Ch. 1 Passive Aggressive

Monday, 21 August 2000

Draco Malfoy stands at the top floor of his apartment building, overlooking the street below. He holds a cigarette loosely between his lips. There's a heavy mist hanging low over the rooftop garden. It hangs over the tulips and the calla lilies; the camellias are nearly invisible in the light fog. He inhales deeply, the nervousness he's been feeling all morning slowly ebbing away.

But not quite.

The unpleasant knot that has been plaguing him all morning hasn't ebbed. He shouldn't be that nervous. It's only an interview after all. How difficult could it possibly be? Malfoy's are notorious in their self-assurance. He shouldn't have a problem. Draco scoffs at himself. Lately he's come to think that maybe his family name won't get him the respect it once would. He'd been delusional to think otherwise. This is his first time since the war that he's coming out of the shadows, first time trying to make a life for himself. But he knows how the magical community is going to react to him. He knows they will never forget about his father. How his father is conveniently imprisoned in Azkaban for his previous ties to the Dark Lord. They'll naturally assume (and have assumed) that Draco is in league with Him. Draco can't blame them. Their assumptions aren't that far off from the truth.

The attention that the Malfoy family received had been hostile enough during the first months after the war. The only reason Draco and his mother had escaped any convictions is because the wizarding world's own Golden Boy stepped in to deny all accusations against them.

The reasoning behind his defense?

Simply put, "They saved my life."

How Draco can possibly fit into that statement, when all he'd ever done was try to make the boy's life miserable, he can only guess. It'd left him utterly confused. He'd replayed the memory of the trial for weeks, searching for any clues that would show him what the actual fuck Harry Potter had been thinking. Indeed, his head had been filled with nothing but the bloody Gryffindor and it honestly felt like sixth year all over again.

Draco sighs. He hasn't caught sight of the Savior since that fateful day in the courtroom and he figures he never will. It's probably for the best, the fact that he'd been saved so nobly—Draco sneers—or he wouldn't be standing here, appreciating all that has been lost…and all that remains that way.

He takes another pull of his cigarette and frowns, tucking away a strand of hair that had fallen into his eyes. He exhales the smoke slowly from his lips. Given that it's been two years since that time, Draco is allowing himself the hope that he's no longer in the public's radar. That they've forgotten who his parents are and who they'd been involved with. A feeling of not-quite-excitement flares weakly in chest…for there is something to be said when his life can forever be changed by the end of the day. Maybe he can finally start over. Maybe this is his chance to change his fate, and that of his family.

Qualifying for the Auror Department interview hadn't been easy. Far from it. The past year had been dedicated to completing his studies, which he'd neglected towards the end of his time at Hogwarts. Just a few weeks prior he'd been surprised to find that he'd received top marks. He thinks his mother would've liked that. He feels a small smile spreading across his face.

The crisp morning air chills his arms, his thin, long-sleeved shirt not enough to keep him warm. Habitually, he traces a finger over his forearm, over the permanent mark that lies just underneath the cloth, bold against his light skin. The mark that will never fade.

"You spend too much time up here."

Draco glances over his shoulder, towards the sound of the voice. Blaise Zabini walks over, shirtless, coming to a stop close behind him. The other man takes the cigarette from between Draco's lips, transferring it over to his own.

"What are you doing?" Blaise asks him, blowing a thin cloud of smoke to the side of Draco's face.

"Not much." Draco turns his gaze down to the street, which is just a few stories below. The mist is starting to clear up. He can just make out the tops of people's heads as they stroll down the sidewalk. None of them seem to take notice of Draco's building, their eyes glossing over it as if it weren't even there.

Blaise seems persistent this morning. He slides an arm around Draco's waist, pulling him close so that his back is against Blaise's chest.

"You're never in my bed in the morning, Draco. I'm always left wondering where the fuck you've run off to. Gets a bit tiring, don't you think? Can't you just stay put for once?"

Draco doesn't answer. Instead, he tries to move away from the hot breathing on his neck. Blaise doesn't budge. Draco closes his eyes, keeping his annoyance at bay. He should really find his own flat. He's grown tired of living with his old friend. A three-year relationship with Blaise Zabini could do that to some people, drive them mad. They'd been together since the start of year seven, flung together out of sheer need to survive, to not be alone in the hell that was the months leading up to the Battle.

