Author's Note: Trigger warning for mentions of alcohol use, death, sex, and panic attacks.

Here's another chapter! I just sat down this morning and couldn't stop writing. I haven't had this much fun writing in forever! It's so cathartic for me. All my anxieties seemed to melt away by the time I finished writing this chapter.

I'm going to keep going with the next chapter, so expect it shortly (if I manage to keep this up, that is!).

I think I might look for a beta reader by the time I hit 50k – reading back over all my mistakes and poor grammar is an agony in itself. Is that how it works? Gosh, I haven't written a fanfiction since I was a teenager.

Hope everyone's doing well today! Stay safe and healthy :)

Much love.


CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Jobe

There was only one other person at the funeral - a bleeding heart from a local charity that paid for the service and the plot. Jobe let the woman say her well-worn platitudes but she didn't feel the need to offer any in return. Her best friend was dead – no amount of sorry's or heaven-has-one-more-angel's would bring him back now.

Jobe always thought that heaven was a nice idea – but as she numbly plays some soulless song on her guitar outside Aldeford Station, she realises that heaven is a simple comfort. One that cannot soothe the trauma of losing one so loved.

She doesn't know where the past month went. It's a haze of walking, drinking, crying, and begging. Maybe there was a girl or two – but she only gets a faint impression of sweat and strawberry lip balm. There's scratches on her hips that she can't remember getting. She can only hope she had a good time while it lasted.

The song she's playing now is an old one. Her grandfather taught her this tune – a pretty American one from the prohibition days. Grandpa Lester used to tell her stories of bars disguised as a barber shop. "The chairs would flip," he said, "and up comes an entire bar stocked full of the finest wines and spirits!"

Of course, in hindsight, he was much too young to have been alive during that era, and as far as she knows, Grandpa Lester had always lived in Manchester. Born and bred, as they say.

The pain that she feels now is not dissimilar to the one she felt when Grandpa Lester passed away. At least Lester's funeral was packed with family and friends. Gideon had no-one. No-one but her that is, and a well-intentioned stranger called Maude.

All she knows is that there was one other person who should have been there and he wasn't. The only person who can tell her what really happened. Heart attack, they said. Heart attack? She heard different from the party goers that night.

Gideon had leapt in front of Tom, as if he were taking a bullet for him. But there were no bullet holes and he died instantly.

That was no heart attack.

Jobe strums the final chord with a vicious stroke. A white pain sears across the back of her hand as the bottom string snaps. "Fuck!" The musician flaps her sore hand in the air before bringing it to her mouth, sucking on the bruised area. "Fuck."

A string costs money. Money she doesn't have.

Fuck.

"There's no use being angry at him," a familiar voice gently reminds her. "It wasn't his fault."

Jobe spits and swings her guitar over her shoulder. She glares at an offended old bat who scurries past with an outraged mutter.

"You know it wasn't his fault, kid."

"Then whose fault was it?" Jobe snaps, turning a narrowed eye at the spectre that follows beside.

Gideon shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets, looking far brighter and younger than he has in years. "I don't know. Does it matter? I'm already dead, aren't I?"

"He should've been there," Jobe grumbles, stalking up the road. "He wouldn't have run if he wasn't guilty."

"People run for many reasons, kid," Gideon says, admiring the spring flowers scattered along the side street. "Did you run because you were guilty?"

The woman frowns and huffs. "I ran because there was nothing left for me. I wanted to move on. My parents wanted to live in the past. I didn't have time for that shit."

The older man gives her a pointed look. "A valid reason."

"Yeah, well, doesn't mean he's not an asshole for ditching me."

"He's definitely an asshole for that."

A wry smile curls her lips. She swings her guitar back around and picks out an idle tune. A trio of strangers walk past, arguing in good humour. A man and two women. Her eye lingers on the scarlet haired woman, marching stiffly down the road as if she were doing drills. Cute. But too uptight.

There's been an influx of tourists lately in the area. Strange folk too, some with eccentric fashion tastes. She reckons it's the spring bringing the tourists in, perhaps they have holiday houses in the country. Rich folk do that, don't they? Go to the country for a holiday?

"Vising the old coot again today?" Gideon asks, patting Jobe on the shoulder.

