Thank you all so much for the feedback! It's really lovely to see you all liking my story- it's my first, so I'm just very excited ^.^

And without further ado, chapter five!

******

As Harry walked to the Room of Requirement, he wondered what the current problem was. Of course, there were whisperings of a new war arising when he lived in Germany, but he did his best to ignore them; his feelings were that saving the world and losing so much in the process entitled him to live the rest of his life in isolation. It took fifteen years and the Hogwarts owl to beat the self pity out of his system.

Taking a deep breath, Harry opened the door and was presented with a group of thirty or so people, much larger then it was before. As he walked in, the chatter in the room ceased and within a second there was a loud cry of "Harry!" from all over the room, and he found himself in hugs from what seemed like a million arms. Trying to return all the embraces, he squeaked out a, "Hi."

A sharp voice from the back of the room- Minerva, no doubt- exclaimed, "Back off and let him breathe!" Most of the group moved back, except Hermione, who clung to him as if for her life.

"Oh, Harry, you idiot, you're back," she whispered, and took a step out to look at him, hands still on his shoulders. She looked so different then when he last saw her- of course, he'd received photographs every year, but seeing her in person was different. She was just so- old. It was slightly unnerving.

"Yeah, I am," he replied. Minerva cleared her throat from the back of the room. "We'll talk later," he added, flashing a smile at his other old friends- George, Angelina, Seamus, Remus Lupin, Arthur Weasley, and a crying Molly Weasley, among others. He sat himself at the table and looked around. Besides his old friends, others he knew were sitting at the table: Draco was sitting between a graying Severus Snape and, of all people, Millicent Bulstrode. Snape was glaring at him, so Harry flashed his brightest smile at the man before Minerva started speaking.

"I'm most glad you all could make it tonight. I felt the need to have one more meeting before school gets into full swing, seeing as some of our members will be very busy. To start things off- Severus, Draco, Millicent, any word from Lucius?"

Millicent and Snape shook their heads, and Draco said, "I visited my mother a week ago and she said she hadn't seen him since May. He's been sending her owls but she has no idea where they're from. I think she's telling the truth."

George snorted, "You would." Oddly enough, Hermione shot him a glare.

Harry was rather confused. "Excuse me, Minerva, but I really have no idea of what's going on."

The Headmistress nodded, and glanced at Hermione. "Would you take Harry outside and explain the situation to him while we go over business?" Hermione nodded, and the two ducked out the door.

"Hermione, why is the-"

Hermione shook her head, and told him, "It's a continuation of the last war, Harry. We never apprehended Lucius Malfoy, and he became even more power crazy than he was before. He's started a group called the Malevolence with the intention of continuing Voldemort's work. He's already attacked the ministry twice- he killed the old Minister himself- and there've been about five raids on Muggle towns. He's gained supporters quickly, mostly children of those who were on Voldemort's side in the last war and nearly all of the survivors."

Harry closed his eyes for a moment to take the news in, and sighed. "Why did Minerva ask Draco and Snape and Millicent whether they'd seen Lucius? Are they spies? And I understand trusting Draco and Snape, I guess, but Millicent Bulstrode?"

Hermione flushed an angry red. "Harry Potter, do not even think a bad thought towards Millicent. Asides from being a wonderful spy, which as you guessed the three are, she's very changed from the girl we knew in school. Her husband was a Death Eater, and used her eldest son as a shield in one of the post-Voldemort skirmishes. That woman has been through too much for you to go accusing her of being untrustworthy!"

At Hermione's impassioned defense of Millicent, Harry found himself baffled- until he remembered a similar rant to Hermione and Ron about Draco so many years ago.

"Hermione... are you... are you seeing her?" The idea was less alarming than it would have been years ago- age seemed to bring Millicent out of her hag-like appearance and made her look more motherly, like a scowling Mrs. Weasley.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am, and maybe if you'd owled more than a Christmas card over the past fifteen years you'd know about that! And the Malevolence and a million other things that you missed."

Harry winced, "I'm sorry, Hermione, I really am. I wish I could explain it to you but it's just so hard, and you wouldn't under-"

"Oh, you were upset about Draco leaving you and killing people in the war and Ron and Dumbledore and having a daughter by yourself, I know that. Don't presume me to be stupid."

