Disclaimer: The world and characters of Harry Potter are not mine. They belong to J.K. Rowling, and Warner Bros., and probably more than one publishing company. Note the absence of my name on that list. I do, however, claim ownership of the plot of this story, and Rosie the secretary.

Warning: This story contains slash. Slash- Genre of fanfiction involving pairing two male or female characters together; characters are commonly shown with a slash in between (1). If you don't like this sort of thing, do me a favor and DON'T READ IT, Go back now, and find something else to read.

Also, if you didn't notice in the summary, this contains HBP SPOILERS. If for some reason you have been living under a rock and have yet to read the 6th book I suggest turning around now if you don't want to know how it ends.

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Anodyne: AN-uh-dyn, adj. Serving to relieve pain; soothing. n. Any medicine which allays pain, as an opiate or narcotic; anything that soothes disturbed feelings. (2)

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I looked down at the notice in my hands, the paper was becoming soft and worn from the amount of times it had been unfolded, read, and folded again, but the feelings it evoked were still the same. Icy tendrils of dread, starting somewhere deep in my chest and spreading slowly outward, making my breath catch and my brain hum. Right there, as they had been since I first laid eyes on them a week ago, unmistakably addressed to me, with the peculiar specificity of address that spoke of Hogwarts acceptance letters, were the words, written in the unmistakable scrawl of the new Head Auror, mocking me in their refusal to change their message despite my wishes.

Your presence is required at the Ministry of Magic on 19 November 2007. You will report to my office at 11:25 am. You will be required to leave your wand in the custody of the security guards at the ministry's entrance. Lodgings have been provided for you in a non-magical hotel in London, the required information will arrive by muggle post shortly. Failure to comply with this summons will qualify as a breach of your probation.

His signature followed, small and tidy, contrasting heavily with the large ministry seal beneath it. I could feel the residue of his magic on the parchment, it served as a reminder that it was indeed him I would be seeing that day. It served as a different sort of reminder as well, a reminder of the last time I had felt his magic, seen him up close.

I had planned for that day, been consumed with the completion of my task the entire year. It was his fault that in the end I failed. I've never told anyone what caused me to choke that night, why I had been incapable of uttering those two final words, but it was him. Even under that invisibility cloak of his I knew he was there. The two brooms lying discarded on the ground were evidence enough even if I hadn't been able to feel his magic pulsing through the air, reeking of anger and betrayal and sadness. With him there, watching me, judging me, I couldn't do it. He was never supposed to know that I was the one who betrayed and murdered his mentor. When I had discovered that he was leaving the school grounds I had ordered that the mark be placed over the school; not to lure the old man back, but to keep him away. I loved him; I still love him, and probably always will. More importantly, once upon a time he loved me too. He hates me now, I'm sure of it. How could he not? I caused the death of his mentor. There was never a chance for me to tell him how sorry I was, how I had tried to spare him the knowledge of what happened.

The grandfather clock in my room sounded the half hour, causing me to snap out of my reverie. It was 10:30 and I would have to walk the distance from my muggle hotel room to the pay phone entrance of the ministry. I sighed, pulled on a heavy, though slightly faded, black trench coat, and placed the letter into a pocket before collecting my small travel bag and leaving the room.

The walk to the ministry entrance passed in a blur. My mind wandered far over faded, distant, memories of the happier times with him, and I settled deeper into dejected self loathing as I moved. I was pulled out of my thoughts by the sudden realization that I was standing in the lobby of the ministry, holding a small nametag on a string limply in one hand. Dejectedly, I walked to the security guard stand directly in front of me, and, when prompted, handed over my wand. I felt highly vulnerable without it, and visibly jumped when, while walking down the hall one of the guards called to me, reminding me to put the tag in my hands around my neck.

The halls had seemed endless, a labyrinth of undistinguished bureaucratic office doors leading on into infinity. Just as the paranoid little voice in my head had convinced me that someone, possibly the guards, had thrown a befuddlement charm on me, I reached the door emblazoned with his name and title. I announced myself to the grandmotherly witch at the secretary's desk, and was directed to a plush red couch on the other side of the room. I sank down onto the couch tiredly, and leaned my head against the wall, eyes closed.

Brushing aside the random thoughts that often come to one far from home at inopportune moments, and deciding that I had left the fire banked against the potion in my kitchen exactly as it should have been, I settled into deep concentration. I needed this moment, before I saw him and he saw me, to calm my nerves. He couldn't be allowed to see how I felt, how being near him, feeling his magic again, made my chest tighten. I couldn't expose myself to him like that.

Just like back at school, I told myself, Just like at school. Can't let any indication of my true feelings for him show. I have to loathe him.

