See disclaimer in part one
A/N- Arrg. I *hate* posting my work. As soon as I hit the button to finalize it, I immediately notice at least a dozen slip-ups, inventive grammar, and awkward sentences, or I'll think of some particular word or phrase that would have worked much better then what I used. I have gone through and fixed some of the more obvious stuff. I needed to have Muggle' capitalized for instance, and italicize the spells. I'm sure I'll find more later.


Chapter 2
In which some things are made clearer, and some things aren't.
++

Draco hadn't had very many surprises as he aged. Watching his father as he grew up had given him a clear idea of what he could expect as the years went by, and that had held true for the most part. His hair had yet to show any gray, and his eyes were still sharp, although he did keep a pair of nonprescription glasses handy for reading extra fine print. A light tan provided for contrast against his silvery blond hair, and his face had softened somewhat with age. He held a gym membership, and watched what he ate to a certain point. While the only six-pack he could lay claim to was the one in his mini-fridge, he was in better shape then most people he knew. Muggle health care was most certainly not up to his standards, and he did his best to avoid ever having to depend on the butchers that passed for doctors here. He had no dearth of willing partners for late night escapades, and had been called attractive by people objective enough to be taken seriously.

If time had been friendly to him, it had most certainly adored Harry Potter. The wild black hair was a touch longer then he'd remembered, the shoulders a bit broader on what was still a lean frame. He could easily pass for his late twenties, thirty if an observer was being unkind. He wore charcoal gray Dockers and a white polo, and would have fit in perfectly at the party earlier. Draco felt exposed and vulnerable barefoot in his robe and boxers, with his wand packed away only God knows where. It had been years since he'd even set eyes on the thing. Magic and pretending to be Muggle tended to not mix well, no matter how handy you were at Memory and Disillusionment Charms. He couldn't begin to guess at Potter's reason for being here, although he doubted it bode well for him.

You're different, Potter said after a moment, cocking his head to side as an owl might while studying a particularly tasty looking rabbit.

Well, yes. Twenty years will do that to a person. I suppose you're taking me back? He was proud of how level his voice stayed. A Malfoy never lets his thoughts show. How many times had his father drilled that into him? A hundred? A thousand? Fat lot of good it had done him.

Not quite. May I? Potter gestured to the ottoman opposite Draco, then settled himself down smoothly, the grace of that cat still present in his human form. He was, Draco noted, quite attractive. He'd never appreciated that before. Of course, the last time they'd met, his tastes hadn't yet begun to run that direction. The situation, Potter continued, has become somewhat complex since you left. The Ministry seems content to place the blame for everything bad that's happened since Voldemort on your shoulders, mostly because you aren't around refute the accusations. Makes their lives easier. Though they did put considerable effort into looking for you the first few years. I even helped a bit.

Really? And where did you think I was? He truly was curious.

Potter grinned. Right here, he gestured at the room they were in. Or rather, close to it. A Malfoy living as a Muggle was so preposterous an idea that the Ministry refused to even consider it. Makes for the perfect hiding place. To be honest, even I wouldn't have found you if I hadn't caught sight of your name in a Muggle business magazine.

Draco was confused. This wasn't playing out how he had expected. You said they looked for me at first. Why are you here now?

Because I want to be. And that's all you need to know.

That's not very sporting of you Potter, he drawled, gazing at the man with a single eyebrow quirked up in question.

Sorry Draco, Harry shook his head. You get your secrets, and I get mine. That's how the game is played.

Fine. You're here. What now?

I would like your help. Well, that certainly came out of left field, Draco thought glumly. He fixed Harry with a wary eye.

With what? What the hell is going on that you would hunt me down and come to America to get me?

Nothing lethal, and yes, I know exactly what you're thinking. I wouldn't trust myself if I was in your place. There's been a string of murders in and around London. The Muggle police force feels that they're unrelated acts of violence, and the Ministry doesn't see any magic involved.

So what's got your hackles up then? And I'm still not seeing why this involves me.

Harry frowned as he thought, crossing his legs and leaning as far back as the ottoman would allow. Quite some time passed, and Draco began to wonder what the hell was going on, but finally Harry spoke.

I'm not sure, on either count.

