September, 1998

The Hog's Head was more crowded than Draco had expected it to be on a Monday afternoon, and as he walked into the dingy pub he had to scan the room a couple times before he saw the tall, burly man in the corner with whom he had planned to meet. There were two large bodyguards flanking either side of him, one of them surly-looking and balding with bright, eerily blue eyes, and the other with biceps that looked to be around the size of Draco's head.

He had only seen Regis Delev once before, when the man had been pointed out to him by another one of the distributors in Hogsmeade. Even then Draco had felt shivers down his spine when he noticed the man's stature; his commanding physical presence was almost as intimidating as the power he held within the black market community. He towered nearly a foot over Draco's head, with long, dark hair falling to his shoulders and three, white scars over his left eye, leaving him with half of an eyebrow. In addition to this, his brawny, massive arms were covered with faded tattoos, most of them symbols and languages Draco didn't understand. Draco had sent him a letter requesting a meeting in the middle of August, and he had returned the correspondence weeks later, suggesting Draco meet him at the pub after his rounds that day.

Draco met Delev in the back corner booth, the two men on either side of Delev parting to allow Draco to take a seat. His hands were trembling in his lap under the table, and he hoped Delev hadn't noticed the pallor of his already stark white skin. He ordered a pint when the bartender came by.

"You're Lucius's son, aren't you?" Delev bellowed, his voice just as gruff as Draco had imagined it would be.

"You knew my father?"

Delev grunted in response.

"Never ran in the same circles. He was much too focused on that death eater nonsense for my taste."

Draco swallowed, lowering his head and staring again at his hands. He had begun to squeeze his knees until his knuckles turned white.

"You're doing well," Delev said, taking a large swig of his drink. "You're getting more product out than most of my distributors who have been working three times as long as you."

"I need an advance," Draco said abruptly, still not making eye contact with Delev, even after the words had tumbled out of his mouth. He took a deep breath, and continued.

"My mother's dying, I can't afford to stay in an inn with her bills, and my family's estate is being held by the ministry."

Delev set his glass down on the wooden table a bit harder than Draco had been expecting him to, and Draco flinched noticeably.

"We've all got sad stories, now, don't we, boy?" He said slowly. Draco finally looked up, and to his surprise, there was a smile on Delev's face. He immediately felt sick to his stomach, wishing he had never arranged this meeting in the first place.

"It's just until the ministry turns everything back over. Once I have everything back I'll pay you twice the amount I borrowed."

Delev leaned forward a bit at the table, bringing his large forearms to rest on the wooden surface.

"You're a faggot, aren't you?" He asked in a conversational tone, the same unnerving smile making his features a thousand times more menacing. Draco immediately flushed, turning his head around to see if anyone had been eavesdropping on their conversation. Delev's bodyguards didn't seem to react in any way, although they were clearly within earshot. He couldn't tell why this man was bringing up anything about his sexual orientation, especially when he had just been asking to borrow money.

"Of course I'm not -" He stuttered, but Delev continued, dismissing his attempt to save face.

"Don't bother denying it, I've seen you in the papers. Besides..." he said, beginning to swirl his index finger around the outer rim of his glass. "I like the pretty ones."

Draco looked down into his lap again, sure that his face must be on fire. He had the same feeling in the pit of his stomach that he had last year whenever Voldemort ordered him to torture the prisoners being held in the dungeons of the manor. It was like a creeping, black cloud that was slowly spreading to all of his organs. He thought he was going to be sick.

"If you're serious about the money," Delev continued, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a scrap of parchment and scribbling a hasty address upon it. "Meet me at my hotel at 11. I'd love to continue our conversation."

With that, he left the paper in front of Draco's drink, and departed with his two massive bodyguards.

Draco looked around once more, trying to ensure that nobody had caught any of the conversation that had just taken place. There didn't appear to be any overly attentive individuals staring towards his table, but he knew better than to let his guard down. He closed his eyes briefly, trying not to think about what Delev had said, and wondering if there was any other possible way around this.