"I didn't-"

"Did it ever occur to you that telling Draco, during your relationship, that you were planning on marrying Ginny Weasley might have taken away any incentive he had to stay with you?"

"Hermione, I'm sure this isn't what Minerva had in mind when sh-"

"Don't you interrupt me, Harold James Potter!" Harry was beginning to get the impression that years of motherhood had given Hermione an even more assertive personality than she had before. He found himself cowed into silence.

"Leaving Britain was one the single most selfish thing you did in your entire life! To all of us, to the Weasleys and your friends and Draco and me." Hermione's voice cracked, and the lecturing tone was replaced with an emotional one. "God, you left right after Ron died and Ginny died and I had two babies and no one. I needed you so much and you left. If the Weasleys weren't there-"

Hermione started crying again, and Harry wrapped his arms around her. "Shhhh, I'm glad the Weasleys were there for you. And I'm back now, and I'm going to try to fix everything I messed up."

Hermione looked up at him through her tears, quickly regaining her composure as she pulled out of the hug. "You have to talk to Draco."

"Why are you so concerned about him all of a sudden?"

"It's not all of a sudden," Hermione replied, sniffling and wiping her face dry with a handkerchief produced from her back pocket. "We've known each other for six years. We're friends. I'm also his therapist."

Harry blinked, and rubbed his forehead. "You have got to be kidding me."

"Not in the least. The business was one of the best to go into post-war, and most of the wizards didn't know about therapy." She smiled. "I'm almost as rich as you now."

Shaking his head in amazement, Harry started laughing. "It makes sense, actually. You analyze everything, so you must love analyzing people."

"Of course I do. Let's get back inside. I hope I look composed- Millie will kill you if she finds out I was crying. But really, take what I said into consideration- you have to talk to Draco. You never had any closure with him."

"I already talked to him, Hermione."

She shook her head, sighing in frustration. "Asking him why he left and talking to him are two separate issues."

"Whatever happened to patient confidentiality?"

"Oh, he told me about your little interrogation before the meeting. What he tells me in the office is entirely different. Now, come on."

And as they re-entered the Room of Requirement, Harry realized that not only would he have to help save the world, again, but repair all the bridges he burned the first time around.

*****

On the morning of the first day of classes, Draia curiously peered at her schedule as her year-mates chattered around her.

"Errr… Maggie?"

"Yes, Draia?"

"Um, what's Herbology? And why aren't I in Dark Arts?"

Maggie stared at Draia as if a herring had suddenly sprouted from her hair. "You can't take Dark Arts here, Draia. It's Hogwarts, for goodness sakes, not Durm- Oh."

"Yeah," said Draia, "We had Dark Arts at Durmstrang. They started teaching us the first two of the Great Trio last year."

"The Great Trio? And that is?"

"Cruciatus, Imperius, and Avada Ke-"

"You're into the Dark Arts, Draia?" asked Thomas Flint, with perhaps a bit more excitement in his voice than Draia was comfortable with.

"Not really into, per se, but I'm fairly well versed. Our Headmaster wanted to remove it from the offered courses, but the board of governors threatened to have him killed if he so much as called up a vote," she replied, shrugging. "I'm good at a decent number of curses, though it wasn't my best subject. I can cast Cruciatus fairly well, but I can only pull Imperius on someone who's already open to suggestion."

Maggie shook her head, and looked like she was about to comment when Garon asked Draia, "So what classes are you in? And what's your focus?"

"Well, I have Charms, Herbology- although I don't know what that is, yet-"

"Plants and magical stuff you do with plants. And magical plants," supplied Ally helpfully.

"Oh, right. Ridiculous, it sounds- there were no plants in Durmstrang. Too cold. Anyway, those two, Potions, Defense Against Dark Arts- I wish I could have opted out of that, my father's spent enough time teaching me that sort of thing as it is. Hmmm, anyway, also Arithmancy, Muggle Studies, and," her voice took on a reverential quality, "Transfiguration. Which will, of course, be my focus, once McGonagall finds out how wonderful I am."

McGonagall was to find out how wonderful she was quicker than she thought, as she found herself pulled aside by the professor before she even went to her first class.

"Miss Potter, I need you to come with me, please."

Draia's thoughts instantly flashed back to her cigarette on the balcony; had that brat Malfoy already ratted on her? Or there was that thing last night in the Astronomy Tower- "Am I in trouble, Professor?"