Oh that's bloody helpful, he snapped, throwing his hands up. More then worth turning yourself into a stray and stalking me. California does have some very nice anti-stalker laws you know, and the Magic Bureau would be too damn lazy to come fix things if I did decide to have your arse tossed in jail. Talk! He had leaned closer to Harry with every word, until the other man was forced to duck back to avoid him. He almost succeeded in getting Harry to topple backwards off the ottoman, but alas, he saved himself at the last moment.

Are you quite through? Harry asked. Draco was pleased to note the strain in his voice. He'd shaken him up a little, at least. He nodded, motioning for Harry to continue. The murders have all been in places where fights took place between the Death Eaters and Aurors during the final battle. Only in spots where at least one person died in the fight. The victims all bear resemblance to those killed originally.

I don't see what the point would be. Unless the murderer is just a complete raving nutter. Though I would think the wizarding angle would be obvious.

Always a possibility, and you should know better then most that the Ministry couldn't find it's way out of a blind alley.

What else? he asked.

What makes you think there is anything else?

Oh come on Potter. What you've given me so far isn't worth a trip across the back lawn. What else is going on?

I take what I said earlier back. You haven't changed at all.



Harry sighed, and pulled a small square of tattered notebook paper out of his pants pocket. The victims all had this carved into their foreheads.

Draco mummered, reaching out to get the paper. That'd really ruin your day. The back of the paper was smudged with black, as though it'd been set on the asphalt while the drawing was done. The pencil lines were thick and unsteady, but the words were clear. I am become death, shatterer of worlds.' Robert Oppenheimer.

Harry was clearly startled. Probably expects me to confess to it now, Draco thought with some amusement.

I am become death. That's a quote from Robert Oppenheimer. I believe he had something to do with the first atomic bomb. Interesting choice for making a statement in a forehead though. How'd he make it all fit?

It's a Muggle thing then? How did you know that?

Draco shrugged. I watch Jeopardy now and then. Amazing what you pick up. You weren't expecting that, were you?

No. Not at all, Harry said, clearly shaken. I think we need to talk again.

Again? You're leaving now?

I'll come the same way I did tonight. I'm not sure when...probably within the week though.

Doorbell works, you know. Front door swings open and everything. It's really quite ingenious. Harry had already got up and headed for the window. He slid it open, fixing the screen the same way Draco had done earlier, then paused.

Be careful. I'm not sure what's going on, but it's not good. Oh, and nice boxers. With that last remark he blurred and shifted into the calico cat once again, and leapt into the night. Draco stared at the open window for a second, then glanced down at himself. He happened to like Pooh, thank you very much. He sighed, settled down to finish watching the X-Files, then thought better of it and got up to go in search of his wand. He had a feeling it was time to put a little magic back into his life.

The weekend passed without incident, and Monday and Tuesday rolled by with no more then the usual chaos. By Wednesday Draco was starting to wonder if the smog was finally starting to affect his brain, and on Thursday he'd made strides towards convincing himself that bad beer or food poisoning had caused hallucinations. Technically he'd been off of work for two hours now, but surfing the internet from his office at Lucidity was always preferable to time spent at home. Marie had scheduled an in-home Botox clinic for the afternoon, and a dozen ditzy wrinkled blondes packed into the living room was more then any sane man could be expected to cope with without going up on murder charges afterwards.

He'd started out by checking the stock prices as he always did, but found himself listing towards the London newspapers for information on the murders Harry had talked about. He'd found a small blurb from a month ago on a double murder outside a private airstrip, but nothing else. That surprised him. Had it happened in America, the news media would have been on it like flies on shit, no doubt claiming it as the work of a satanic cult, Aliens, Elvis, or perhaps all three working together. He glanced up from the web page as someone rapped on his door.

It was a repeat of the day before. Manilla envelope delivered by Fed-Ex, no identifying marks. No one saw or heard anything unusual.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

090000

He had his secretary go after the security guard this time.

he asked, once the man had been dragged into his office still half-asleep, the fuck is going on? Did you check out the letter from yesterday?

There was nothing outstanding Mr. Malfoy. I believe the home office is checking with Fed-Ex, but from what I've heard back there's nothing on that end, he said, yawning. Draco itched to leap over the desk and throttle the life out of him.

So you have nothing, he said. It was a statement, not a question, but the guard answered anyway.

We think it's a poem of some sort.