He could run, he supposed. He could find Bennett again, and the two of them could go to America like Bennett had always been talking about, only he couldn't bear to just leave his mother to die alone in St. Mungo's. He thought about staying here and hiding, quitting his job and laying low for a bit, but the problem still remained that he needed money to keep his mother alive and to afford a place for himself to stay.

He needed money, and there were only a couple of ways he could get it. Rather than begging that his aunt help front the cost of her estranged sister's medical bills, Draco could swallow his discomfort and do whatever he needed to do to procure his advance. It would only be a couple of hours, at the most. Two hours sacrificed to extend his mother's life and keep himself alive was a trade he was willing to make.

He left a few Sickles on the table for the drinks, and headed out the door.

...

Draco found himself walking the cobbled streets around the Hog's Head aimlessly for a while, lost in thought. Hogwarts was looming in the distance over the thatched roofs of the stores and houses in the main square, which was one of the reasons he always liked making rounds in Hogsmeade. It reminded him of happier days, times when he was young and carefree and could devote his full attention to making Harry Potter miserable. He had found, even then, that the adrenaline rush he felt whenever Harry scowled at him or quipped back with a witty retort was well worth the effort it took to find a million new ways to push his buttons. He thought of the time, after losing one of their Quidditch matches in fifth year, when Draco had pushed him too far and Harry had punched him square in the face. It was a shocking realization, that his constant badgering actually had an effect on Potter, that he had really managed to get under Harry's skin. Draco had walked around with a bruise on his face for the next two weeks, even though he could have healed it simply himself, just because he liked the thought of Potter leaving a visible mark on his face. It made the game he was playing feel all the more real.

The thought of spending his days laughing with Crabbe and Goyle and cracking jokes about the professors in the back of classrooms filled him with another wave of sadness. He didn't feel like he was even the same person who had strutted around the corridors, picking on first years and vexing Potter at every given opportunity. The war had taken all of that from him, and left him here alone, an empty shell with only his memories left to cling to. It didn't matter what Delev wanted to do to him tonight; he hadn't felt like he was really living in months.

He thought of Potter again, as he did more and more nearly every day, and wished that he had stayed when Potter had kissed him. He wished his fear hadn't gotten the best of him, and he wished he didn't have to walk through this part of his life alone. He could have had so much better than this.

...

The two men who had been at the Hog's Head with Delev waited in front of the long hallway to Delev's hotel room, letting Draco pass through when he approached. He knocked on the door of the room number scribbled on the parchment he was holding, his heart racing in his chest.

He had done his best to prepare himself for whatever might happen tonight. He had gone on a long walk to clear his head, taken a couple shots of firewhiskey in the Three Broomsticks and combed his hair so it looked as neat and well-kempt as possible. When the door opened, however, he felt the same, sinking sensation that he had when he had first laid eyes on Delev in the beginning of July. He stepped into the room slowly, realizing instantly that this must be one of the most luxurious suites in all of London. The ceilings were vaulted and adorned with gilded, golden figures; the floors polished until they were nearly reflective, and the furniture was accented with the same hints of gold that echoed all throughout the room. There was a massive, four poster bed with blue velvet drapings that stood towards the back wall. It was a palace fit for a king, and Draco felt himself growing more uneasy in this place by the second.

"Have a drink," Delev commanded, pouring Draco a glass of whiskey at the bar towards the front of the room. Draco obliged, tossing the whiskey down his throat without hesitation. The thought occurred to him after he had swallowed the drink that it definitely could have been drugged, but this notion was more comforting than anything at this point. He wanted to remember as little about this night as possible, and wasn't opposed to having this recollection taken from him entirely.

"Leave your wand on the counter," Delev ordered again, taking a swig of whiskey himself and walking over to the back of the room. Draco obeyed, wishing he had drank a little more at the Three Broomsticks before this. Draco set down his empty whiskey class and followed Delev over to the bed.

"How much money are we talking?" Delev asked, finishing up the rest of his glass as well.

"150 Galleons," Draco replied quickly, still averting his eyes from Delev's. He had done the math, and that much money would buy him about a month of time. Surely the ministry would finish up their investigation by the time October rolled around.

"That's a lot of money, boy," Delev grunted. Draco's heart skipped a beat in it's chest.

