"You've finished, then?"

Severus turned to his godson, the soft light of the candles on the worktable shining in his black eyes, and inclined his head in a barely detectable nod. There was diffidence in Severus' countenance, perhaps due to the potion he had been working on for the better part of two days. With their argument fresh and still simmering with the threat of reemergence, Draco predicted that, though his godfather had successfully made the potion (a challenge that he knew Severus couldn't ignore), he would not let it go without trying to talk Draco out of what was planned. That meant they would be fighting, again, and he was loathe to do so simply because he wanted to get this done.

And Severus Snape was a difficult man at the best of times, but despite all of the aggravation involved in dealing with him, Draco loved him regardless. However, feelings aside, he was unprepared to back down, as Severus should know.

"A fair warning," he began as Draco moved closer to the table. "And don't roll your eyes at me. It's through my efforts that this ridiculous undertaking is even possible."

Draco leaned against an empty stool and gazed back at Severus dispassionately. "Say what you will," he said. "Though I do hope you aren't making a habit of reiteration."

The glare he got for that particular comment would have made him cry, were he five again and unused to being scolded. "These are a fool's ventures, both your plans to avenge your lover and your insistence on instigating a verbal thrashing from me. I ask you, one last time, to reconsider," Severus said, finishing off his statement with an air of rebuke.

He had the courtesy to think about it, his arms crossed and his posture tense. Severus ladled the cooled potion into vials, meticulously cataloging them before placing them in a small sectional case. Draco knew his godfather had already marked and filed his notes on the potion, preparing to send his writings off to various publications once the endeavor proved successful. It was part of the reason Draco had come to Severus in the first place (bar the obvious; that the man was the best in his class when it came to potions). His vanity alone would substantiate his involvement and assistance in Draco's plans. Though, admittedly, he hadn't expected such a contentious reaction from his godfather.

"You're logical, Severus," Draco began, weighing his words carefully. "I would even say you're the most logical person I know. But, in this, I think you're wrong, and I'll repeat myself, no matter how irritated it makes me: I don't want Harry Potter to seek his torturer out himself. You even admitted that it would be disastrous."

Severus snorted. "Disastrous is not quite the word I would use for it, Draco," he said, waving his arm in such a way that it made Draco think of Harry. Or perhaps, more specifically, Harry when he was being cruel. "I would say apocalyptic, if I knew you wouldn't accuse me of being mawkish."

Oh, and he would have, no matter how apt the word was. Severus and Draco had, nonetheless, agreed on that one particular conclusion during their shouting match. That, should he consider revenge, Harry - despite his lowness following the death of a loved one - would raise a part of himself best left alone. His tentative hold on reason and reticence would flee in the face of his torturer's death. What they speculated was that, once that part of Harry was uncapped, it could not be contained, and then their control of Harry (however little it was) would die along with his sanity.

If the entire world was not at stake, Draco and Severus might have let things play out how they would. If Draco was less attached to Harry (and this was one of Severus' arguments as well), then they wouldn't have been involved in this ludicrous mess in the first place. If wishes were fishes, Severus, Draco thought rather callously. The man would simply have to get used to their relationship, since they'd thrown down the gauntlet and decided to give it a go. Whatever it was, given Harry's skewed outlook on relations of any sort.

"It's certainly not my job to dispose of Potter's enemies," Draco told him civilly, "And that isn't what this is about. I'm preventing a catastrophe here."

"You're meddling. You're wanting to be useful, Draco," Severus snapped, finishing his ladling and corking the last vial with a loud sigh. "And, rather sentimentally, I might add - you're angry on behalf of Potter because he has suffered an injustice, of all things."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "So his wrongs condone a wrong done to him in return? What humane reasoning is this?" He stopped Severus before he could react to that particular comment. "The fact of the matter is, we have the ability to find this man and deal with him; not doing so is a shame and a disgrace."

"This isn't your fight, Draco," he bid once more.

Draco shook his head slightly. "I'm beginning to think it is," he said.

His godfather stared at him for a long while, still and expressionless as he often was when something surprised him. The watchful gaze did not waver for a long while, not until Severus' eyes flashed with unmasked disappointment and he said, "He'll never clear your name, Draco."

He'll never clear your name.

Licking his lips, Draco uncrossed his arms and stared back. "I know," he responded tightly. Then a small, amused smile flitted across his face. "I know. But if you see it for what it is, for what it means…then I can't be too cross with his decision."