McGonagall shook her head, as she walked out of the Great Hall, Draia in tow. "No, of course not. Simply Hogwarts isn't used to accommodating transfer students, and we need to see what level you're at compared to your year mates. I imagine the curriculum at Durmstrang is quite different?"

"That's an understatement, but yes, Professor. It has different qualities."

McGonagall frowned- no doubt she knew what some of the 'different qualities' were. "Well, yes then. I will be administering a test to determine your capabilities in the subjects you're enrolled in. There will be nine questions for each subject- one for each major concept covered in first through seventh years, one at the professional level for the subject, and one at the master's level. If you do above or below the average for your year on any subject, I'll consider independent study or tutoring for you."

Taking in her instructions, Draia nodded at the elderly Headmistress.

"As I'm sure your Slytherin year mates have informed you by now, sixth year students choose one subject to focus on and take an extra independent study in, with approval from the professor. What would your subject be?"

'Transfiguration," answered Draia confidently.

McGonagall looked pleased. "Most students don't choose Transfiguration as their focus. It would be wonderful to have you as an advisee. We'll see if your skill on the test matches your interest in the subject."

Five grueling hours of writing later, Draia felt she had sufficiently demonstrated her skill. McGonagall spent lunch looking over her answers, and Draia was sent to eat in the Great Hall. She couldn't help being slightly annoyed about missing her first classes, but the Slytherins assured her they would supply her with notes. At the end of the meal, she returned to McGonagall's office.

As Draia seated herself, McGonagall smiled at her. "Miss Potter, your Transfigurations essays were fantastic! You successfully completed the first eight questions, and had a good idea of where you were going but a lack of detailed theory for the ninth. You are quite far ahead of your year mates in that. You also placed one year above your class in Muggle Studies, two in Defense Against Dark Arts, and although you placed at your own level in Charms it was but a careless mistake that kept you from placing a year ahead. I'd be tempted to place you in seventh year and let you forego your sixth-"

Draia positively beamed.

"-were it not for the fact that you performed almost abysmally in Herbology and Potions! And barely made this year for Arithmancy, as well. You're not even at first year level in Herbology, and barely passed fourth for Potions. Would you care to explain?"

Despite the chastisement, Draia found herself amused. "We had no Herbology at Durmstrang. Or plants, for that matter. And I hate Potions. And I hated our Potions master."

"Well, I certainly hope you don't feel the same way towards Professor Malfoy, or you're going to have quite the time." The Headmistress' expression softened as she said, "Now, why don't we test out your Transfiguration ability? For instance, would you turn the quill on my desk into a piece of liquorish? And then, if you can, into something living."

Pointing her wand, Draia muttered the spells and the quill changed to red liquorish, and the liquorish to a friendly green garden snake.

"Fantastic! Now, perhaps, if you could turn me into a shoe and back again?"

Draia blinked. Human transfiguration was a touchy subject- there was a lot that could go wrong, and her Durmstrang professor had only just begun to cover the essentials for the topic. Of course, Draia had read ahead and felt adequately proficient at the subject, but she had only tested things on herself before, and never someone else. Then again, McGonagall was a skilled professor, and probably perfectly capable of fixing any of Draia's mistakes.

Muttering a quiet prayer in her head, Draia pointed her wand at McGonagall and watched as she transformed into a sensible gray shoe. After a moment, she transfigured her back, beaming at her success. Her smile was matched by McGonagall's.

"You show a lot of promise in Transfiguration, Miss Potter. I will allow you to take it on as your focus, and furthermore exempt you from the classes with your year mates; instead, I'll devise a schedule of independent study for you and you'll check in with me for a lesson once a week."

Draia was delighted. "Thank you so much, Professor!"

McGonagall nodded in reply, "You're quite welcome, dear. I have a question for you, though- are you an Animagus?"

The blonde girl paled, biting on her lip before she responded, "I want to be. But I've tried and- I don't know, maybe I'm trying too hard." She shrugged.

The Headmistress nodded thoughtfully, "It's a helpful skill to have. Perhaps it will be something to work on during your studies this year."

"I'd like that. Am I done now, Professor?"

