to forget the last three or four years had ever happened. In some ways, his mother not remembering anything had been alright… because that meant Draco didn't have to either.

But Harry, who kept asking questions, pushing, and most of all, having the nerve to sound affronted by things he had absolutely no business knowing, let alone mentioning. Draco pulled his head up and stared at his wrist. The scars were ugly, but the tattoo underneath was uglier. Why couldn't Harry understand that Draco had chosen it, damnit? No one had forced him, held him down, threatened him. Anything that had happened afterwards, well, in many ways he had chosen that as well. Harry had absolutely no right to feel any different.

Downstairs, the smell of salty bacon and coffee immediately assaulted Draco's nostrils as he stepped into the kitchen. He wrinkled his nose slightly, slipping into a chair. He still wasn't quite used to heavily seasoned food again, but he'd be damned before complaining about something else to Harry – it's not like he didn't seem pitiful enough already.

"So I was thinking we could practice magic later," Harry said casually, turning around from the stove.

Draco scowled. "What the hell are you on about, Potter?"

Harry shrugged, turning back around. "Well, obviously I don't know that much about it, but if your magic is weak from not being used, I figure the only way to strengthen it, is to use it. Right?"

Draco continued to scowl, although it was borne more of confusion than annoyance. "Brilliant, Potter. I never knew you had it in you."

He watched silently as Harry set food on the table and poured them two steaming cups of coffee. And then, suddenly, reached across the table and set a wand in front of him.

"Here," he said, watching Draco. "You can practice with this."

"Is this…" Draco frowned, noticing Harry's own wand sticking out of his pocket. "Whose wand is this?" He picked it up delicately. Even if it wasn't his own, simply holding a real wand in his fingers, for the first time in years, was enough to raise gooseflesh on his arms.

"A friend's," Harry answered cagily, forking a huge mouthful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.

Draco wasn't buying it. "Then why doesn't this 'friend' have his or her wand?"

"None of your business," Harry said shortly.

Draco snorted. "You can interrogate me whenever the urge strikes, but if the great Harry Potter has a secret, Merlin forbid someone ask him a question about it…"

"Do you want the wand or not, Malfoy?" Harry snapped.

Draco shoved a piece of bacon into his mouth with a grimace.

"Satisfied?"

The side of Harry's mouth quirked into a small smile. "We'll start after breakfast."


Harry rolled his eyes for what felt like the millionth time in the past few hours. No wonder Snape had been such a bitter, mean teacher – imagine teaching an entire house full of people who acted like this.

"Malfoy," he ground out, forcing his voice to remain calm, "get a bloody grip. No one said this was going to be a fast process."

Draco glared at him. "I can't even manage a fucking Protego, Potter." He angrily shoved his hair out of his face. "That's beyond pathetic."

"It's not pathetic," Harry sighed. He was beginning to feel oddly repetitive. "It takes practice, and like you said, you haven't exactly been doing much of that lately."

"I can, however, perform a killer summoning spell when it's time for afternoon tea," Draco muttered, scowling at the floor. "Maybe it's this stupid wand."

Harry clenched his fists. "It's not the wand, Malfoy. Don't –" He sighed again. That was definitely not a subject that needed broaching. "Never mind. Maybe it's too soon for Protego."

Draco gave him a strange look, without quite losing his scowl. "You're awfully touchy about this wand, Potter. Wait, this didn't belong to one of your dearly departed parents, did it? Because that would just be awkward… you know, considering I used to work for the man who killed them."

"Fuck off," Harry said tiredly. "And quit trying to start shit. We have work to do."

"Since when did you learn to control your temper?" Draco smirked as he pointed his wand at a nearby chair and successfully levitated it. "If you're in an anger management program or something, you should probably tell me."

Harry was, actually, rather amazed at how Draco's snide comments didn't sting like they used to. Didn't mean they weren't still annoying as ever…

"Seriously, Malfoy. Maybe we're approaching this all wrong. Defensive spells weren't really your forte back in school, were they? What…" Harry trailed off, belatedly realizing the answer to his own unspoken question.

The chair landed back on the ground with slightly more force than necessary. Draco flicked his wand and began unsteadily lifting an entire bookcase into the air. "You can say it, Potter," he said flatly. "I was shite at defensive spells. Well, that's not really true. I just never had much practice with them." The bookcase set back on the ground "Offensive, on the other hand…" He flicked his wand and the bookcase burst into flames. "Those I could do."

Harry stared at Draco, whose eyes clearly reflected the flickering columns of fire. "Aguamenti," Harry intoned softly.

Draco jerked his head toward Harry, staring hard at him. "So what do you think; should I start with Diffindo? Maybe move onto Crucio in a couple days?"