Severus scoffed, grinding his teeth loudly. "I never took you for a fool, boy," the man cursed him. "You honestly believe this is Potter's way of showing affection for you? By trapping you in a life of exile, of evading the Ministry? By taking away your choices, and mine, to wage his war for freedom? Hypocrisy. And callousness. That is what he is capable of. Not affection."

Grinning a bit, Draco dipped his head. "Think what you like," he said. He cut his godfather off before he went into a rage. "But I'll clear my name myself, without his help. I'm beginning to see how this war will end, Severus, and, in the vision I most like, I am free. With my name restored and my dignity regained. And with it, I still have Potter. I want to have him for as long as I can stand it."

"What fantasies, Draco," Severus sneered.

Draco lifted a shoulder. "You should try and accept it," he said, snatching up one of the vials. "I'm not going to reconsider."

He examined the potion while his godfather stewed. The magical residue on the curse scars on Harry's body alone were enough to catch pieces of Damien Evanward and track him. In the catatonic state that he was in, it was no trial to sift the residue from Harry while he wasn't able to protest. Much like the removal of memories into a Pensieve, Draco had removed strings of the man's magical signature carefully with the very tip of his wand. Into the potion – the ingredients of which were close, if not equivalent, to the spell used to locate wizards by their signature – they had gone. That was where Severus' genius was needed, for though the premise had come from Draco, he hadn't the foggiest how to go about making it work.

"It will do," Severus told him, likely thinking Draco was about to question his expertise. As if he would dare. "I have only one more point to make," he said stiffly.

Draco dropped the vial into his pocket. "Go on," he prompted.

"You won't bring the man back here for the others to deal with. I know why. You cannot risk him exposing Potter or yourself, or, perhaps, me, if you'd considered it. Neither are the authorities an option. The boy's father is an unimaginable alternative, or so I gathered from your rather uncomplimentary tirade about the merits of Mr. Brooks and his ability to accomplish tasks with discretion. Therefore, given the lackluster choices at hand, I can only guess that you mean to kill him."

Draco was silent for a moment. "I do mean to kill him," he said. "Yes."

Severus stiffened. "And thus your soul is forfeited to Potter's cause," the man murmured, and then, in a muffled tone, added, "just as I thought it would be."

"Not his cause," Draco snapped for the first time during their discussion. "I'm doing this for myself. I'm doing this because he's been hurt and, against all odds, that makes me angry. It has very little to do with the war and his cause or his dreams. Don't make assumptions."

"Doubtlessly, this is misconstrued love," Severus bit out, close to exploding. "Your soul, Draco, is still at risk! Does that mean anything to you?"

Draco only felt the need to say one thing: "Dumbledore."

"Different! That's different, and you know it! You were coerced into killing Dumbledore. You're planning to murder this man. No, you're not killing him. It is premeditated; it is undoubtably murder. It is what Potter would do, and his soul is rotten, Draco, simply rotten."

He'd had enough. When Severus got this way, there was no talking to him. When the man knew he was wrong, he only continued his defensive tirade no matter how ridiculous it got. Draco had things to do and no time to persuade his stubborn godfather otherwise. With a turn of his heel, he headed towards the door, at the same time mutely thanking Severus for falling silent. He wasn't the kind of man to yell at a retreating back, luckily. Not like Draco's father, who was able to goad the most pacifistic men into a duel.

Before he swung the door open, he turned back to his godfather pensively. "You and I both know it isn't rotten," he said.

Severus' face had fallen back into his usual expression of apathy. "I envy it," Severus confessed quietly.

Draco looked at the door, held open by his hesitant hand, and then turned back to the man in the shadows of the workroom. "I do too," he said before taking his leave.

When he reached the grounds of the castle, he fitted the Invisibility Cloak closer around his shoulders and uncorked the vial. Swallowing its contents, he dropped it back into his pocket and waited for the potion to take effect. It didn't keep him waiting long, for the potion immediately sunk into his magic, shaking it like a dog would with a rabbit caught in its jaws, and threw him in the direction of Damien Evanward. Much like a Portkey, the magic deposited him messily in front of what looked to be an open field.