It just wouldn't do, a traitor like me could never hold feelings for a ministry official, and they certainly could not be reciprocated, not even just in friendly terms. Wishful thinking on my part, as if we could ever be friends. At this point I would have been lucky if he didn't kill me.

I was pulled out of my thoughts by the voice of the elderly secretary telling me that I should proceed into the inner office. I stood slowly, straitening my coat as I put on my old mask of hatred and loathing, and entered the room.

The door creaked closed behind me, shutting with an ominous metallic click. I bit back a whimper as memories of the last time I had been shut alone in a room with someone flooded my mind. I shook my head in what I hoped was a surreptitious manner to dislodge the unpleasant thoughts. Recomposed, and hoping that he hadn't seen my momentary fear, I directed my attention to the man behind the desk.

The desk had been placed rather oddly in the room. At an angle in the corner, it managed to sit opposite both the door and the fireplace. He sat at the mahogany structure, leaning slightly forward over its surface. Hands steepled before his face, he looked to be deep in thought; his intense green eyes gazed straight ahead, focusing somewhere in the middle distances.

I stood for a moment, waiting to be called further into the room. When he did not respond to my presence I cleared my throat lightly. The reaction was immediate, and quite a bit shocking. He jumped almost completely off his seat and looked around the room wildly, hand slipping deftly into his robes (no doubt searching out his wand). Spotting me by the door, he sank back into his seat and leaned back nonchalantly. Obviously ignoring his reaction to the noise he beckoned me in and bade me to sit in the small, leather-seated chair across from his desk.

I sat and stared blankly at him as he shuffled through some papers on his desk, pulling a familiar folder out of the mess. It was a rather thick folder, several of the papers stuffed inside it where spilling out the sides. The name on the tab confirmed my suspicions; this was my criminal record. Every single horrible thing I had been accused of during the war, some things I did and many I didn't, all catalogued for easy reference.

He opened it, looked down at a couple of sheets stapled to the cover, and looked back up at me. It was as if he was hoping that I would be the first to talk. Not happening, after all the effort I had taken to show up in his office he was definitely starting conversation.

Seeing that I was not talking, he began, "You know, by all rights you should be in Azkaban right now…"

Great, absolutely wonderful way to start off a conversation. My mind began to yell as he continued on his speech, words falling on deaf and uncaring ears as I sunk into a vicious whirlpool of irate thoughts. That settles it, he really does hate me, and I'm stuck loving him. Of course, retribution most likely. A giant cosmic 'screw you' for all the mistakes I've made. As if I haven't suffered enough because of that damn Fen… Something that he said halted all thought processes in my brain, causing me to bolt upright in my chair and blink furiously at him.

"…I need your help." He was obviously just finishing a long speech and I briefly wondered how much I'd missed. "Well?" he looked expectantly to me for an answer.

"What's this now? The great Harry Potter, asking me for help?" I sneered. It was a ploy to buy time as my brain feverishly tried to recall exactly what he needed help with.

"Shut up Malfoy. You're in no position to be insulting your future boss." He surprised me, back in school it usually took much more from me to get him mad.

"And what makes you think I'll agree to work for you?" It was no use; whatever he said while I was yelling at myself had not registered in my mind.

"I know for a fact that you have been incapable of holding a job for more than three months. More importantly, I know that you haven't been employed for the last two months." He got that look in his eye that I immediately recognized as his 'I won, give up' look, "That meager amount of gold left in the Malfoy vaults after your father died has to be drying up."

That was low. I hadn't exactly expected him to be nice to me, or even cordial, but I didn't think that he would be so heartless. He must have hated me more than I thought. But what he said was true; the family fortune was in the hands of various aunts, uncles, and cousins, and what little had been left to me, or rather my mother, was almost gone. I had to agree to help him, and I could not further diminish my pride by asking what I was agreeing to do. "Fine, Potter. I'll help you." You'll fire me in a couple of months anyways.

"Good," he said. I wished he would wipe that smug smile off of his face. "I will be contacting you in the coming week with more information and your contract." He began placing papers in his desk. I took this as my cue to leave, and quickly exited the room.

It wasn't until I had reemerged onto the muggle street, and was well on my way to the train station, that I began to wonder what I had gotten myself into. My imagination began to work overtime, and an icy ball of fear lodged itself in my chest.

TBC

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(1) Definition provided by urban dictionary dot com, the second definition, where the example for usage of slash in fan fiction is, and you can check this yourself: "A lot of people are interested in reading Harry/Draco slash." Laughed my butt off when I saw this. If you're going to look the example under the third definition is pretty good too.

(2) Definition provided by dictionary dot com. It was the word of the day on June 28, 2000 (the definition listed under word of the day is the one listed here)

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