"Just a few more things to clear up. I'm going to allow you to drop Herbology in favor of having you devote more time to Transfiguration, but I expect the amount of work you do to be equal to that of two classes. All of your other classes, I'm leaving you with your year- I expect you'll learn different things here at Hogwarts than you did at Durmstrang. And for Potions, I'm assigning you a tutor, our top student. You'll meet with Harriet on Saturday Evenings in the Potions lab, with her father supervising."

"Excuse me, Professor," started Draia, piping up her most charming voice, "but you don't mean Harriet Malfoy, do you?"

"Why yes, Miss Potter, I do. Why? Is there a problem with that?"

Draia sighed. "No. No problem."

"Wonderful, then. You're excused- I believe you have ten minutes until your last class."

With a nod of acknowledgement, Draia hopped off the chair and kept a neutral look on her face until she left the room. "That little Gryffindor prat is going to tutor me? This could not possibly be worse!" she exclaimed, as she pulled out her schedule to find out what her last class was.

It was Potions.

"Nevermind."

******

Harriet adored Potions. For one, her father taught it, and therefore she was very rarely yelled at when she did something wrong. Not that she did very much wrong, since Potions was her best subject, and she one of the three top Potions students in the school. Another benefit was that, although her father was quite harsh towards the Gryffindors in other years in the traditional manner of Slytherin Potions Masters, he was more lenient to those in her class, particularly her friends. Then again, Mrs. Weasley would have yelled his ears off were he too insensitive to any of her children or numerous nieces and nephews.

Despite her love of Potions, Harriet abhorred the fact that her proficiency in the subject caused her to often be the tutor of choice for struggling students. Usually it was just tedious- she couldn't understand how they didn't just get it, it was only following instructions- but this time it was too much. She'd received a note from the Headmistress during late lunch asking her to tutor, of all people, Draia fucking Potter.

That obnoxious Slytherin who deemed it within her right, as a faculty child, to break the rules before school even started. And in such a disgusting manner, too- cigarettes. She despised wizard smokers, figuring they ought to know better than the Muggles who were the prime consumers of the noxious weed.

And it's not just that, she fumed in her head, There's just something about her that's not quite right. She positively reeks of Dark Arts abuse. Durmstrang. Honestly, did Professor Potter have no sense?

Drawing her thoughts away from the annoying girl (who was, even more annoyingly, sitting in the row in front of her), Harriet focused on the positives of today. Quidditch practice was going to start- she'd been groomed for the position of Seeker since she was six, and although she wasn't phenomenal, she was more than able to beat the Hufflepuff seeker, Jackie Macmillan, and usually the Ravenclaws' too, Matt Weasley, Megan's older brother. The Slytherins posed more of a problem, but their Seeker, Elizabeth Greengrass, graduated last year. There was no way they'd train a new Seeker up to the abilities of the other three within a year; Harriet could almost feel the Quidditch Cup in her hands already.

"Miss Malfoy!" It was always a shock to hear her father refer to her as that, but he couldn't very well call her Harriet, or worse, Rit, in class. "I hope your deep thoughts are about the potion you're brewing, since you have about ten seconds until a crucial point."

"Sorry," she responded, a light blush settling on her cheeks as she returned to her work. Andrew, her partner, elbowed her and whispered, "What was that about?"

"I'll tell you later," she responded, as she poured distilled Phlia dew into her cauldron.

After class, Andrew followed her out and Emily met them outside the door. "Again, what was that all about? You never daydream in Potions!" exclaimed Andrew, as they walked towards Gryffindor tower. Harriet appreciated all of the Gryffindors, but she was especially close to Andrew and Emily: they shared her passion for academics as well as her curiosity about the odd events that seemed to always happen at Hogwarts.

"I was thinking about Quidditch," Harriet told him.

"Quidditch doesn't distract you like that. What's wrong?" asked Emily.

"I just don't fancy teaching Potions to the new Potter girl, that's all. She's been here not two full days and she's already a thorn in my side. I just dislike her."

"She is my cousin, you know. She can't be all that bad," said Andrew.

Harriet huffed, as they started walking up the many stairs to Gryffindor. "I just get such a bad feeling from her- like she's up to something, maybe part of the Malevolence."

Emily gently said, "You can't judge someone's alliances on what they seem like, Harriet, you know that. A lot of students still think that you're part of-"

"I have nothing to do whatsoever with the Malevolence and you know it," retorted Harriet heatedly, speeding up her pace.