There was a large willow beside him, casting shadows on the ground. The barley growing in the meadow smelled of wet soil and the promise of a cold night. From the sounds surrounding him, he was close to the ocean; he could hear the echo of waves on the wind. A house was up ahead, just past a very old, decrepit looking fence, cut at the middle as if time had vanished a piece of it. A hound bayed as Draco journeyed forward, closer to the house.

A man emerged from the front door, looking extremely out of place. Draco knew that the man was a trespasser; it wasn't his house. The dog howling was not his dog. None of this belonged to him. Looking at the man, he speculated that he was a person who had very little to his name. And whatever he did have, Draco imagined, had been taken by force. A face could tell you anything, he knew, and this man's face was both endearing and disgusting.

"Damien Evanward?" he asked gently, the wind helpfully carrying his voice.

The man smiled. "I am," he said. "How can I help you?"

Draco thought about what to say. "How did you do it? Subdue someone like Potter, I mean. How was it done?" he questioned, not keenly, but perhaps curiously enough to appeal to Damien.

Amicably, Damien told the stranger about Harry. Through another's eyes, albeit biased, Draco could see something Severus had tried very hard to convey to him. The quintessence of revenge, standing before him in a field of barley, in a house that wasn't his, with his gaze bright as he gave his account of hurting the man who had hurt him. Evanward had spent half of his life consumed with revenge. Yet now, when he had suitably accomplished his plans, it seemed as though Damien Evanward had little else to do. There was an air of unaccountability about him, a soft projection of loss and indifference about his future. Would Draco feel the same after Damien was gone?

But Harry waited, however unresponsive, and that was something that separated Damien from Draco.

That and solemnity, which Draco had in spades and Damien severely lacked, given his amused demeanour as he mocked Harry's cries for mercy.

When he was finished, Draco gave him a pleasant smile, which was returned with enthusiasm. "I'll have to take a leaf out of your book," he said to Damien casually. "I'm afraid Potter rarely listens to me, if ever. And getting a confession of love out of him will be a bit like pulling teeth, I imagine. You'll have to wish me luck."

Damien frowned. "Who did you say you were again?" he queried nonchalantly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

The breeze picked up, carrying the scent of high tide, and the hound continued to cry.

Draco smiled at him, and Damien smiled back sincerely. "When they do this to house elves, it means they were loyal," he said.

Confusion swirled about the man's face, both awkward and suited to his features. Just before he opened his mouth to question the rather bizarre comment, Draco raised his wand and narrowed his eyes before taking a breath. "Sectumsempra," he murmured, his hand still and the spell strong and true.

The head fell to the ground like a stone, rolling to a stop on the meadow's grass and leaving a bloody trail behind it. Draco watched its course until it came to a halt, where there, at his feet, it remained. The hound was silent, and so was the wind.

"Too bad you're not a house elf," Draco said as he bent down to pick up the head by its hair. "I'd hang you in Grimmauld Place."

He thought of leaving, and he left, the head gone with him and the meadow left behind. When he arrived, he planned to deliver the head and not say anything more on the matter. He planned to shake Harry out of his melancholy, to nurse him back to health, so that, when the boy woke, there would be nothing to haunt him but memories.

Because those memories, like the villains who made them, were easy to kill if there was someone willing to help.

.o00o.

It was strange carrying a wand. Though he wasn't unaccustomed to it, as a tool or a weapon, it was never the first line of defense he would draw, certainly not when his pistol would wield the same desired effects while also adding a bit of flare. Harry had to admit that he was a fan of showy weapons, and perhaps this quirk of his was the reason he was able to carry around the Elder Wand without much fuss. It could have also been the rush of power that streamed through him at the slightest touch.

The wood was suited to him, intrinsically and joyfully (as much as a seemingly inanimate object could be, he supposed), since he had inadvertently captured it from Draco. His neglect, in the form of never using the wand and even forgetting about it, had made it cross with him. It was temperamental for close to an hour after Harry began practicing with it, but it had settled down for him eventually. Though its minor tantrum had Harry blowing apart his rooms and nearly taking off Snape's head, when the man had decided to visit him.

He walked with it now. It was thrumming beneath his coat like a cat, happy to be out and of use. The Ministry was oddly quiet, as if a suffering silence had descended after the wave of havoc the first few months of the war had caused became a norm. There was a tiredness in every man or woman Harry passed, and they did not greet him, or even look at him, because things were hard and there was little to no hope. Originally, Harry had thought to visit Scrimgeour to keep up appearances, as Draco had prompted him to. It was supposed to be an experiment to see how well Harry truly was. They resolved that if Harry could not handle a visit to the Ministry, then more time was needed in isolation. More time that they did not have.