"I'm good for it. I've been building my client base, I'll have it earned back in just a couple weeks, and I can pay you back when -"

"Enough," Delev said loudly, interrupting Draco's words. Draco lifted his eyes to meet Delev's black ones, and felt his stomach drop once more. "You're earning it now," Delev growled, bringing a rough hand up to Draco's head.

He kissed Draco hard, bringing the younger man's body into his own before Draco had a chance to say anything else. His breath was sour and his mouth tasted of barley; Draco found himself wishing again for unconsciousness as he let Delev's tongue explore his own. He followed the man's lead, being as enthusiastic as he could muster, all the while picturing himself in any other situation but this. Delev grabbed his hair by the roots and pushed him roughly down on his knees, slapping his cheek and muttering something about him being a "good little slut" before shoving himself fully into Draco's mouth. Draco squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could, trying to focus on something that brought him any sort of happiness. He thought of Bennett's gentle hands on his body, of his soothing words and his respect for Draco, always asking what it was that Draco wanted to do, never making him feel taken advantage of. He thought of Potter's smile that had been haunting him for the last couple of months, about how good it would feel to kiss him, or to just be in his presence again. Delev's hands pulled his hair so hard that tears welled up in his eyes, and he was beginning to choke on the length of the larger man's member. He kept himself as relaxed as he could, refusing to let the tears fall, and continued on, the thought of Potter giving him enough strength to continue.

...

Draco awoke the next day in the unfamiliar velvet covered bed, realizing instantly that this had not been a nightmare, that what had happened last night was very, very real. It started to come back to him as soon as he was awake and he shuddered to himself, trying to forget what he had been forced to do. Every part of his body was aching and sore, bruising covering most of the skin he could see on his arms and legs. He was alone in the room, which he was grateful for; Delev must have not waited for him before starting his day. He stood up, feeling a fresh wave of pain between his legs, and began to walk over to the bar cart where Delev had kept the whiskey from last night. After a couple, long pulls straight from the bottle, Draco was finally starting to feel numb again.

There was a copy of the Daily Prophet on the bar cart and Draco glanced at it inquisitively; something about the woman on the front cover of the paper seemed familiar to him. He picked the paper up, reading the headline of the article and the pictures that came with it.

He felt a cold chill wash over his body, and dropped the paper instantly. He ran as fast as he could to the lavatory and wretched over the toilet, getting rid of the whiskey he had just drunk and then dry heaving for the next several minutes until he could make sure that everything was out of his system.

He stood up, hyperventilating, and tried to get his bearings. He had done this - he had killed those children. He couldn't think straight, he couldn't do anything but stand there and try to gasp for his breath. He had to leave here as soon as possible, before Delev got back. He had to get out of this business, to get rid of his inventory and find a way out of this trap before something else happened - something worse.

He noticed that tears were streaming down his face as he tried to catch his breath, and he couldn't do anything to stop them. He picked up his clothes by the bed and began to dress himself as best as he could. He had to get out of this place, this life...

He grabbed his wand from the counter. There was a hefty sized bag of galleons that Delev had placed on the counter for him as well, but he left it behind. He would have to find another way; there was no possibility of him continuing on in this job. Focusing all of his strength and determination on the location he had in mind, knowing the consequence of him splinching himself again was always a real possibility, Draco disapparated from the room in London, leaving this terrible memory behind him.

...

He hadn't been out to the countryside where his aunt lived since he was a little boy. His mother had taken him here a couple times without his father's knowledge; She and her sister had a complicated relationship, but Draco remembered times when both of them would put aside their differences and be there for each other, just as they had been when they were children. The last time he remembered was when his grandmother, Druella, had passed away. Draco had only met her a couple of times, but when she had died, Narcissa brought Draco over to her sister's house and the two grieved together, sharing memories and stories like nothing between them had changed. Narcissa had told Draco not to share anything about that day with his father, as his aunt and uncle were not supposed to be on speaking terms with their family.

He saw the old cottage surrounded by rolling, green hills, and was transported back to being a 7-year-old boy whose sole focus was comforting his mother in her loss. He never thought he would have come back here, but as he walked towards the house, he felt the comfort of the familiar landscape like a warm embrace. He wiped the tears away from his eyes as best as he could, and patted his hair down to look as presentable as possible.