Draco had caved and finally moved in with Blaise just after the death of his own mother, an event he tries hard not to dwell on for the aching that fills him whenever he does. She'd been unable to face the magical community after the incarceration of his father. The Ministry had thoroughly broken his family. They'd taken their home, their possessions, everything except the Malfoy vault, which Draco would give up in a heartbeat in exchange for his mother. Needless to say, Draco had been going through a very difficult time until Blaise found him wandering aimlessly through muggle London, nursing him slowly back to health.

He opens his eyes and tries to pull away again. The end of the cigarette is dangling precariously close to the side of his face. Blaise doesn't loosen his grip. Instead, he presses himself up against Draco, the bulge in Blaise's trousers becoming apparent.

"Not right now," Draco says firmly. He hears Blaise huff in irritation before he pushes off of him. Taking one last drag of his cigarette, Blaise pulls it from his mouth, twisting it into the soil of one of the potted plants that sits on the wide cement railing. One of the leaves begins to smolder.

"Fuck you, then," he says, exhaling smoothly. He steps closer, kissing Draco roughly on the lips before departing through the door at the other end of the roof garden.

Draco lets out a deep breath and turns to the little ghost flower next to him. He takes the crushed cigarette butt, brushing away the ashes from the flower's leaves.

X

There are a few hours left to spare before Draco needs to appear at the Ministry and rather than spend them at the flat, Draco goes for a walk. He does this quite often, walks down the muggle streets. He breathes easy—there's no one around to recognize his face or his name, which is a welcome relief. It also provides him with some much-needed time away from Blaise.

He reaches one of the busy shopping districts, the sidewalks teeming with shoppers and people idling about having animated conversations. On the third time that someone bumps into his shoulder, he turns around, ready to start heading back. He stops, however, and does a double take. He spots someone sitting outside a café at the opposite side of the street. A small jolt of surprise goes through him when he recognizes the other man's features. A thick, unruly head of midnight-black hair. A pair of emerald eyes, searching the crowd for a second before they gaze back down to the table.

Merlin, he looks exactly the same.

Draco narrows his eyes to better take in the sight of Harry Potter sitting not twenty meters away from him, reading what looks to be like the Daily Prophet. His mind is surprisingly blank. The days in the courtroom seem far away, surreal somehow now that he's staring at the Savior once again.

Draco hears the sounds of impatience from the people around him, muttering at how he shouldn't be blocking the sidewalk. He pushes past them and leans against the wall of the department store, out of the way, and positions himself to better look at the person who had saved him from a life of imprisonment. He finds himself with a cigarette between his lips, sucking in a rather large drag, too large for he nearly has a coughing fit, and exhales harshly. He ignores the glare of the woman who had walked right into the smoke, his eyes practically glued to the man across the street.

He recalls with a sense of nostalgia, how so many years ago he had met Harry Potter in a robe shop in Diagon Alley. At the time, Potter had been the most offensive looking thing Draco had every laid eyes upon. A boy too short for his age, with hair as black as a raven, wild and sitting on top his head like a haphazard halo, so unlike Draco's hair, which his mother would slick back without a single misplaced strand. Potter had been wearing glasses, broken and taped together, but the frames couldn't hide the vibrant green eyes that lay behind. Curious eyes. So curious about everything around him. Potter's collarbones had been prominent, sticking out of his worn shirt as though he hadn't had a proper meal, as though he hadn't the luxury of a dozen house-elves waiting on his every need. His worn shirt had hung unattractively around his small body. He'd been everything that Draco was not, but he'd attracted the blonde boy's attention all the same.

Draco can see how much Potter has changed since then, since the trials even. Sure, his features remain the same, but they were leaner, which is saying something since he's always been rather small. But the muscles are apparent through the folds of his clothes, toned from all his years playing Quidditch and defeating Dark Lords. His hair is a bit longer, side-parted and covering the tops of his ears. Draco would be lying if he said the look doesn't suit him. Potter reaches a hand up to adjust his glasses, frowning possibly at one of the articles he's reading.

