Standard Disclaimer: Harry Potter & co belong to J.K.Rawling. Original characters belong to me. Quotes within the text will be attributed to their authors to the best of the author's ability.

Summary: A little pain, A little loss, A ton of history … and you've got this story. The Original Characters were created in order to facilitate the story line … which is difficult to describe right now without giving things away. Let me just say that it is going to be HP/DM, RW/HG … and I don't know what else in this story … except RL/SB and maybe later, RL/SS. So there are the ships.

The Plot involves the past actions of some bad guys, the current actions of more bad guys, two lost souls coming together (not necessarily Harry and Draco :P) and a lot of magic.

Chapter Two: Collisions

You only got one finger left

And it's pointing at the door

And you're taking for granted

What the Lord's laid on the floor

So I'm picking up the pieces

And I'm putting them up for sale

Throw your meal ticket out the window

Put your skeletons in jail

Beck

"Lemon Drop?"

He didn't like lemon drops, though some would say lemons suited his personality. He didn't like Albus Dumbledore, either. The man spent his time plotting the downfall of Dark Lords, bridling men in power with his logic, and maneuvering people into the carefully wrought paths he had planned for them. He did it all in a way that would have made Salazar Slytherin proud - all while he beamed and smiled, offering children candy and ignoring unpleasantness as he simultaneously shredded his opponents with a brand of kindness that was as insidious as it was irresistible. Lucius Malfoy had considered Albus Dumbledore to be a dangerous old fool, but, as Draco had already come to the conclusion that his father was not properly employing his intelligence, he did not personally hold the same opinion of Hogwart's Headmaster. Of course, he had to admit to himself that, up until recently, he would have been more than proud to agree with his father's estimation.

The Headmaster of Hogwarts was a wily old man and he had a gift for seeing through one's actions directly to the motivations behind them. It didn't help that he practically channeled Father Christmas while he did so. Draco had never trusted him and he half believed that, despite Dumbledore's current status as the Grand Scion of Griffindor House, in another life the old man had been a Slytherin.

That is why he gave the offered lemon drop a look of deep and sincere suspicion before taking the offending object and popping it into his mouth.

"Thank you, Sir," he said politely, waiting to see if there would be any after-effects from the candy. Fortunately - or not, depending on one's point of view, and Draco had been half hoping to find Dumbledore willing to use underhanded methods such as putting Veritaserum in the lemon drops - the candy had no effect upon him whatsoever, except to make him wince a little at the sour taste.

"Very welcome," the blue eyes were twinkling behind the half-moon spectacles, though Dumbledore's expression was somber. "I was wondering, Mr. Malfoy, why you would abandon your summer holidays to visit school. It is not what one would call the ... ah ... natural behavior of youth. As much as I might admire your apparent dedication, it seems that you have something you very much need to tell me, and that, alas, has nothing to do with a fervor for your school work."

"Indeed not," he gave an elegant sniff and ran his hand through his hair. It was much easier to do now that he no longer coated his head in gel every morning and had let the length grow to his shoulders. His mother liked to say that he was looking more and more like his father. Draco could see the resemblance as well, but he thought he had a quality his father did not. Something of his mother's family dwelt in his eyes ... a fire beneath the ice. Perhaps it was just the Veela blood - still, he could feel the pulse of it in his veins. However, the ice was a part of him as much as the flame, and it was the ice that served him best during negotiations.

"Professor, you're aware that my father and mother are Death Eaters," he began, cutting straight to the point. "My parents expect that I, too, will become a Death Eater, and I was prepared to accept that fate ... I welcomed it, actually." He fell silent for a moment, trying to find a way to continue. It was harder than he had thought it would be, denouncing everything he had ever known to be true. He was careful to school his expression into one of utter calm - it would do no good to give the Headmaster more information than he already had.

"What changed your mind, Draco?" Professor Dumbledore asked, and he somehow managed to sound just teacherly enough to make Draco resent the question completely.