With his objective in mind, he'd grabbed up the Elder Wand and, only grumbling a bit before, took a Portkey to London. The same desolate theme he saw in the Ministry had been in the city as well, as if warning Harry of the scenes to come. But he wasn't prepared for just how disheartened the world had become.

And it made him angry.

Bypassing the secretary outside of Scrimgeour's office, Harry marched into the room and slammed the door shut behind him. When Harry entered, Scrimgeour, who was seated at his desk, was holding his head in his hands with a lost sort of look on his face. His eyes immediately snapped up and his arms fell to the desk.

"P-Potter!" he said rather gruffly.

Harry glared at him, his face hard, and made towards the chair across from him. He saw Scrimgeour observing his leg quickly before staring at him in disgruntlement. Sitting, he made a show of crossing his legs with a narrow-eyed glower at the Minister.

"What happened to your—"

"Leave it," Harry hissed through clenched teeth.

Scrimgeour bristled. "I've an appointment with a dignitary at noon, Potter, you can't just—"

"Frankly, Minister, I am a goddamn dignitary. And one who's a right side more important than the wanker you're supposed to have tea with."

"Pardon?" the man said, near shaking with rage. "Look at this! Look at this!" he shouted, waving a desperate hand at the paperwork strewn about his desk. "I've got the destruction, death, and anguish of Wizarding Britain before me! All of this!" He flicked a paper up and it fell off the desk and to the floor. "What've you got? Signing autographs for your adoring lackeys? Posing for Witch Weekly as the bloody world falls to bloody pieces around us?"

Harry had no doubt the Minister would have said more, had he not stood and abruptly slammed his hands down onto the desk. Though a bit dramatic for Harry's taste, it certainly did the job. Scrimgeour gaped at him, rendered speechless by Harry's fury.

"My leg happened as a result of a tussle with a few Muggles while I was out trying to help your people," he snarled, his voice very low and very tight. "Imagine my surprise when I arrive at the vaunted Ministry of Magic, run by the great Rufus Scrimgeour, to find him flaccidly unmoving over the state of his people. Grousing about paperwork, of all things. Imagine my surprise, Minister, when I see ghosts walk through the halls of the Ministry, the heart of our side, misery in their eyes and helplessness in their stride."

He straightened up, taking his hands off of Scrimgeour's furniture as if it sullied him. "Now see mine," he said quietly, getting up and walking away. "I'm the only one here without a limp."

On his way towards the door, Scrimgeour, as predicted, called him back. "Potter! Come back here and sit," he commanded, trying in vain to get back a smidgeon of his poise.

Harry turned about and walked back, but he did not sit. "This is pathetic, I'll have you know. The world is in shambles, I'll give you that, but you being anything but King George in this is a disgrace."

Scrimgeour sighed and scratched at his head rather violently. "I suppose I have to invite your opinion now," he grumbled. "What would you have me do, Potter? They're winning, you know. We're ready to sod it. The only reason I don't mean to surrender is because I think they won't stop. They'll kill us all."

The helplessness in his stature made Harry nearly froth with indignation. "You're a fucking idiot," he said casually, despite his fury.

"And you're a buggering lout with a bad attitude."

Harry grinned. "Suppose I am," he agreed, inclining his head. He turned sober in the next moment. "The Wizarding World can't lose hope, Scrimgeour, or we'll have a problem. If there is an end to this war, then both worlds must be equal. Surely, you can see that. And it won't happen if we're broken."

"In my wildest fantasies, Potter, this war ending so perfectly would be wonderful. But I'm a realist, boy. I don't have time to contemplate idealism," he said harshly, sparse hair falling forward and onto his wrinkled forehead.

"Despite it all," Harry, with a heavy air of severity, told him, "they need to believe that all will be well eventually. They need to have a hope for the future because, without it, we've already lost. We're as good as dead. Not to mention, Minister, the dissension between blood that we have going on again. Did you know that Muggleborns are being ostracized once more? As if the Dark Lord hadn't died. As if the Ministry couldn't be damned to help them! You've civil war here, sir, and you'd best stop it before it gets worse!"