He waits for it. Waits for the familiar feeling of anger that would surge through him at the sight of Harry Potter. He wanted so badly to destroy him…or embrace him. Ever since the trials, those lines seem to blur in that respect. He'd wanted to make everyone see that Potter wasn't as special as they thought he was. Just a weak half-blood with undeserved fame. Draco scowls, disgusted in himself. He takes one last deep drag before flinging it on the ground, crushing it with the toe of his boot. He turns back in the direction of the flat. What the fuck did he care anyway? That part of his life is over and there is no reason for them to cross paths again. No need to relive those memories.

At the other side of the street, Harry Potter frowns deeper. He tears his eyes away from the Daily Prophet, the hair at the back of his neck prickling as though he's being watched. Never one to disregard instinct, Harry scans the lines of people on the street, on the sidewalk. He sees nothing out of the ordinary, however. Only muggles walking from shop to shop, occasionally grazing his table since the sidewalk is so narrow.

Normally, he'd hate the thought of being somewhere so crowded, but no one knows him here, and that's extremely refreshing. He takes a sip of his coffee and turns his attention back to the paper in his hands. Harry had been under the impression that he'd be free from all the publicity following the events at Hogwarts two years ago. It had eventually died down, but today it seems to have resurfaced, much to his dismay. The headline reads clear and bold:

Golden Boy's Guaranteed Position at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Harry folds the paper neatly in half, hiding the sickening picture of him only hours after the Battle at Hogwarts, and sets it aside. He supposes he'll have to cut his readings of the Daily Prophet short every morning. Headlines will suffice until they forget about him again. He stands, newspaper tucked safely under his arm, and walks a few blocks down the street before turning into an empty alleyway. He checks over his shoulder to make sure no one is watching, and disapparates.

Once back in his sitting room, he flings the paper down on the coffee table, annoyed and more nervous than ever about his interview at the Ministry. He clenches his slightly buzzing hands. If he'd known for sure that his position was guaranteed, then he wouldn't have practiced his magic so vigorously the past few months. Of course, the article is nothing new. Just a way to build up the fact that he is still the Golden Boy, able to garner anything he wants if only because of his fame. He raises a hand to rub at his temples.

"Always the same damn thing," he mutters as he walks over to the mirror hanging in the sitting room above the mantlepiece. He gathers the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head and throwing it on the arm of the couch. He sighs, turning away from his reflection. The house is quiet, the silence pressing on his ears the longer he stands there, so at odds from the sounds of the city streets just moments before. He feels a tug in his chest.

These are the moments he despises the most. Coming home to a house that is empty and silent. Harry wonders, always wonders whether he'd made the right decision in leaving the Burrow. In leaving Ginny. It had been comforting at first. The Burrow is always so full of the people he cared for and loved. And for a time, Harry felt as though he'd belonged. That he'd found what he'd always been searching for.

A family.

It was a while after living at the Burrow that the past had begun catching up to him. He'd been plagued with night sweats, uncontrollable burst of anger, cold, dark dreams that reminded him of the people that had been lost to the war. People who were never meant to die, if only Harry had defeated Voldemort sooner. Those people had come back to haunt him, possibly noticing that Harry had become too comfortable with his life. They filled his chest with the guilt and grief that had never truly and would probably never leave his heart.

Harry couldn't bear to socialize with anyone during these moments, could only stare at the walls, his eyes clouded and unseeing, haunted by the ghosts of his past. Even his magic, once a source of great comfort, had begun to be too much for him to handle. He had to look for outlets, exercising his magic until he was exhausted and satisfied in believing that he wouldn't lose control of it. But the constant disconnect from his family had started to fester, infecting not only him, but the rest of the family as well. For that reason, Harry had decided to move back to Sirius' place, back to Grimmauld Place on his own, to figure out what the fuck is going on with him. He'd assured the family that he would be fine. But sometimes he isn't quite sure of that himself.

He's just about to make his way to the stairs, toward his bedroom, when he's suddenly startled to see a head floating in the flames of the fireplace. He raises his hands to his chest and glares.

"Hermione! Give me a warning before you just pop in, will you?" he snaps, then whispers, "I'm indecent."

Hermione laughs.

Harry purses his lips, still covering his chest. "What's your excuse then, besides barging in to see my unclothed body?"

"Just wanted to wish you luck today, really. The peeping's a bonus, though, rest assured," she says, amused.

"Ah," he responds, understanding. Harry sits on the arm of his sofa, facing her. "You saw the Prophet, then?"