"What wouldn't?" He asked back, his voice harsh. "You've met Voldemort, you know what he is. Certainly he has power. A great deal of it ... but he's nothing more than a hideous, rotting shell who hates muggles because he doesn't know what else to do with that power. He's bloody starkers! My father has served the Dark Lord's purpose throughout his life, and he's one of the only sane ones in the bunch. The only thing that has saved him up until now is the Malfoy name, and even that has failed him. Voldemort has left my father to rot in Azkaban and constantly demands funds and favors from my mother in support of his 'cause'." He drew in a breath, realizing as he did so that he was trembling – he kept seeing his mother's face as they had said goodbye.

"I will not allow them to use me the way they use my father," he said softly, pressing a hand to his eyes. "I won't be a servant to anyone ... they were going to force me to swear allegiance to the Dark Lord tonight. It never occurred to them that Lucius Malfoy's son might object to taking the Dark Mark, and, if I had stayed, I would have taken it … whether I wished to or not." Inhaling deeply, feeling his lungs inflate, he dropped his hand and met Dumbledore's gaze with a fierce glare of his own. "I'd rather die with Potter than die that monster's slave."

"Brave words, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco tilted his head, silver gray eyes glinting, "You mistake me for a Griffindor, Professor. I'm hardly doing this for the good of the wizarding world."

"So you seek some opportunity in all this?" Dumbledore replied, and the glint behind his half-moon spectacles made Draco think of the possibility of Dumbledore's previous lives again. Dumbledore stroked a hand through the long, fleecy beard that fell down his chest. "If you join us, you may actually die with Harry Potter, whether you will it or no." The old man laughed, "Who knows? Perhaps you may be forced to become fast friends for the cause!"

"So long as you don't require that we host tea parties together for the Griffindor girls, I think I can manage Potter," Draco shrugged, his lip curling slightly. He had no intention of becoming one of Potter's many sycophants.

"No, I don't think we'll be requiring you to do that," Dumbledore rose and stepped up to his fireplace, gesturing to Draco. "Come along, my boy. We are going to have to make living arrangements for you for the summer. You can't stay here."

Draco followed the headmaster to the fireplace and gazed into the crackling flames with misgiving. He hadn't thought much beyond this meeting with the Headmaster, and now they were heading into the unknown.

He wasn't certain he liked the unknown any more than he liked lemon drops.

Firien sank low on her stool and peered out at the newcomers through the carved Celtic knot work that adorned the edge of the store counter. She admitted that she was behaving childishly, but it was difficult to care. The possibility that a stray hex had flared out of Knockturn Alley and struck her shop was never remote, and compounded with the day, it was becoming more and more likely. Some of the neighbors really didn't like her anymore than they had to and would welcome the chance to torment her in anyway they could. She wasn't about to present herself as an open target to just anyone who came into the store.

The door opened amid a chorus of chimes from the shop bell and three people stood silhouetted in the daylight for a moment. Then one of them, a girl, made a delighted noise and stepped through onto the polished wooden floor toward one of the many towering, dusty bookshelves. The next, a boy with absurdly loud red hair slouched behind her, barely paying attention the stock and appearing only mildly interested in the gadgets that decorated the tops of all the shelves.

She found herself standing straight as the last figure melted out of the bright square of the door and came to being on the floor of her shop. More than that, she was moving forward, noting the dark hair, the rounded glasses and the pain-filled eyes as though compelled. It took a sudden, purposeful wrench to pull herself back into reality, and she was, by that time, standing directly in front of him, listening to herself speak.

"I know you."

It was more than the photograph on the table upstairs. The green eyes that were staring at her with shock and suspicion had a power in them that would not let her free. Wild and familiar, the power sang through her veins and carried her with it down a path she had not thought to ever trod again. Something deep in her heart was screaming that an empty place she hadn't known existed was suddenly, irrevocably full … a magic so deep that it made her head spin and she staggered.

The wand digging into her ribs brought her abruptly back to reality.

"I don't know who you are, but I do recognize what you're doing," he said. "And I don't care for your methods. Death Eater."