Scrimgeour sat up in his seat abruptly and slapped his hand down. "Damn you, I know this, Potter! You're not the only one to have brought it up!" he snapped.

"So then why have you done nothing?" Harry condemned.

"I've done plenty—!"

"Not enough!" he interrupted loudly, but then his tone mellowed quite a lot. "Unite them. What fight is there if we're divided? You haven't doomed us yet; there's still some hope. If you want me to make a public speech of some kind—"

"Oh, sod your public speech," Scrimgeour cursed Harry, turning away from him with a fierce scowl.

They were silent for awhile, and Harry waited patiently as the man mulled over Harry's certainly cutthroat words. Finally, without moving to look at Harry at all, Scrimgeour asked, very tiredly, "I've not doomed it yet?"

Harry stared at him. "Not yet," he affirmed, backing toward the door. "But you're running out of time."

He left the man in thoughtful silence, disgraced enough (hopefully) to be stronger from there on out. The halls of the Ministry echoed in their desertion, and outside, in the heart of London where the other world lived, there was only a whisper of life.

And Harry thought they were almost equals.

.o00o.

Alejandro frowned as his assistant announced a rather strange visitor. He rose when the man walked into the room, a hand outstretched already to shake his own. Courteously, they greeted each other, and Alejandro offered the man coffee and a light lunch. They were both missing a noon meal, after all, in meeting each other.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Rahul?" he asked curiously, straight to business, since he knew Rahul would appreciate it. Indeed, the man smiled at him, chuckling lightly.

"I'm here to speak about mutual acquaintances of ours, of course," he said. "A Mr. Henry Brooks and Frank McAllister."

To cover up his sudden anxiety, Alejandro smirked. "No Mr. for McAllister then? Are you at odds? Or is there no respect between you?" he mocked.

Rahul's lips barely twitched, and his gaze was harsh. "Frank McAllister has gone mad," he blurted, though not at all brutishly. It was delivered as a snake would venom, full of surprise and pain.

"I'd been lead to believe you were a supporter of his mad plan, Mr. Rahul," Alejandro immediately countered, pleasantly thanking the maid for bringing in their coffee. Rahul ignored her completely.

"I will admit that I was at first, sir," Rahul confessed in a tone of voice that said he wasn't confessing anything. "His straightforwardness appealed to me; he would use more of the weapons than Brooks allowed. He would hit harder and faster. Brooks also has no knowledge of money, and money is what drives all men to war."

Alejandro's neck twisted as he stared sideways at Rahul, closely, cautiously. "Henry works for something besides a world run by avarice and violence," he said quietly.

"Henry works for a utopia that can't exist," Rahul argued, lacing his fingers across his stomach. "Frank is a practical man, and twice as strategic. You cannot blame me for taking up with him, I'm afraid."

He considered Rahul for a moment. The man looked worn but healthy; there was evidence of many sleepless nights in his face, but besides that, there was nothing weighing the man down except for the issue he had presented Alejandro with. The fact that even Rahul thought Frank was mad meant something dangerous, because Arif Rahul was radical at best, and he was often fond of other militant men. Fond of them and money, really.

So, in accordance with what Alejandro knew about Rahul, he could understand that the reason for Rahul's displeasure in Frank mostly had to do with compensation. Perhaps their tactics had proved to be less than fruitful? Still, it was worrisome that Rahul's demeanor cried unease where Frank McAllister was concerned.

"I don't presume to blame you for anything, Mr. Rahul," Alejandro responded civilly. "Is this your purpose for coming here? To warn me of Frank McAllister's blossoming insanity?"

Rahul's eyes flashed. "It is, Mr. Guillermo," he said, leaning forward in his seat. "I'm here to warn you and to perhaps strike a deal. I know you are in confidence with Henry Brooks, whereas I am not. Convey to him that I am prepared to surrender to his judgment once more. I was mistaken to choose Frank over him, since the man has gone mad. In return, I offer my assistance with guarding the munitions factories here. We have plenty of men, and I know you are woefully short."

Alejandro's eyebrows rose. "I wasn't aware there were any factories here," he said casually, sliding a finger across the rim of his coffee cup.

Rahul grinned. "You and I both know it's a loud secret. Frank will be after them, Mr. Guillermo. He's running out of weapons."