He knocked, and was greeted at the door by Andromeda, an astonished look on her face.

"Draco, what are you doing here?" She asked, looking past his shoulder as though she expected someone else to be there. Her dark hair was frizzy and unkempt but her eyes were so much like his mother's he had to swallow hard to keep himself from tears again.

"May I come in?" he asked politely. She looked behind her into the house briefly and nodded, motioning him into the kitchen. The place was messier than he had remembered it, and it wasn't until he saw the scattered toys all over the living room that he remembered; Lupin's son, Draco's new nephew, must have had to come live with his grandmother after the war. The thought was too much for him to dwell on at the moment, with what he had just seen in the paper. He swallowed hard, and reminded himself to stay focused on the task at hand.

"I'm sorry to just show up without warning," he began slowly. Andromeda was standing expectantly and clearly needing him to explain his presence so she could understand why he had come here. "I need help. My mother, she's dying and I don't have the money to keep her alive much longer." His aunt's expression softened, her eyes filling with sorrow. It seemed as though she must have known Narcissa was sick, but didn't know anything about the scope of her illness.

"I need somewhere to stay for a bit. I can work, I can tend the field and do whatever you need help with, I just... I'm stuck and I don't think I can get out without your help." Draco took a deep breath. He didn't think he had ever subjugated himself this much, or depended on someone else's kindness in this way. It was a humbling act, but he didn't have any pride left to hold onto.

His aunt opened her mouth, blinking several times as though she were deep in thought.

"Draco I - I didn't know it was... What happened to her? When did she -"

"Draco?"

The voice was not Andromeda's, and it came from the hallway leading into the kitchen. Draco looked up instantly, not believing what he had heard until he saw Harry standing in the kitchen, wearing the white, collared shirt and well-fitting pants that went underneath his auror training robes. He was taller, more muscular, and more handsome than Draco had ever seen him. His hair was cut better than it had been in their school days, and he now had a light beard which drew all of Draco's attention to his bespectacled, green eyes.

The shock of seeing Potter in this house quickly subsided, and Draco realized in absolute horror that Harry had heard what Draco had just asked his aunt. He was wrong - he did have some pride left to lose. It took everything in his power to keep from apparating on the spot and leaving this place behind without as much as another word.

"What are you doing here?" Draco said quickly, his cheeks flushing when he spoke to Harry.

"Harry's been giving me a hand with Teddy," Andromeda said immediately, quick to defend Harry's presence. "He's been a great help over here."

"How much did you -" Draco began to ask Harry, who was now looking extremely uncomfortable.

"I already knew. About your mum. I'm sorry," Harry said.

Draco looked from Harry to his aunt and back again, and felt the betrayal of what Harry had just said begin to sink beneath his skin. The tears were beginning to well up in his eyes again - he had to get out of here as soon as possible.

He thanked his aunt for her time quickly and opened the front door again, striding into the front garden and getting ready to apparate to the inn.

"Draco, wait!" Harry called after him, running outside to catch him before he left. Draco ignored him and just kept walking forward, trying his best to keep the tears from falling in front of Potter. He didn't turn around until Harry had grabbed his shoulder and called his name again. He looked into Harry's eyes, and realized that the pain that he was feeling right now was greater than anything he had felt when he was with Delev the night before.

"You knew about my parents," Draco said slowly, "about my mum, and the ministry, about everything that was happening, and you kissed me and then avoided me like the plague for three, fucking months?"

Harry looked taken aback; clearly he had not thought about his actions from Draco's point of view.

"Draco I didn't - I didn't know any of that when I kissed you. I'm sorry."

Draco pulled himself out of Harry's grasp and began to keep walking, trying to summon up the strength to apparate again.

"Draco, stop." Harry said, following him as he walked. "I tried writing, I just couldn't sort through what to say to you... And besides, you kissed me back! And you left! You left... and you didn't say anything, and I didn't think you wanted anything to do with me after that."

"I was scared!" Draco said, raising his voice in response to Potter's accusation. "I didn't know what to do, and I'd been seeing someone at the time, and I didn't want to hurt anyone more than necessary."