"Nothing better to do," Jobe shrugs. "She's got no-one else but that idiot son of hers. Now that Tom's up and left."

"You've a good heart, kid."

"Fuck off, Gideon."


The ex-Chosen One had fallen into a sullen silence for the past hour. He refuses to meet Draco's eyes now, even as he attempts to make 'small-talk' – a past time that the Slytherin loathes with a passion.

They have stopped to rest at a park in town at Draco's behest – Harry had slowed his pace to nothing more than a crawl, sweat continuing to bead the pale man's face with every step. The Death Eater is uncertain to what ails the man, but he suspects it may not be something physical.

"Lighten up, Potter. While it is a bit of a kill-joy running into those three morons, it is a rather fetching day – wouldn't you say? Enjoy your freedom while it lasts," he adds with a smirk, only half-serious.

Potter simply picks at the grass, face hidden by a curtain of ebony locks. Draco sighs and tries again.

"You act as if my generosity is a burden. Do you not spend all day, every day, attempting to attain such freedom?"

Harry finally stirs at that and he glances up at the blonde, brows lowered in confusion.

"Oh, do not play ignorant with me, Potter. I know you spend hours trying to surpass the estate wards. Do you not understand how they work? You do know you can simply walk out, do you not? Getting in without a Malfoy by your side may be more of a challenge, however."

"I know...that's not...I know how wards work," Harry huffs, though his irritation is watered down.

"Then what is it? While I know not being able to disapparate without me is rather inconvenient, that is not my doing - it is simply how the wards-"

"No...I mean, yes. I knew that." Harry frowns and glances away, shoulders rising. "...I'm not trying to escape. I just...the wards make me...nervous. Like, panicky. And I'm trying to...I dunno. Beat it or something." He flashes a glare at Malfoy. "None of your business anyway. You better stop spying on me, Malfoy, or I'll-"

"What? Walk?" Draco scoffs and leans back against the tree trunk. He opted to stand rather than sit in the dirt – something that Harry seemed quite at home with. "Explain to me. About this panic. Why does it stop you from surpassing the wards? Is it a curse?"

The raven blinks up at the Death Eater. "Huh? No, it's...like a mental thing. I get these panic attacks sometimes-"

"Panic attacks?" Draco stares blankly at Harry.

"It's an illness. Kinda. I feel like I can't breathe...and the world just...flips. Turns into something else. Something scary. Like I've gone down the rabbit hole."

"Rabbit hole?"

"You know, like Alice in-" Harry pauses as he realises who he's speaking to. "Right. It's a muggle thing."

"Ah." Malfoy frowns, both perplexed and irritated by the fact that Harry confuses him with such ease. "Well, whatever it is, you would do well to cease your little daily activity. If something were to happen to the wards, I cannot guarantee your safety."

"Fine. Whatever." Harry glumly returns to picking at the grass.

A citrus scent floats up to Draco's face, tickles his skin. He clicks his tongue and turns his attention elsewhere. There's an odd emptiness within him, as if he were climbing a rope ladder, only to be cut down before reaching the top rung. What is this feeling called?

Ah. That's right. Helplessness.

For the first time in a long while, Draco felt helpless, though he is uncertain as to why.


Harry stares blankly at the sign.

"How strange," Draco muses, peering up at the old building. "Do you suppose she's dead?"

Harry quickly glances at the taller man, face twisted in anxiety. Draco's stomach flips when he sees that wide eyed expression and he hastily adds, "It is a joke, Potter. Calm down."

Emeralds glisten for a moment before the raven turns his face towards the B&B again. The windows are dark and the doors are closed. The garden is unkempt and already overgrown. A chaos that is not calculated. A wildness that suggests neglect.

He glances at the sign again, eyes squinted in scrutiny.

FOR SALE

Call XXX-XXX for a viewing

"I need a phone," Harry says suddenly, turning to Malfoy. "I need to call that number."

Draco raises a brow. "And what exactly is a forn?"

"A phone," the raven corrects him, picking up his skirt in both hands. He starts down the road, trying to wrack his brain for any memories of a phone booth. "A device muggles use to...uh...communicate with each other, I suppose."