"Yes, but I've known about your interview for quite some time, you being my best friend and all," she says, a bit taken aback.

Harry smiles apologetically. "Sorry. Only I'd finally gotten use to not being front page news for once."

"I know. It's unfortunate, but Harry, it'll—"

"—blow over, I know," he says. "Would you like to come in?"

Hermione climbs out of the fireplace obligingly, dusting herself off, before settling on the couch. Harry heads for the kitchen, taking a few minutes before returning with tea. He hands her a cup.

"Ron says it was only a matter of time before the Prophet caught wind," Hermione says, taking sip. "Don't worry yourself too much over it."

"How is he, by the way?"

"Good. Grumbling on about how Mrs. Weasley isn't letting him have dessert anymore. She says he needs to be strong and healthy if he's going to be an Auror," Hermione tells him, a look of fondness overcoming her face.

Harry lets out a breath of laughter. That definitely seems Ron-like. There's a comfortable silence between them as they sip their tea.

"She misses you, you know," Hermione continues.

"What?"

"Ginny. She misses you. We all do," Hermione says, her brown eyes softening.

Harry swallows a hot gulp of tea and turns away. The guilt he's been feeling towards his relationship with Ginny, and the consequent break-up, comes back in a rush. In all honesty, he misses her, too. Her holds, her hair, her lips. If only for their familiarity. But he couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't lie anymore. He hadn't felt that way towards Ginny for a long time.

The result has been a very devastated Ginny Weasley, who more or less still thinks there is a chance that they'll be together again. He braces himself for the coming question.

"Won't you come back?"

He takes a deep, calming breath. "You know full well that I can't. I need to be on my own for a while. To figure things out. I've never wanted to depend on anyone; I can't continue to do that." He bites his lip when Hermione glances away to hide her hurt. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I didn't mean it in a bad way."

She shakes her head. "No, I know. I understand." She places her empty cup on the coffee table and stands. He walks her to the fireplace.

"Besides," Harry says in an effort to cheer her up. "If Ron and I are going to be partners at the Ministry, then you'll see me so often again you'll get sick of me."

Hermione smiles. "You're probably right. Although," she says, eyeing his chest admiringly, "if you keep looking like that then I might very well enjoy your company again."

Harry feels his face get hot.

"Anyway," she continues, "I just came to send a little luck to you from all of us. Ron is excited to see you again, even though he doesn't say it aloud. Floo use whenever you'd like, okay?"

"Sure thing. Thanks," Harry says. Before he could think twice, he brings her close for an embrace. With a final wave, Hermione vanishes from the fireplace, leaving Harry leaning against the side of the couch.

X

Harry steps out onto the Ministry of Magic arrival area, a calming breath leaving his lips. He straightens his cloak more securely over his shoulders. He can feel his nerves bubbling up inside of him. He has no clue what to expect from this interview. He supposes he should've thought to ask someone for advice, but after a gut-wrenching moment he realizes he's no one to ask. The Aurors he had known, well…

He makes his way over to the lifts, ignoring the startled whispers coming from the workers around him and relieved, as he looks over to the main plaza, that the statue of tortured muggles from years ago is no longer its centerpoint. A grand fountain now takes its place; a few witches and wizards are sat at its edge.

"Coming in?" asks a familiar, cool voice from the lift.

Harry turns quickly, his hand instinctively twitching toward his wand. He stops before he can make an arse of himself and comes face to face with Draco Malfoy.

Despite stopping himself in time, Malfoy catches Harry's hand movement and the corner of his mouth turns up in a trademark smirk. "Don't worry, Potter. I wouldn't dream of doing anything to the Savior of the Wizarding World."

Harry clenches his teeth and steps inside, positioning himself at the corner of the lift behind Malfoy. The gates close with a rattle and the lift jerks upwards at once. The movement causes him to take an involuntary step forward, nearly bumping into the blonde in front of him. He catches himself just in time, but not before catching a whiff of…Harry pulls away, his cheeks burning. If Malfoy notices anything, he doesn't make it known. Silence fills the small space as they're jostled to and fro. Harry's mind is racing with memories of their past.