No shit. Do you think could actually do something besides scratch your ass and sleep on the job for the next few days, or am I asking too much? The man's face darkened, and he worked his jaw for a moment, but kept his retort down to a terse nod. Wonderful. Here, he snapped, shoving the letter at the guard. Take this, and investigate it. Just like your business card says. Corporate Security and Investigation Services. Still with me? The man nodded. Excellent. Now get the hell out of my office.
He turned away abruptly and walked over to the window, hands clasped behind his back. He allowed himself a slight sigh when he heard the door close. Idiots. Corporate stalking were funny as hell when they were happening to someone else. The humor was evaporating quickly now that he was the center of attention. He was sure it was some form of stalking, just a crazy Muggle. Perhaps one of those eco-activists. Lucidity did have quite a few accounts with oil and power companies. In any case, he was sure it was nothing to be overly worried about. Just another minor annoyance.


++

Have you discovered anything else? The man asked, huddled in the corner booth of a run down Denny's. He kept the cell phone pressed close to his ear, fighting to hear over the static. He could never understand how you could get perfect reception in one spot, then walk three feet forwards and loose it.

We think we've got a lead on who the top agent is. We still need time to confirm it though. Have you spotted the target again?

Yes, he's staying close to his schedule. He smiled, and waved off the waitress who had come over to refill his coffee. Don't you think we need to tell you-know-who what's going on? It's going to be his ass on the line if something goes wrong.

Not yet. Soon, but not yet. Do keep an eye on things though. The letters have me worried.

It could just be a Muggle stalker, he offered, but there was disbelief in his voice.

Possible, but quite a coincidence. I don't want to rule anything out though.

Agreed. Call as usual?

As always. He flipped the phone shut as the line went dead, and took a sip of his now cool coffee. Not that it had been very hot to begin with. Other then the lovely cockroach and peeling wallpaper ambiance of the place, he'd chosen the restaurant because it gave him a clear view of his target, who was currently being a very naughty boy. Even through the hand print smeared window he could clearly see the blonde head bent over the hood of the rusted old VW Bug, huddled together with four others studying a book the last man to arrive had brought. Of the four, one was supposed to be dead, one should have been in Azkaban, and the other two were unknowns, at least to the Ministry. He would have bet his life and his favorite armchair that they were also Death Eaters.

They were up to no good, he knew that, it was just a matter of discerning exactly what sort of trouble was brewing. There was an angry gesture, the book slammed closed. One of the unknowns, a unusually tall gray-haired man, had apparently raised the ire of the others. They turned against him, the blonde producing a wand from somewhere inside his designer coat. He frowned. There didn't seem to be any Muggles paying attention to the exchange, but that was certainly a risky move. The argument continued for a few minutes, before he abruptly dropped his coffee, not even noticing when the lukewarm liquid hit his lap. The gray-haired man was down on the ground, writhing and tearing at his hair. The blonde stood over him, smirking, while the other two stood back casting uncertain glances at each other. Cruciatus Curse. That it had been used bothered him greatly. In some ways, willingness to cause pain was worse then causing a quick death, and it signaled a shift in attitude. The stakes had been raised yet higher.
He itched to do something, but held himself back. He couldn't endanger the mission for the sake of a single life, especially one that had thrown his lot in with this sort of scum.

He looked up, startled. He had let himself get too absorbed in the scene, and he mentally berated himself. The waitress was standing over the table, gesturing at his lap. Your coffee?

Huh? Oh! He set the cup back on the table, and busied himself dabbing the mess up as best he could with napkins. God, If I was any clumsier! And it got on the booth..I am so sorry, he continued to babble on while still trying to keep the target in view out of the corner of his eye, but it looked like they'd moved to the far side of the Bug, and he could only see three heads.

It took him a few minutes to get rid of the waitress, sending her after more napkins. He used the opportunity to slip out, throwing a twenty at the startled waiter managing the register and jogging around to the back of the building. The Denny's lay just off of the freeway, directly across the street from the used car lot where his target was . He was taking a route that would take him under the freeway, across the street a block down, then up behind the car lot, ideally, without ever being spotted. He doubted he'd be recognized, but better safe then sorry. He put some effort into his jogging, only slowing down when he was in view of the main street so as to not arouse suspicions. A black man who looked like he was running from something tended to get people's attention, especially in this part of town.