"Hm. Sounds dreadfully inconvenient," Draco drawls, following after the determined lady. "Make it quick, Potter. I do not wish to remain here any longer than necessary. And not because I am afraid," he adds quickly, pointedly.

"Sure, Malfoy." Harry spots a red booth up ahead, just on the corner of the intersection. He prompts the Death Eater to wait outside, before getting into the phone booth.

Draco sighs and leans against a low garden wall, tapping his cane against his side. Potter is speaking urgently into that odd black thing, shaped like a banana. He wonders absently how it works – before cutting his own thoughts short. It is muggle technology, therefore inferior by nature. There is no point ruminating on it any further.

He scans his surroundings, seeing nothing but quiet country cottages and thriving spring gardens. He expects aurors to rush him and Potter at any second, but there is a sense of peace in this moment. Something he vaguely hopes to indulge in when the war is over. For now, every inch of him is at alert, though his outward demeanor suggests otherwise.

The Malfoy heir thinks back on the night before, when he visited Ibeus Manor. His father was absent, having gone to deliver a message to a Death Eater stationed in Egypt. There was a sense of relief that washed over Draco as Reyansh told him this. A relief that was short-lived.

"He wishes to see you," Reyansh said, glittering eyes narrowed behind his silver mask.

Draco blinked at his partner, head tilted. "Who does?"

"Who do you think?" Reyansh said, irately. "He's in the ball room."

Dread doused his insides, but the blonde managed to proffer his partner a polite nod before gliding past him. The walk to the ball room – or rather, the Dark Lord's throne room – was long and agonising. Every step was inundated with anxiety and fear. Did he do something wrong? Was it the way he handled Potter? What did Lucius tell the Dark Lord? Was he going to die?

Calm yourself, Draco, he chided himself silently, pausing outside the ball room doors. They were wall length with intricate patterns of runes and ancient languages carved into the white gold. Lavish and imposing, as was the wizard just beyond.

He breathed in deeply and straightened his robes before pushing open the doors.

All he saw in the gloom was a tall, graceful figure seated in what appeared to be a throne. The vast dancing floor between him and his lord was polished black. A distinct lack of shoe scuff was hard to ignore. Ibeus must have been a lonely man.

Draco paused in the doorway, fidgeting nervously under his robes. A white hand reached out from the shadows and beckoned him with a clawed finger.

He bowed deeply and slowly approached, head bent so all he could see was his own reflection in the ebony floor, as smooth as a lake on a windless day.

When he reached the platform, he stopped and stood still, head still bowed.

There was an agonisingly long silence – but he knew that his lord was studying him. He felt the burden of his gaze, heavy and stifling.

"Draco..." The Dark Lord's voice was soft and wispy, a curling smoke in still air.

"Y-yes, my lord," Draco stammered, voice muffled by his mask.

"Since Lucius is...absent...you will give your report to me directly."

"Yes, my lord." Oh damn, oh fuck, oh shit! Draco gripped the side of his robes in both hands, bunching up the fabric in his tight grip.

"You have grown taller...filled out quite nicely...unlike your father..." A hint of amusement in the Dark Lord's faint voice, poison only injected at the mention of Lucius.

Draco pricked up his ears at that. Was his father in the Dark Lord's ill graces? What happened? "Th-thank you, my lord."

"Remove your mask."

The Malfoy heir obeyed his lord, straightening up and pulling off his silver mask. He kept his eyes on the ground all throughout, heart hammering almost painfully against his ribs.

"Look at me."

Draco reluctantly raised his gaze to the Dark Lord. With a sickening jolt, he realised the dark wizard was staring at him with an unbridled intensity. Visible at this distance, he was surprised to see his lord looking more man than snake. His features were refined and handsome, albeit with skin and eyes like frosted ice, and snake-like fangs that flashed in the dim light with every cold smile he gave his Death Eater.

"What a pretty one you turned out to be," the Dark Lord hummed, running a clawed finger across the side of his own jaw. "You look more like your mother than your father...what luck you have..."

"Thank you, my lord." Draco bowed his head, feeling nauseous under his lord's deep scrutiny. He felt more violated than anything. "I consider myself lucky as well."