"Oh," she said, not quite knowing what else to do in the situation, "Brilliant. Bloody Brilliant. I'm going to kill Snape."

After all the lessons he'd had in Occlumency, whether he'd been paying attention or not, the feeling that someone was looking through his thoughts was more than a little familiar. The willowy woman with her long, jet black hair and weirdly gold eyes had an unfocused expression on her face as she stared into his eyes. He felt an energy sizzle between them and a surge of pent-up rage freed his wand arm and he'd forced her to back off.

And then she said something completely witless about Snape.

"You know Professor Snape?" He'd asked, wondering if Ron and Hermione were watching. To one side of him a large tortoise shell cat was giving him an alarmingly friendly look while she stretched and flexed her claws. On the other, several teetering piles of books loomed dangerously. It gave him precious little space to dual, he thought, panicking.

"Of course I know Severus Snape," the woman snapped, stepping away from him and tucking her hands into the sleeves of her robe, watching him warily – as though he might suddenly bite or scratch. "He was here this morning! I was already blaming him for the day I've had ... I think I can blame him for your presence as well."

"What are you talking about? He had nothing to do with us coming in here!"

"Oh. Really. So he just happens to come to my shop, offer me a job he knows I don't want, shows me a picture of your darling face to sway my shriveling, antique heart, and you expect me to believe that he had nothing to do with having you enter my shop not even twelve hours later?" She gave him a truly withering glare. "You can tell him from me that I do not accept his most generous of offers and that I am not about to be swayed by brooding teenaged boys, no matter how deserving of sympathy."

Hermione and Ron were, by this time, distracted from the books and gadgets and were creeping out to stand behind him, their wands at the ready. Harry nodded to them with a grim half-smile and murmured, "She's gone completely round the bend."

"Comes from having a shop this close to Knockturn," Hermione murmured back, tossing a lock of hair over her shoulder. "And no need to call her heart antique ... she can't be much older than Percy."

"Was she talking about Snape?" Ron wanted to know.

At this point the shopkeeper gave them all a disgusted look and threw up her hands, turning and walking back toward the counter. "Go away. I have enough to occupy my day without having to spend time arguing with children."

"Don't move," Harry said, leveling his wand. "You were trying to read my mind. I reckon you should tell me why."

She paused, setting one foot beside the other, and, for a moment, didn't move at all. She seemed like a statue, she was so still. The long black hair was braided here and there, Harry saw, and tied with intricate knots. The brown robes lay very still about her figure. When finally she moved, it was to turn her head, her golden eye gleaming at him from just behind a lock of hair.

"I am no mind reader, Harry Potter. I don't know what happened when you entered my store. It is bad manners to draw your wand upon your host, particularly when that host has not, in fact, offended. I am going back to the counter. If you don't mind, I'd prefer that you left now."

"C'mon Harry," he felt Hermione pulling on his sleeve, but he didn't move. Ron was saying something, but he didn't listen. He could feel it again, the power between the stranger and himself, and, he realized, it had never actually stopped since he'd entered the bookshop. It felt as though her magic were … touching … him.

"What are you doing to me?"

His voice seemed to stretch and slow, time moving inexorably, painfully as she turned full around, her left eyebrow quirking upward as she moved.

She opened her mouth to answer his question and a puff of smoke erupted from the fireplace next to her, covering her with soot all down her right hand side. The haze of ash from the fireplace seemed to roll through the shop like a fog. Someone dressed all in blue with flaming sunbursts and twinkling stars spattered over his robe stepped out of the fireplace, dusting himself off as he moved forward, smiling.

"Bloody Hell," Ron murmured.

"Dumbledore?" Hermione asked.

Firien folded her hands into her sleeves, somehow managing to look dignified despite the dust covering the entire right side of her face. She watched with impervious calm as Dumbledore took several moments to dust off and sort himself out. When he was finished, he twinkled at her happily.