"We know that, Rit, but he is your grandfather! Besides, how could the Potter girl be with him? Think of who her dad is," said Andrew, sighing and running to catch up to Harriet as Emily did the same.

"He sent her to Durmstrang. He's blind."

Andrew and Emily cast a glance at each other, knowing the conversation would go nowhere- if anything Harriet was very outspoken against those who practiced the Dark Arts, and almost as paranoid as the old Auror Moody was said to be. It was partially her nature, and partially paranoia of being connected to her grandfather's initiative, that made her so antagonistic. Her father had to reprimand her on many occasions for her hostility towards Slytherins, and he was the only one of them she was willing to speak to in a friendly manner.

"So," started Emily, intending to change the subject, "how's Quidditch looking this year?"

Harriet rolled her eyes, recognizing the diversion tactic, but going along with it anyway. "With the addition of that obnoxious Irish girl as our new beater-" Emily smacked her on the back of her head, "-I think our team has the Cup. Gift wrapped, even. Of course, the Slytherins have a Weasley, which gives them an edge-"

"Though Maggie is more like Aunt Hermione than the other Weasleys, except maybe my father," interjected Andrew.

"Yes, well, they have her. But we have three. So we win. Lion pride," Harriet said to the Fat Lady, as she nodded at the three Gryffindors and let them into the common room.

"Well, at least nothing can go wrong with Quidditch this year. The Cup's ours," said Andrew, as the three made their way to the couch to start their homework.

******

Draco considered it his obligation to spend time in the Slytherin common room with his students. His theory was that if they had an adult presence, the chances of them getting into mischief and/or the Dark Arts would be lower. It also gave him a chance to bond with the students, who saw him as a protector in a time when, once again, Slytherins were under suspicion.

Currently, he was less engaged with talking to students and more engaged with fixing the hole in his Quidditch team. He loved his daughter dearly and hoped that she would win all of her matches- except those against Slytherin. He very much wanted to see the Quidditch Cup in Slytherin hands again, and the person he felt was key to doing so was sitting in front of the fire, glaring at the homework he had assigned in class.

"Miss Potter?" he asked, and she turned around, glancing at him. Those green eyes- exactly like Harry's. A pang of hurt rushed through his veins, but he pushed it into the back of his head to deal with later. "You played Quidditch at Durmstrang, correct?"

She nodded, "It wasn't quite as formal or celebrated as it seems to be here, since we didn't have houses,  but I played on my year's team as Seeker."

"I take it you won most of the time?"

"Of course," she replied with a smirk. Inwardly, Draco groaned. A smirking Weasley in Slytherin was mind bending enough- a smirking Potter was almost worse. Still, Draco remembered knew another Potter who occasionally smirked and revealed, oh so long ago, that he had a Slytherin side to him as well...

Quidditch. He was going to focus on Quidditch. Not certain older members of the Potter family.

"Our Seeker graduated last year, and we were going to hold tryouts for the position, but none of the students are really talented enough. You have the experience and, if you're anything like your father, the talent to be an excellent Seeker for our team."

Apparently thrilled at the notion, Draia nodded eagerly. "That'd be fantastic, Professor. Thank you."

He nodded, wished her goodnight, and began to walk towards his chambers. He wasn't sure he could take the sight of those delighted green eyes for much longer- they reminded him too much of Harry.

Once safely inside his sitting room, Draco collapsed onto a couch. "I do not like this situation. Not at all," he said to the ceiling, and the painted dragon on it seemed to nod in agreement with him, before returning to the task of attacking its own tail. The blonde's mind was buzzing with thoughts, mostly along the lines of Why did I fuck up so badly when I talked to Harry? and Why did I expect anything to be the same, anyway?

The rational part of his mind answered him, Because explaining why you ran out on him at the last second couldn't have ended any way but poorly, and because you want it to be. Maybe you need it to be. Arrogant prat.

He promptly told this part of his mind to shut up and mind its own business, thank you very much. Realizing that he was arguing with himself, he groaned, and pulled a pillow over his face. He wished he still had some of the haughtiness of his youth with him- he'd tell himself the whole thing would blow over, curse off Potter for being an idiot, and get on with things. Sixteen years as a single father had beaten out most of his overwhelming sense of superiority- though not all of it.

"He'll come around. I am a Malfoy, after all."