They hadn't necessarily parted on bad terms, or on any terms for that matter. The Malfoys had just sort of disappeared after the war. That is until the Ministry caught up with the family and locked Lucius up in Azkaban for his ties to Voldemort. As for Narcissa and the youngest Malfoy, Harry had stepped in, needing to repay the life debt that he owed to them. Thankfully, the Ministry had released them on account that Malfoy had been a child, too young to know what he'd been doing. His mother, Harry had heard, had died mere weeks later, her death ruled a suicide in the Daily Prophet front page. Harry feels a small pang of sympathy, for he clearly remembers how the woman had saved his life on the forest floor the night he defeated Voldemort. How is Harry supposed to act around the other man? What is he supposed to say?

He settles on saying absolutely nothing and waits for Malfoy to step off towards his destination. Hopefully this wouldn't be a common occurrence in the future.

But, of course, as luck will have it: "Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement," a disembodied voice speaks around them. The gates open and Harry makes to steps around Malfoy. Malfoy, bless the bloody wanker, goes first, all but pushing him aside, his charcoal black cloak billowing behind him. Harry scowls and follows just a few steps behind. Why in the world did he get off on this floor?

They walk down the long hallway, their steps echoing on the marble floor.

"Should I be worried that you're following me, Potter?" Malfoy asks, glancing at Harry out of the corner of his eye.

"I'm not following you."

"You might've gotten off on the wrong floor," Malfoy persists.

"I can show you the exit if that's what you're looking for."

They come upon a set of oak double doors and Draco opens them, revealing a large, open hall, a variety of doors scattered across the wall, presumably leading to the other office in the Department. A few secretaries sit at their desks, scribbling away with their quills. Just as they look up from their work to greet them, a door to the side opens with a flourish.

Harry recognizes with a jolt of alarm, Pius Thicknesse coming through the doors. He has to remind himself that Thicknesse had been under Imperius when he last fought alongside the Death Eaters. Thickness spots the pair of them and walks over.

"Ah, Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy, good to see you could make it. Pius Thicknesse, Head of Magical Law Enforcement," he says in a deep voice. He shakes Harry's hand.

Harry would be in deeper shock that Thicknesse is addressing Malfoy as well, confirming the fact that Malfoy is, indeed, on the right floor, if not for the absolutely menacing shake of hands they share between them. Harry's brows furrow, worried that Malfoy will have his hand broken in such a tight grip. Before he can open his mouth to comment, however, Malfoy catches his eye and the hands are released. Malfoy looks away.

At that moment, the oak double doors open again, and Ron walks over, closely followed by Dean Thomas. Harry feels his face light up with a grin, and steps aside so that Thicknesse can greet them as well.

"Good, now everyone's here. Come along, we'll just walk through here…" He ushers them past the secretaries, down yet another long hallway and into a large room within which stands a giant of a man. "I will leave you here with Gawain Robards, currently in charge of all the Aurors here in the department. Robards, be sure to welcome them properly once you've all been acquainted. I'll be having a word with Minister Shacklebolt and won't return for a while. Until that time, please thoroughly examine the interviewees, after which I expect a decision concerning who will be continuing on to the trial period."

Ron audibly swallows next to him.

"Mr.'s Thomas, Weasley, Potter, Malfoy," Thicknesse nods to each of them in turn. "Good luck." With that, Pius Thicknesse disappears through the door.

Robards turns to them. A long scar maims the otherwise strong features on the man's face. He begins circling them, studying, towering over all of them. He opens his mouth, "Listen carefully. There will be a few tests. Nothing to worry about as long as pay close attention.

"The first thing that you should know before becoming an Auror is that you can never trust a soul. Not a single one. You never know if the person you've grown up with your entire life, the person you've gone to school with for years, will turn their back on you the very next morning." He smirks when Ron glances in Harry's direction. "Which is why we're always aware of who we're speaking to and who's around us while we speak."

He stops in front of Harry and peers down at him. The man is nearly twice his size. He takes the liberty of parting Harry's hair away from his forehead, exposing his old scar. Harry, reasonably outraged, holds back the urge to slap the hand away. The back of his neck prickles, and he narrows his eyes. Robards moves onwards, inspecting Ron, who's nearly the same height as him, observing Dean, and finally coming to a stop in front of Malfoy. Harry has the odd thought of how similar it is to a military officer inspecting a soldier. Malfoy, to his credit, doesn't move a muscle. Robards reaches down, takes a hold of the younger man's arm and Harry has to hold back a gasp as Malfoy resists, his face turning white. Robards strength seems to win and he pulls away Malfoy's sleeve, exposing the familiar Dark Mark that flaws his pale skin. Malfoy's jaw visibly tightens.