"It seems you've already met Harry, Hermione and Ron," he chuckled, finally pausing long enough to take a good look at her. "My dear, what on earth happened? You look rather odd, if I may say so."

Harry, having been watching the woman's face, hurriedly tucked his wand away, thinking pessimistically that Dumbledore had to have noticed it already, but determined not to stand there like an idiot any longer. He heard Hermione muttering behind him, and grinned a little at the, "I think we overdid it somewhat."

I doubt you're here to discuss the condition of my fireplace, Albus. I would find it utterly -fascinating-, however, if you were to tell me what in the Seven Hells are you doing in my shop? And who are all these ... these ... Children!?!"

Dumbledore gave a rumbling laugh and then waved his hand in the air, "I think that we should discuss this upstairs, don't you? Over a nice, hot cup of tea?"

The shop seemed to grow very quiet as the woman, ash in her hair, rage on her face, attempted to breathe. In and out, in and out, her chest rose and fell until, finally, something bright and orange brushed against her leg and mewed up at her, tail swishing. She looked down and met the bright eyes of the cat.

"Fine. We'll go upstairs. But that is all. You can do the talking." She bit out. "I want as little to do with this as possible."

Harry, as they followed the woman upstairs, looked behind and saw the cat settling once more upon the large spell book in the center of the shop. The cat glanced back and met his eyes, slowly blinking at him before curling into itself and tucking its nose beneath its tail.

The werewolf was staring at him. He didn't like it. At all.

But that didn't change anything, because the werewolf was still staring at him.

"I don't bite, you know," Remus Lupin said conversationally, after about ten minutes worth of staring.

"That's comforting," Draco answered, barely managing to maintain a calm voice. He'd never been fond of undomesticated magical creatures. He could tolerate Familiars like cats and toads, he rather liked owls, and the occaisional magical dog was all right ... but he really didn't like wild magic like werewolves, griffons and the like. He had a certain kinship with dragons, but that was about as far as his creature tolerance extended. He wished Lupin would stare at someone else. But the other three people in the room were all staring at him as well and not providing much in the way of werewolf distraction.

"I don't like it," Mad Eye Moody muttered, after another ten minutes had passed.

"What's not to like?" Lupin inquired, politely sipping his tea.

"The lad's not here out of the goodness of his heart," Moody grumbled, his eyeball swirling sickeningly in its socket. Draco watched with a certain fascinated horror, suppressing a shudder. "If it suits his purpose, he'll betray the lot of us."

Draco glared at that. "I gave Dumbledore my word," he snapped. "I'm not about to break it."

"Your father would," Molly Weasley said from the other end of the table. "In a heartbeat."

Remus Lupin nodded. "Lucius Malfoy would, indeed," he agreed. "But the boy is not his father."

Draco looked at Lupin, shocked. He hadn't expected to be defended. The werewolf smiled slightly, "If Dumbledore vouches for you, Mr. Malfoy, then I have no problem with you. In any case, you are in no position to betray us. Your father has a long memory, and Voldemort's is longer. You wouldn't make it back to the Death Eaters alive."

Every since Dumbledore had brought him to this grimy little kitchen, there had been no relief from the painfully blunt observations and accusations. The only one who didn't, or wouldn't, say anything was Professor Snape. He just glared and sipped his tea, looking murderously down at the liquid each time he did so, as though it offended him deeply, before looking back at Draco with the same expression on his face. At Lupin's words, Snape took another sip of tea and Draco turned his gaze away from the table and its occupants, seeking some kind of refuge in the familiar objects around him: a teacup, a Belligerant Bottle Clock that had been charmed not to emit foul smelling bubbles on the hour, an iron dustbin that looked like a really fat troll ...

Draco blinked. Where on earth was he? This kitchen seemed like something out of the Parkinson's house, rather than the kitchen of someone like Molly Weasley, whose dustbin would never dare look like a troll. He pushed back his chair and turned around, ignoring Mad Eye Moody's exclamations and Snape's sharp glance.