The Dark Lord hummed a laugh, pleased by the Death Eater's response. "Did you hear that, Bhaya? Perhaps this one may prove worthy yet."

A low hiss, deafening in this echo chamber, seeped from behind the throne.

The Malfoy heir let out a panicked pant, not of his own volition. He kept rooted to the spot, however, not willing to show any weakness in front of his lord. He had heard rumours that the Dark Lord had replaced Nagini with a new great snake - only this one was supposed to be more vicious and cunning than the last.

"Your report then, Draco," the Dark Lord ordered, twitching a clawed finger in the air.

"Yes, my lord." Draco cleared his throat, nervously, before continuing. "Potter has recovered largely from his illness. I believe he is beginning to trust me – it will only be a matter of time before he is within your control, my lord."

"And the Order?"

"Still dealing with the fallout from our...gift...my lord. They have also embarked on a 'rescue' mission to recover Potter."

"Good. Keep them occupied. Make sure they do not get in the way of what is truly important."

Draco glanced up at that, his surprise evident. The Dark Lord bared his fangs. "In due time, Draco. Continue."

"Yes. Ah." He breathed in sharply before continuing. "There is one thing, my lord." A hesitation. "Potter has...expressed his ah...disapproval of my work. He said that as long as I kill muggles, he will not co-operate with me."

The Dark Lord raised a fine brow, giving Draco a most unimpressed look.

"My point is," Draco hastened, "he will always know when and where I kill muggles, as my orders come from you, my lord."

The dark wizard leaned back in his throne, pressing his fingertips into his lower lip. "Of course. I had a feeling he was watching me. Our bond is growing stronger by the day, which makes him a perfect weapon for the Order should they succeed in their mission." Emotionless eyes dropped down to Draco's greys and held them effortlessly. "Consider yourself excused from any further missions. Your focus will entirely be on Potter. Make yourself his lifeline. Make him wholly dependant on you, physically, emotionally, and mentally. Have him swear to you his entire being."

Draco blinked and stepped back, confusion writ across his face. "His entire being, my lord?"

"Do not play ignorant, child, I have little patience." In a flash, the Dark Lord's face seemed to turn reptilian, monstrous and distorted in the glim - a venomous snake about to strike.

"Apologies, my lord." Almost choking in fear, the Death Eater lowered his head in a submissive bow, insides shaking and limbs quaking under that predatory stare.

"Do whatever it takes to have him. Sell your soul if you have to. Potter will be mine."

The Dark Lord disappeared back into the gloom, pale hand dismissing Draco with a small wave.

Whatever it takes.

Draco looks back at Harry at present. The ebony is slamming the plastic banana back onto the communication box. The Death Eater tilts his head, calculating greys inspecting the irate lady. Perhaps he suits a dress better than pants-

"That FUCKING BASTARD!"

Malfoy jolts back to earth as Harry explodes out of the phone booth, all skirt and hair. The raven turns his simmering gaze to the Slytherin with a ferocity he had long gone without witnessing. For some reason, he finds himself pleased to see the shorter man in such a state.

"That fucking asshole kicked his own mother out of her own home and he's putting it up for sale, can you believe it? I mean, is that even legal? What the fuck? Who the fuck is he, anyway? Where was he the last five years? She never even mentioned a son to me-"

Draco holds up his hand to Potter's mouth, stopping him mid-rant. "Need I remind you that we are in disguise, dear wife?"

The raven jerks his head away and slaps Malfoy's hand aside with a grumble. His cheeks bloom pink from the unexpected touch. "Margaret's son...some dickhead called Robert or whatever...he said that she's gone mad. He's stuck her in the retirement village and took her assets away."

Emeralds rapidly turn dark as his anger turns inwards. He grabs Draco by the arm and squeezes painfully. Enraptured, the Death Eater lets him. "We have to help her, Malfoy. I'm not leaving this shithole town before making sure she is alright."

Whatever it takes.

"Fine," the Death Eater sighs. "I am uncertain of muggle proceedings regarding property ownership – but if you wish to release this Margaret from the retirement town (whatever that may be), then I suppose that is but a small diversion."

"Good. Try to keep up, Malfoy." Without another word, Harry races up the street, skirt held up in both hands, heels clicking furiously against the asphalt.