They were silent for a time. Rahul sipped at his coffee, grimaced, and set it down again. Alejandro watched him carefully. "I will have to think about your generous offer, Mr. Rahul. It is surprising, to say the least," he finally said.

"By all means." Rahul inclined his head, smiling slowly. He rose from his seat. "I hope I haven't interrupted anything important. Will you keep me informed on any developments?"

Alejandro leaned back comfortably. "I'll consult Henry first, I think," he said.

"Then I'll send my men to you," Rahul said, nodding.

"That won't be necessary," Alejandro said, stopping Rahul as he made towards the door. His eyes were bright as he looked at the man in his study. "I think I'll simply call a favor from you some time, Mr. Rahul, if you don't mind?"

He obviously did mind, but refrained from saying anything but "Of course" before bowing out of the room. When he was gone, with the door shut soundly behind him, Alejandro simply couldn't help himself. He threw his head back and laughed long and hard.

.o00o.

Draco was reading something quite complicated and ridiculously affected, if his frown was anything to go by. Harry calmly deposited his coat on the sofa before them, glancing at the boy curiously. He grabbed a cigarette and lit it, satisfied with standing and smoking. Sensing the stare, Draco looked up at him with a sigh, narrowing his eyes on the cigarette. Harry took a very deep drag in response.

He wasn't sure why he was here. After the Ministry, Harry was planning to go visit Denny, who had returned to Tyler Manor, despite the damage. Usually, when he was running his errands (if that was an apt enough word), Harry very rarely stopped until they were done. It was part of the reason that first week he had spent with Damien hadn't really worried people. He was always gone when he was gone. And moving – he was forever moving. But he'd stopped here before he had actually thought about it. It was a strange, lost feeling, doing something so out of character for him, and it had him properly stumped. That meant he was spacing out in front of Draco, who, by now, had raised an eyebrow in impatience.

He snapped back to the present, and gave the boy his best smile.

"How was the Ministry?" Draco drawled, sounding very much like Snape and Lucius all at once. Harry couldn't help but snigger.

"Positively dreadful," he said shortly. "The Minister is not very much of a Minister, you know. I would have thought a hardened Auror like him could handle the war a bit better than he has been." The way Harry spoke of Scrimgeour would never have been misheard as amiable.

Draco snorted, bookmarked his place in his book, and set it down. "Are you surprised, then? You shouldn't be, I don't think. Didn't you plan for our side to founder? His lack of command should have made you happy, I presumed."

"No," Harry said curtly, stubbing out his smoke. "No, that isn't my plan at all."

The plan had changed, but it was too new for Harry to tell Draco about. He would, eventually, he knew. Was it wrong that he trusted Draco with the information? He looked at the boy. Maybe.

Maybe not.

"I don't think I want to know what you've got going on in that pretty head of yours," Draco told him, rising to his feet.

Harry smiled. "So you don't want to know?" he teased.

From underneath his lashes, Draco glared at him as he fixed the cushions he had disturbed on the sofa. "I'll know when I know, won't I?" Draco griped lowly.

Laughing, he slipped on his coat again and tapped his pocket to make sure the wand was still there. Draco, watching his movements, asked, "Are you off again?"

Something about the way he said it filled Harry with warmth. Immediately after the feeling had taken hold of him, he flushed with mortification. What was he, five? And of course Draco noticed, he complained with a mental sigh. "I'm going to see Denny," he revealed, before pausing. "I just stopped by…to see—" he cleared his throat. "Do you wanna go?"

Draco smirked at him.

"Piss off," Harry said, flipping him the bird.

Regardless of his rather inelegant request, Draco went with him. The Portkey deposited them beside the Orchard, which had been turned over in the hopes of re-growth. Harry pointedly looked away from it as he moved towards the house. Next to him, Draco walked in time with his steps. In time with the limp that Harry had been trying to mind all day. A blush rose in Harry's cheeks, and he knew Draco had noticed when he reached out to hold onto Harry's wrist.

It felt a bit like a manacle, Draco's hand. Though it wasn't controlling, it didn't capture, and Harry was thankful for it. His touch burned with an understanding that was too impassive to hurt him, to embarrass him, and Harry briefly closed his eyes to savor the pleasure running through him. When they made it to the porch and Denny threw open the door, Draco's hand did not leave him.