The chain link fence surrounding the back of the car lot was locked, but it was somewhat of a moot point since the fence was falling down. He stepped easily over one of the missing sections, and slipped in behind a three wheeled Chevy. This was more then slightly dangerous, and against orders, but he had to find out more about what the target was planning. He could tell that there were voices nearby, but he was just far enough away that they blended together into an incomprehensible babble. Carefully, he started working his way closer, using the cars that were scattered here and there as cover.

He'd gone about twenty feet when the voices had fallen silent, and he wondered if perhaps they had left. Then they picked back up. Not as loud though, as if someone was missing. The adrenaline had started to run as soon as he'd began his little adventure, and he was practically wired now. He fancied he could feel his heart thumping against the inner wall of his chest, and his senses seemed unusually sharp. He thought of himself as the leopard hidden in the shadows, ready to pounce upon the unwary gazelle, a twentieth century warrior for the light. He'd spent the first fifteen years of this job behind a desk listening to boring people moan and complain, and another six being used as a glorified errand boy. His first real assignment, the first chance to really make a difference in the world, had found him chasing werewolves through the Scottish Highlands.

He'd come damn close to getting killed on that trip, and even closer to joining the fur of the month club. He hadn't though, and like the old adage says, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. One of the first and most important lessons he'd learned in Scotland was to never focus all your attention on a single person or group. Pay attention to all your surroundings. Though he seemed for all intents and purposes to be focused entirely on listening to the two Death-Eaters talk, he was still able to catch the sound of soft footsteps on pavement, and throw himself into a roll that carried him clear of where the Avada Kedavra struck. He was on his feet with wand in hand before it dawned on the other man that the killing curse had missed it's mark.

Accio wand! he shouted, grabbing the object as it flew to him. He leveled his wand at the blonde's chest. Stupefy! The man staggered back, momentarily stopped. He could hear the other two men approaching, and assumed the last one was dead by now. Three against one was still two too many, wandless or not, and he swore. He wasn't a good enough duelist to risk a real fight against other wizards. Werewolves, vampires, and creatures with no wands, yes. Wizards, no. Another opportunity gone to hell. he snarled, meeting stormy gray eyes with his own. There was a promise of violence in that gaze, knowledge that he'd kill just as easily bare handed as with his wand. It made him shiver, to glimpse such madness held in check with only the finest of threads. He snapped the wand in half and dropped it, the two remaining men arriving just in time to see him Disapparate from view.

Fuck it! he screamed once the stained beige walls of his motel room came into view. He threw his jacket at the wall as hard as he could, following up with an empty luggage bag when the jacket failed to make a satisfying enough thump. The coffee stained jeans quickly followed, and he stomped off to the tiny bathroom still cussing under his breath. He wasn't up to waiting the usual forty minutes it took the water to heat up, and helped things with a touch of magic. He moaned once the hot water hit him, throwing his head back and letting it run down his face. For what he paid a night he was lucky to have a shower at all, but he still thought longingly of the massaging shower heads he'd had access to the last time he'd stayed in a nice Muggle hotel.

In less then twenty seconds he'd managed to ruin five years of work. Now that Lucius knew someone was on to him he'd go underground, and it was going to be nearly impossible to find him again. How could he do something so incredibly stupid ? He stayed in the shower only long enough to scrub away the smell of stale coffee, and went in search of his cell phone with a tattered towel wrapped around his waist and his dreadlocks gathered in a loose ponytail. Somehow, the phone hadn't broken when he'd tossed the jacket, and he quickly dialed a familiar number.

Main office, Ministry of Magic. Mrs. Weasley speaking. How may I help you?

Why do you bother doing the spiel mione? Everyone knows you're the only person in the Ministry who has a telephone. He switched the phone from his right to left ear, propping it up with his shoulder while he began to rummage through his luggage for a clean set of clothes.

The same reason you insist on using one instead of just contacting me by owl or through fire. Besides Lee, I think Percy finally broke down and got one. What's wrong? You usually don't call back this quickly.

The smog would probably kill an owl. he joked, then sobered up. I fucked up mione. I fucked up bad. He laid the situation out uninterrupted. Hermione Weasley had a reputation of being a bitch that wasn't all that undeserved, but Lee Jordan had always found her to be fair and willing to listen a man out. That he was her husband's brothers' best friend probably didn't hurt things any. She laid out in no uncertain terms what a bloody fool he was, but then they got down to the business of fixing what had gone wrong.

++