"Funny. I thought it'd fade," Robards mutters. He lets go of Malfoy's arm and bares his teeth in obvious disgust. For a second Harry believes that Malfoy will attack, and he wouldn't blame him. But nothing happens and Harry is left puzzled.

"The second thing you will learn," Robards continues, resuming his circling, "is to never, ever, let your guard down."

"Ever?" Ron asks.

"Weasley, is it?"

Ron nods.

"Yes, well, you see, Weasley, you never know who might be lurking behind you."

They all turn to look around them. Harry is unsettled. The hair at the back of his neck stands on end. He's sure that the others feel something amiss, too.

"Or who might be lurking in plain sight." Robards voice became quieter. "There are ways, you see. To conceal, to disguise…which makes easy prey." Robards stands in front of them now, about two meters away. His voice is nearly inaudible. "So, you," he takes a step back, "must always," he takes another, "be ready."

Harry sees it before the others. Robards hand flies to grab his wand, and Harry does the same. Harry flings it up swiftly, calling for a shield just as a jet of red light flies toward them. Harry is thrust backwards at the force of the spell, his electric blue shield nearly shattering in the process. The others react quickly after that. They pull out their wands, just as figures materialize around the room, surrounding them. Five in all, wearing dark robes and hoods, their wands shooting spells directly into their group. A jet of red whistles past Harry's right ear and he turns to see who cast it.

"Harry, your left!" Ron shouts.

Harry twists his body just in time, shielding himself from a spell cast in his direction. Immediately, he sends two stunning spells in a row, successfully hitting one of the robed figures, who crumples to the ground. Shot after shot is sent towards him and he deflects each one, his body working automatically, naturally to defend and attack. He manages to hit another attacker after the man unsuccessfully sends a curse to Harry from behind. There is no place to hide; the room is like an open field. He hears Dean groan as his body crashes into one of the walls. He falls to the ground unmoving. Risking a quick look toward Ron, Harry sees with panic that the redhead has been overpowered by one of the attackers and is now on the ground, body-bound by magic. Furious, Harry rushes forward, tackling Ron's aggressor and manages to disarm him. The hood falls away from his face and Harry is startled to see his own face looking back at him. Harry pushes off of the ground, retreating a few steps back. The robes of the attacker quickly transform to match Harry's outfit and Harry can only stare in disbelief.

Not-Harry is sprawled on the ground and he opens his mouth, "Draco!"

Malfoy, who has just managed to disarm his own opponent, turns to the scene: Harry, pointing his wand at the figure on the ground, who is also Harry.

"Help, Draco," not-Harry says.

Harry feels his body tense, his voice caught in his throat. Malfoy is pointing his wand directly at him, at his chest. They stare at one another. Malfoy's cold, silver eyes are unreadable.

Not-Harry takes this as opportunity to grab his wand from the floor, raising it for a curse. In the split second that follows, Harry has braced himself for a double hit, about to call for his shield, but just then a flash of light lights up the entire room. Harry's blind for a moment. When his vision returns, the attacker is on the floor, unconscious; his clothes and face slowly return to their original form.

Harry lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His hair is drenched in sweat, his skin buzzing with magic after their fight. Malfoy still has his wand raised.

A wave of relief steals through Draco. He hadn't been all too sure that he'd sent his curse to the right person. The split second he'd looked into Potter's eyes, however, clear and green and bright…Draco shivers. It seems like it's the first time he's looked into them and hadn't seen hate within. Draco hopes never to look at them so closely again. It's all this and the fact that Potter would never dare to address him by his first name, that he'd chosen to aim his spell at the other wizard. It all worked out, he supposes.

Draco takes in the scene around them. The ordeal had lasted not ten minutes. The robed men are slowly stirring on the ground. Potter had run over to Weasley and Thomas, who are both dusting themselves off. He wonders whether he should go and help but thinks better of it. He remains where he stands, his wand still clenched in his hand. He raises it when he spots Robards stand and straighten his robes.

"Adrian," Robards says, "please take Ronan to the infirmary. Your team is dismissed."