"Oh, that's rich," Harry said, rolling his eyes dramatically. "How do you think I felt when you just up and vanished without another word? Without even an explanation? I'd never kissed a bloke before, and you just left me standing in the kitchen wondering what I had done wrong — I hardly spoke to anyone for weeks after that."

"This is a little more complicated than your fragile sexuality, Potter."

Harry ignored his comment and proceeded, following Draco through the garden so he couldn't just apparate and escape.

"I'm sorry, okay? I shouldn't have waited. I should have written to you. It just... It was a lot for me to process."

"Well you processed it rather quickly, didn't you?"

Harry arched an eyebrow, taking a step away from Draco.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"The Weasley girl. You were back with her in less than a month. I saw you two in Diagon Alley."

"Oh, so you were following me?" Harry said, his expression growing more incredulous by the minute. "You're sounding more and more like a jealous schoolgirl..."

"I wasn't following you. I live there, Potter," Draco spat, the tears now completely gone from his eyes as anger began to course through his veins. "Because your ministry took my house, and my family, and my inheritance, and everything I had just to punish me for what my father did."

"You mean for being a death eater?" Harry responded, raising his voice to match Draco's as he began to lose his patience. "For wanting all of the Muggleborns dead? For trying to deliver me straight to Voldemort on a silver platter?"

"Fuck you. I've been through enough for him, I don't need your lecture right now."

"Tell me I'm wrong! Tell me you wouldn't have turned me over to your precious dark lord when given the first opportunity."

Draco took a step towards Harry this time, challenging him to say something else.

"I was given thousands of opportunities." Draco said, his tone now cool and his voice steady. "Don't you dare tell me what I would have done with your life. I'm not my father, I didn't want him to win any more than you did."

"Could have fooled me with that dark mark on your arm."

He flinched internally at the reference to his tattoo; he didn't think Harry had ever seen it before, and he wondered how he knew it was there. He took great care to keep that particular artifact of the war a secret. The only time he even exposed it to himself was late at night after a couple glasses of bourbon, when he pressed a cursed dagger he had gotten from his aunt's old things into the dark, inky skin there, drawing crimson beads of blood to the surface. It had become a routine of his, a release of the pressures that had built up within him throughout the day, and he looked forward to the dark hours where he could sit in isolation, relishing in the pain he was producing. Over the past couple months, the scars had defaced the skull on his arm so that it hardly looked like the same marking, but there was no way he had found yet to fully erase it from his body. It lingered now like a ghost from his past that he was ashamed to show in the daylight. It was cruel of Potter to address it, to make a mockery of his sins.

Draco clenched his wand in his fist, bringing it between Harry and himself. Harry stared at it, as if daring Draco to try something.

Draco would have given anything to have been in this situation a month ago. He and Harry were less than a foot away from each other, both of them breathing heavily and staring intensely into each other's eyes, but it wasn't at all what he wanted now. All he could feel at this moment was rage - some of it targeted towards Harry, but most of it towards himself. He couldn't undo the mistakes he had made, and if history had taught him anything, it was that the only way to make his problems disappear was to hide from them. Every time he tried to do anything differently, a new skeleton in his closet would emerge and rear its ugly head, forcing him into a battle he was too tired to fight. He deserved to suffer; he deserved to be alone right now.

"You don't know the half of what I've been through, Potter. It wasn't simple at all, I didn't have a choice."

Harry looked again at the wand in Draco's hand, probably wondering if he was planning on actually using it.

"People can make choices, Draco. You just let your parents' decisions unfold your life for you."

Draco nearly laughed at Harry's comment in light of the current situation. Harry had no idea the scope of Draco's decisions, especially the ones that had led him to the grave he was digging for himself now.

"That's easy for you to say, Potter. Your parents are war heroes who were dead before you could even speak. You don't know what it's like."