"You've got to be joking," he murmured at last. "Dumbledore's fantastic spy network is housed in ... in ...," he couldn't even say it. It was too ludicrous! Yet, he had been here once before, long ago, when he was about six and his father had taken him to meet his relatives on his mother's side. They'd sent him to the kitchens with his nurse and he'd been happy enough to play with that very same clock.

"This is the Black House ... I've been here before. Back when old Mrs. Black was alive." He gave the other people in the kitchen a long look before meeting Lupin's gaze once more. "I seriously doubt she'd want all of you mucking about in her house."

"It's no longer a part of the Black families' posessions, lad," Moody replied shortly. "After Mrs. Black passed on, it was entailed to Sirius Black, the last surviving heir to the Black Estate. One Mr. Harry Potter purchased it at auction through an agent on the event of Black's death in a very private transaction at Gringott's bank." The old man's expression wasn't -quite- mean enough to be spiteful, but Draco wasn't convinced that the man's facial muscles were entirely under his control.

"So this is Potter's house." He hoped he was sneering with an appropriate amount of venom. Molly Weasley gave an exasperated sigh and sipped at her tea.

"Yes, it is Harry's now." Lupin answered. "And it is also the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. Of which you are now a member."

"I see. So, as a member, I assume that I am not a prisoner. I was beginning to have my doubts."

"No, you're not a prisoner, Malfoy," Moody commented, "but it really depends on how you behave as to whether or not that status will change."

Draco gave the man a cold look, "I'm hardly deficient in manners: 'protecting my own interests' and pursuing information concerning those interests is hardly to be faulted, given the circumstances."

Had his father heard him, he would have been proud, Draco thought as he spoke; however, his father was in Azkaban and probably had other things on his mind.

Suddenly he didn't feel like talking to these people who stared at him and saw what they wanted to see. They didn't trust him anymore than he trusted them and that paled in comparison to what he'd done to his family name. He had not yet allowed himself to really consider the situation, and now, among such hostility, he was beginning to feel the weight of what he'd done.

"Excuse me," he stood fluidly and brushed his hair out of his eyes, the picture of nonchalance and teenaged savior faire belied only faintly in his eyes. "Is there a restroom?"

They told him and he turned, aware of Moody's suspicious glare and Lupin's sad expression. As he passed, however, he found his head of house staring at him with piercing eyes and realized that he could never hide himself from Snape. His hand trembled and he clenched it tightly into a fist. He would not allow them to see him as weak. But as he found himself alone, at last, without the fear that someone would drag him back to his family, he sank down to the floor and put his hands over his face, the façade of everything he pretended to be falling to the ground in tatters.

"I won't back out of this," he exhaled into his fingers. At the table, with Moody, Lupin, Mrs. Weasley and Professor Snape all staring at him, he had wanted to leave. He had wanted to run. A Malfoy's sense of self-preservation was the highest developed of all their senses – and he had run … to the bathroom – but even as he did so, he had known that he couldn't go further, he couldn't step out the door into the cold world where Voldemort and the Death Eaters would surely be waiting.

Draco sighed, leaning his head back against the tiled wall. It would be curious to see Harry Potter's face when he came home that night and found his school rival already there. A grin played about the corner of his lips and he stifled the urge to chuckle. That alone was worth something, to see Potter's face go pale and then red with anger while the Weasel and Granger spluttered behind him. He shook his head and pushed himself to his feet, leaning forward over the sink to peer at his reflection before going back to the kitchen.

His reflection in the mirror showed him a face much paler than usual, which made his eyes stand out like twin moons of pale silver. He looked haunted. "That's no good." He grumbled, pulling out his wand and casting the grooming charm he'd learned from his father. He'd learned everything he knew from his father: how to think, how to behave, how to be a Malfoy. It hurt, remembering, but it would be a cold day in hell before Draco Malfoy looked anything less than perfect, so he used his father's charm and set his face into a carefully mixed expression of hauteur and chill civility.

The only comfort was, at least here, the tea parties weren't boring.