"Yes, sir." Adrian, a tall, dark, slender man with short black hair, gets up quickly, limping and waves his wand at the shape-shifter on the floor, who has yet to wake up from the spell Draco had delivered to him.

"What the hell was that?" Weasley, the complete oaf, demands. He's holding on to his arm, which has turned an alarming shade of purple. "You could've killed us!"

"That's enough," Robards says. Weasley scowls in response.

"You wanted to see how well we fight," Draco says, lowering his wand and walking over to the group. Strength in numbers after all.

"That is correct, Malfoy. And what an impressive ability you have. None of my Aurors have ever been knocked down quite so powerfully."

"Good thing you're looking for new ones, then. Out with the old, in with the new."

Robards narrows his eyes but doesn't respond. He waits until all his Aurors have left the hall before addressing the four of them again.

"Although you all have survived your interview, I expect a greater deal of work to be done regarding your fighting abilities. Mr. Thomas, I think we'll work on your periphery. It will not fare well if you are focusing only on one target. You have to be aware of everything that is happening in your surroundings all at once. It's vital and it means the difference between living and being at the receiving end of an Unforgivable. It is something that can be worked on. I'd like to invite you to join us back here tomorrow morning for your trial period."

"Trial period?" Potter asks.

"It'll last approximately one month. The trial period will determine whether you qualify, after which you will move on to three years of Auror training. Keep in mind that you will be assigned a room and board at Headquarters that you may see fit to use until the last day of training or until we decide that you are no longer needed. Whichever comes first." Robards turns back to Thomas and says, "I suggest you visit the infirmary before heading home. You are free to go."

Thomas thanks him, shakes his hand and makes his way carefully out of the door.

"Mr. Weasley, being a part of this organization means that you are not looking after yourself anymore. You have your team, and in the future, you'll have other people's lives in your hands as well. You've shown that you are aware of this by calling out to your team members before they could be hit. I will see you tomorrow morning to begin your trial period. Stop by the infirmary so Katherine can have a look at your arm. You are free to go."

Weasley leaves, looking extremely pleased with himself. Draco nearly scoffs. He gives Potter a glance and sees the foolish grin on his face as he watches the lanky, ginger-haired oaf walk out of the room. How can someone smile with so much freedom? Draco finds himself wondering about the last time he'd smiled in such a way. He can't remember.

"Mr. Potter, you have an outstanding fighting ability. Your magic seems to come almost naturally to you. That being said, you're not using your abilities at their full potential. You hesitate, afraid even of your own power, and that will get you killed. Trust yourself. I will see you in the morning."

Draco watches him walk away, a look of deep thought etched across Potters face and not even giving Draco a cursory glance. Draco clenches his teeth. A little gratitude would've been nice for practically saving his useless life. Granted, the fight hadn't been deadly. Draco shakes away a strand of hair from his face. Still. The door snaps shut, and he turns back to Robards.

"Have you trained with anyone recently, Malfoy?"

Draco blinks and is quiet for a moment. "Why do you ask?"

"I don't expect Ronan to be up for hours after what you did to him. I was inquiring of your previous training. That spell is a high-level curse. Not one that a lot of wizards know about."

Draco frowns internally, sifting through the man's words for the question he really means to ask. Out of habit, he reaches for his forearm and suddenly realizes what this is all about. I thought it'd fade, Robards had said. Draco keeps his anger at bay. Does Robards actually expect him to talk about the Dark Lord? Perhaps to explain the various, naughty things he learned from the darkest wizard of recent times? He struggles to keep a straight face, though he feels his anger rising.

He comes up with the following, "I've never had any formal training, besides school, if that's what you mean. I follow my instincts and nothing more."

Robards studies him for a moment longer. "We will see you tomorrow. You're dismissed."

X

"Where were you today?"

Draco sits at the kitchen table, a plate of uneaten food sitting in front of him. His appetite seems to have gone; there is just too much to think about after the interview. The fact that he'd survived, that he'd actually made it and passed. The fact that he'll be working with a former enemy.

Former?

He reaches into the pocket of his trousers for his pack, in need of a smoke. The pack turns up empty and he curses, flinging the carton onto the table.

Blaise, who sits opposite him, taps the table to grab his attention. "I'm talking to you, Draco."