Harry shook his head as he finished extinguishing the fire. "Just because you didn't use defensive magic before, doesn't mean you can't learn it now."

"Bloody fantastic," Draco muttered, adding his own Aguamenti spell to the smoking remains of the bookcase. "I always did dream of becoming part of that little fifth-year circle jerk you had going."

A sudden rush of blood made Harry's face feel as hot as the flames they'd just put out. Just what the hell was that all about?

"It wasn't…" Harry's face grew even hotter. "Nothing like that…" Oh, god.

Draco laughed. "What the hell, Potter? Guilty conscience much? Although I always did imagine you and the Weasel…" He made a sour face. "Never mind. There is nothing about that sentence I would ever care to imagine."

Harry couldn't help but smile, despite his fumbling. "Trust me. Ron is like my brother. I could never do that..." Harry groaned. "I should really just stop talking now. Permanently."

"No protest here," Draco added helpfully. Harry wasn't sure if he was imagining it, but Draco's voice sounded a bit off, all of a sudden.

"Okay, back to practicing," Harry said sternly. He felt almost relieved as the familiar expression of an annoyed scowl settled back on Draco's face.

"How about Engorgio?" Draco suggested with a smirk.

Harry rolled his eyes.


"Fuck…" Draco grimaced and turned around the moment he heard Ron's obnoxious voice behind him a few days later.

"Nice to see you too, Malfoy," Ron said, a scowl equal to Draco's marring his features. Not that his features needed much help looking any worse.

Draco sneered. "Forgive my lack of cordial attitude, Auror Weasel – I mean Weasley. But I've been doing just fine without your gracious presence."

Ron snorted. "I bet. Been digging your claws into my friend even further, have you?" He crossed his arms. "Don't think your little performance the other night has me fooled. I know what you are, Malfoy."

Draco seriously doubted that. Considering he himself, didn't know what he was nowadays, the probability of Ron Weasley knowing was far from likely.

"Oh, you know what I am?" Draco put a hand over his heart and rolled his eyes dramatically. "My poor Death Eating heart can't take all this tension, Weasley. Do tell."

"Cut the crap, you nasty little git." Ron took a threatening step forward. "Or should we have another tell-all session like the other night?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Do your best, Weasley. Just don't cry when you get hurt." He casually pulled out his wand from his back pocket, bringing it into Ron's line of site for the first time. Ron's eyes widened considerably.

"Where the fuck did you get a wand?" he said angrily, though not making a move to palm his own.

"Potter gave it to me," Draco answered, smirking slightly. "Or didn't he run that one by you?"

Ron's face instantly turned the color of his hair and, without another word, he whirled around and left the room, no doubt on his way to confront Harry about his severe lack of judgment. Draco rolled his eyes and re-pocketed his wand. He didn't exactly blame Ron for his attitude – how could anyone who came from that household turn out quite right? not to mention how thoroughly awful Draco had been to him back at Hogwarts – but Draco couldn't afford to let him in his way either. Not if he wanted to find his mother and stay out of Azkaban. It was becoming more and more obvious Harry was the way to achieving both of those, so the sooner Harry became fed up with Ron and sent him on his way, the better.

Once Ron's stomping footsteps reached the top of the stairs, Draco made his way toward the kitchen, hungrier than usual after practicing spells all afternoon. It still felt frustratingly slow, but Harry continuously urged him on and assured him. Draco, tired of feeling like an invalid, capable of even less than the average first year, continued.

The foyer felt especially drafty as Draco stepped into it. He glanced at the door, wondering if stupid Ron had forgotten to close it all the way, but his attention was instead drawn to a pile of mail scattered across the floor, particularly a dark green envelope that looked nearly Slytherin in coloring. Draco frowned. He carefully picked up the letter.

Harry J. Potter, it read. No address, no return address, no seal, no signifying marks of any type. A prime candidate for being from the strange wizard who'd attacked Harry the other day.

A door slammed upstairs and the faint sound of Ron's angry voice carried through the house. A moment later, someone began coming down the stairs. Draco rolled his eyes again and quickly ducked into the kitchen, having no intention of getting caught in Ron's ginger path of fiery rage.

He grabbed a knife and sat down. Harry probably wouldn't appreciate Draco opening his mail, but considering he was already a wanted fugitive, what difference could it make? The letter slid out easily, followed by an odd looking ring that landed on the table. Draco frowned. He hadn't noticed anything like that being in the envelope.

"Thanks for getting Ron going, Malfoy," Harry said, suddenly barging through the door. "Now he's – Draco, don't!"

But Draco's fingers had already closed around the ring. Before he could even process Harry's warning, a familiar sensation hooked into Draco and tore him forcibly from 12 Grimmauld Place.


TBC