It made him grin at Denny rather spectacularly. "'Lo, you old bastard," he greeted, shoving past Denny to get inside.

"Don't—ah, bollocks," Denny cursed him. "You've tracked mud all over the floor! You as well, Malfoy. Jesus. Mary'll have my head."

Draco looked particularly unconcerned about the mess he had made, which made Denny's exasperation turn into amusement. Harry shrugged at the mess as he hung up his coat, making to say something, but then Denny's words finally made sense in his mind.

"Mary?" he asked, frozen in shock.

Denny licked his lips and ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. "Hen—" he began but was quickly cut off.

"Does she know I'm here? We should leave." He turned to Draco and snatched his coat back. "We should go."

"Now wait just a moment," Denny hollered, stopping Harry from shooting out the door. "John's here, and he—"

"He's here?" Harry croaked.

"Potter, you're embarrassing me," Draco said, closing the open front door with strict finality.

"He wants to speak with you, Hen," Denny continued on, as if they hadn't interrupted him. "He heard about what happened with Evanward, and Cassie is here, so John's reckoning you can help them out a bit, what with her being a Wizard—"

"A Witch," Draco corrected him superciliously.

Denny glared at him. "Yeah, that," he said, turning back to his son. "He wants to see you, Hen. Mary can't…Well, you know she can't. Not right now. She's still trying to get past it. But John's been thinking about what happened…and well, I'll just have him talk with you, eh?"

"What a round-about way of saying something so simple," Draco slagged Denny, shaking his head with a scowl. "I see where your son gets his consummate wittering from."

Harry punched him rather hard on the arm. "Check yourself before you wreck yourself," he warned without heat.

Denny punched Harry. "No violence," he said. Not a moment later, Denny, who was reduced to fits of laughter at his own joke, quickly strode into the parlor as if to flee the hilarity he'd knowingly caused. Even Draco sniggered, though quietly.

They followed Denny's guffaws to the next room, where they sat as if guests on the, to Harry, familiar couch. Denny gave them an odd look before pointing to the alcohol and marching upstairs, likely to fetch John. Harry poured them both a thimble of scotch.

"What do I do with this, then?" Harry whispered to his companion.

Draco gazed at the drink skeptically before sipping at it. Harry threw his back and quickly refilled the glass. "You listen to what he has to say," Draco responded calmly. "You've got your friend back, it looks like. Don't muck it up."

"I don't mean to muck anything up," he retorted defensively. "Wanker."

"Useless invalid."

Harry could have kissed him for it. Making light of it was exactly what he didn't know he wanted. He could have kissed Draco for knowing how to handle it before he did. So Harry did kiss him, and, while it didn't seem to surprise Draco, it amused him. He smirked against Harry's lips.

"All right, all right! Separate!" Denny shouted at them as he came back into the room. Harry did so, but not before a small breathy laugh escaped him. "Jesus, Hen, keep it in the bedroom. Have some decorum!"

"That's rich, Brooks," John said, suddenly there and watching them. "I think your idea of decorum is raping animals."

Draco coughed out a laugh.

John spared the blond a smile before turning to Harry, who was staring at him. "Hey, Sparky," he said.

"Hey," Harry greeted him in return. "I'm sorry."

The smile on his face turned soft and painful, but John dipped his head anyway. "I know," he acknowledged. "So am I."

"You beat the living shit out of me."

"You deserved it."

"I know."

Harry nodded a bit and looked away from John. They shared a very awkward, very small silence. Denny accidentally dropped the decanter of scotch to the floor and yelled, "Buggering fuck!"

And they were okay.

"So," John said when the mess had been handled. Sitting down on a chair, he smiled at Harry. "I think it's time for some good old-fashioned scheming."

"We always scheme," Denny said, putting his boots up on the table.

"I'm an excellent schemer." Draco smirked at them. "As Potter can attest."

"I can attest." Harry grinned. "What are we shooting for?"

John's smile turned dangerous, and his eyes flashed with glee. "Frank McAllister."

.o00o.

Harry-

Please come quick. I don't know where you've gone, but mum's gotten hurt. She was in Diagon, and there was a scuffle of some kind. We're at St. Mungo's. I don't know what to do. Ron needs you. Please.

-Ginny

.o00o.

Ginny-

I know. I felt it. I'm coming. Tell Ron I'll be there.

She'll be okay. She has to be.

-Harry