Draco takes his time to answer, irked at Blaise's tapping. He spares him a glance. "What?"

"Where were you today?"

Draco shrugs. "Around"

"Around," Blaise repeats, his jaw working in a way that means he's angry.

Draco avoids his stare. Does he always have to keep a tab on where Draco goes? Does Draco not deserve a little privacy in his life? He truly wants to know.

"Do you want to clarify, or…" Blaise asks, his voice steadily growing angrier. The man raises his glass to his lips, taking a long swig from it. Draco can tell Blaise'll be incomprehensible by the end of the night at the rate he's drinking.

And he can feel an argument coming on. He can just answer the question. Calm Blaise down a bit. But try as he might, Draco can't get himself to cooperate today. Blaise is stubborn, controlling, needs things done his way. Luckily for Draco, he's exactly the same way.

He stands up from the table and makes his way to the living room in search of that cigarette. Blaise follows close behind. Draco checks his usual stash spots: he checks the cabinets, the folds of the armchair, the tops of the bookshelves, but his hand only comes away with dust. He shakes it off and checks inside the glass vase on the side table. Aha! He pulls out a fresh pack, takes out a cigarette and lights the tip with his wand. He tucks the pack securely in his pocket and gratefully takes a long drag, closing his eyes before letting it out slowly, his frayed nerves calm themselves almost instantly. But he can still feel Blaise's presence behind him.

"Why can't you just answer the fucking question, Draco? Why's it always like I'm pulling teeth to get anything from you? It's a simple fucking question."

Draco holds the cigarette between his index and middle finger and pulls it away from his lips, reaching up with the other hand to curl his hair behind his ear, before finally turning toward Blaise.

"I'm not in the mood to answer anything tonight, Blaise. Back the fuck off, will you?"

Before he can take another drag, Blaise lunges forward and grabs him in a vice grip, throwing Draco forcefully on top of the sofa. His cigarette falls from his hand.

"Blaise don't—" A hand closes around his throat, effectively stopping his words. The hands weren't choking but were pressed just hard enough to hold him in place. "Blaise…" Draco tries to push him, his hands against Blaise's chest. He reaches down for the wand at his waistband.

"Don't you dare," Blaise hisses, snatching Draco's wand and throwing it out of reach. The hand that isn't on Draco's throat closes around his hands and holds him still.

Despite Draco's effort to pry him off, the other man is taller, stronger, and Draco is out of breath before long. The length of the man's body presses him down against the sofa, making Draco shiver.

Draco's suddenly having trouble breathing and when his throat is finally released, he hasn't enough time to take a breath before Blaise's mouth is over his own, his tongue intruding forcefully between his lips. He reeks of firewhiskey, the taste painfully apparent on his tongue. Draco tries again in vain to push him, but his hands are placed over his head, held in place by a strong grip. Blaise moves his mouth down to Draco's jaw and he feels an unwelcome, traitorous twinge below his navel. He's breathing hard, his heartbeat speeding up, and he closes his eyes as Blaise bites a particularly sensitive spot below his ear, eliciting a gasp from Draco's lips. Blaise laughs softly before recapturing his lips.

X

A while later, Draco slips back into his trousers and carefully stoops to grab his torn shirt. The lit cigarette had burnt out, leaving a small scorch mark on the shiny wooden floor. He vanishes both the cigarette and the mark with a wave of his wand.

Inhaling a newly lit cigarette, he goes to grab a blanket from one of the cupboards in the hallway, unfurls it, and throws it over the man on the sofa, who lays passed out. He watches him for a moment, refusing to acknowledge what he is feeling, preferring instead to ignore the dull ache somewhere in his chest.

He makes his way to the shower, turning one of the knobs all the way. After close inspection, Draco finds a few fresh bruises on his body. He rubs at a particularly nasty purple bruise on his hip bone, willing it to disappear. It isn't the first time Blaise has been this way. At first Draco had found his roughness sort of appealing, something familiar. Something he can handle. But now it has taken over their relationship and Draco finds it difficult to remember the last proper conversation they've had.

He undresses, stepping into the bath and forcing himself under the scalding hot water. It sprays hard against his skin. He clenches his teeth, bites his lip, rubbing away at the skin on his arms, his chest, his legs, needing the water to wash away the filth that he could feel eating away at him slowly, slowly.

oOo