Harry placed his hand over Draco's clenched fist, lowering Draco's wand from its position on Harry's chest. Draco didn't feel much like resisting the movement, and, in spite of everything that was happening, he relished in the feeling of Harry's skin touching his own. It was warmer than he had expected, and jolted him back again to that morning in June, when they had abandoned their pride and surrendered to the raw passion that had always been resting right beneath the surface of every argument they had shared, waiting for someone to bid it forth. Draco looked back into Harry's eyes, wondering if the scene was going to organically recreate itself, if Harry was thinking the same thing that he was. The cool wind whipped at their faces and whistled through the trees that surrounded the cottage, and for a moment he felt himself getting lost in Harry's bright green eyes.

"Draco," Harry said finally, after what felt like several lifetimes had passed. "I know you're punishing me for what happened to your parents, and what...happened between us, but you were never alone then, and you're not alone now, either. I would have helped you if you had just -"

"Don't you dare. Don't say what you would have done differently, you spent every waking moment of that year trying to expose me."

Harry pressed his hand more firmly over Draco's, both of them still clutching Draco's wand.

"If you had just told Dumbledore what was going on, we could have protected you."

Draco narrowed his eyes spitefully, glancing again down at their hands.

"You couldn't have protected me from Voldemort. He would have killed me and my whole family before you even realized what had happened."

"It was never too late, Draco."

Dracto took that moment to whip his hand away from Harry's, not knowing how much longer he could bear thinking about that year, or the things he should have done differently before the war. At this point, there were too many regrets for him to even list in his head.

"Well, it is now."

Draco broke away from Harry, giving him a last, fleeting glance and turned towards the garden once more, beginning to walk away until he could get away from Harry's reach.

"Draco, wait - don't leave -"

But before he had heard the rest of what Harry had to say, Draco had clenched the wand again in his hand and used it to transport himself away from the cottage.

...

He stumbled a little upon apparating into Diagon Alley, and the realization that he hadn't eaten anything in the last couple of days hit him like a ton of bricks. He had grown so used to the gnawing pain in his stomach that he wasn't sure if it had anything to do with hunger anymore.

A pair of witches shopping together stopped in the street to give him a strange look as he grabbed onto the wall of the Leaky Cauldron for stability. He must have been quite a sight, all skin and bones and sunken eyes, stumbling his way through the street in broad daylight.. he averted his gaze from them and continued on, swallowing another wave of nausea that welled up in the back of his throat.

He shouldn't have said those things at the house. He shouldn't have left again before letting Potter say his final piece, but he couldn't let Harry talk any more about how things might have been better now if Draco had acted differently - It was almost too painful for him to imagine the possibilities of what might have been. He couldn't dwell any longer in that state of regret, all the while mourning the place where he had ended up. The only person he didn't have to push out of his life anymore was his mother, because she was dying in the hospital already, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. As he staggered up the stairs past the usual, Tuesday afternoon crowd and into his room, the feeling dawned on him that he had finally reached the end of his rope. He had done everything possible to fuck up the only good things in life that he had. He was a coward, a prostitute, and now a murderer - he had managed to turn everyone in his life against him. There couldn't possibly be any coming back from this.

He reached into his desk drawer for his whiskey, feeling already more numb than he usually did after a couple of tumblers in. It was strangely comforting, knowing that he didn't have any more pain after this. He didn't know what was on the other side, but he knew it had to be better than this wretched excuse for a life.

He pulled out three scraps of parchment from his old school trunk, which sat in the corner of the room. He at least owed an explanation to those who would hear about his death.

Potter's voice was ringing in his ears as he wrote the words, scrawling and drinking whiskey and then pouring the first shot of Laethelixir into his glass. The euphoria was unbelievable - instantly he was hurled into waves of pleasure more intense than the best physical high he had ever experienced. He began to write faster, letting the words spill out onto his parchment, his brain feeling powerful and wonderful and so, so happy... He smiled with the second vial he poured into his cup, and then the third. He thought of Potter's face, of how his green eyes had lit up when they had first seen Malfoy in his aunt's kitchen. Despite everything that he had said, he remembered the surge of joy, the butterflies he felt in the pit of his stomach upon seeing Harry's face. Recalling the sensation brought a strange sense of comfort, a feeling of nostalgia for a home that was not his to return to.

...

It was ironic, he thought to himself as he felt his brain slipping from consciousness after the seventh glass, that this was as alive as he could remember feeling in his whole life.