Please be sure to read chapter 1 for disclaimer and warnings.

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Chapter 3: Vanishing

"Time is coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you." – Carl Sandburg

Early December, 2008

It wasn't the first time that Borgin and Burkes had a body on the floor. Even recently, there had been bodies. However, it was the first time that it happened to belong to one of the proprietors.

Draco stared down at Cecil Borgin's crumpled body, jaw set into a grim line, wand hand slowly lowering. He'd killed before. Many, many times before; so many, in fact, that he had lost count of the exact numbers years ago.

During the war, especially in those final weeks, he'd killed almost every day, every hour, until he could do it with no regrets, no remorse, and still look at himself in the mirror and not see a monster. He had simply been a man – a wizard – doing what he needed to do to survive. Even now, staring down at the greedy owner of one of the biggest dark arts shops, he felt – nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Borgin." Draco murmured, pointing his wand at the man's body once more, making a sharp slashing motion. "Accio pouch."

Instantaneously, the leather purse that held his money tugged itself from the dead man's pocket and flew into his waiting, outstretched hand. Hefting it, he stared down at the small bag blankly, hearing the jangle of coins before shaking his head and tucking it into his robes. "I'm sorry it had to be this way."

Moving forward, he stepped over the man's corpse and into the bare storage room, forcing the shop owner out of his mind. He couldn't change what he had done. He wouldn't have even if he were able to, anyway. It was too late. He did what he had to do and what he had to do was make sure there were no witnesses.

"It will be worth it in the end," he murmured, taking a deep breath. Yes, it would be worth it. It had to be.

Sliding his wand into the folds of his robes, Draco walked forward cautiously, staring hard at the black enamel. If he did this, there would be no turning back. No changing his mind at the last moment and coming back through. This was a one time, one chance, only task.

Reaching out a hand, the blonde grimaced, seeing the slight tremor that ran down his arm to his fingertips, but ignored it. Now was not the time to give in to piteous self-indulgence, nor was it the time to concentrate on anything other than what he must do.

Ghosting his trembling fingers over the surface of the cabinet's exterior, snatches of memories brimmed to the forefront of his mind, startlingly in their clarity. How many years had it been now? He could hardly remember the exact dates, the exact times, but the images were still there. Obviously.

"It will be worth it," he whispered fiercely, jerking his hand back to his side. Flexing his fingers, the twenty-eight year old steeled him self, taking a deep breathe in through his nose. He would do this.

Grasping the lock on the cabinet door, he flipped it open, pulling the latch and door open at once. Shadowed empty space lay before him, amazingly sinister in its simplicity. His stomach lurched.

He would do this.

A deep breath, a slow blink, a long exhale.

He stepped forward…

…and disappeared.

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Early December, 1998

The rain was coming in a steady mist. Small, miniscule droplets that might as well have been snow from the way they seemed to drift to the ground instead of fall. The Three Broomsticks windows were a watery blur.

Harry sighed heavily. It was time to go. Plunking the drained mug onto the table in front of him, he dug a hand into the pocket of the jeans he wore beneath his robes, searching for the small amount of coins he stuffed there before he left the safe house.

Hermione was right. Perhaps it wasn't the best idea for him to be out today. To be here today. He should have listened to her.

"Want another one, love?" The voice was scratchy, soft, and distinctly female. He shook his head, sparing a quick glance up at Madam Rosmerta, before looking away just as soon.

She looked completely drawn. Dark circles under her eyes, cheeks sunken in, eyes dim; she looked wan and haunted. Strained in a way that Harry knew would only take a little prodding before breaking her entirely.

"No, thank you." He murmured, wrenching his hand from his pocket and dropping a galleon or two onto the table. "I think I'll be leaving."

"All right, then." Her voice was like daggers to his heart, ripping him up inside. She shouldn't sound like this, look like this, be like this. "Well, please come back some time."

Harry nodded, getting to his feet quickly, wincing inwardly at the startled looks he received and the way Madam Rosmerta took a hasty step back and away from him. She was scared. All the time. Everyone was.

"Thank you for the butterbeer, ma'am," he whispered, wishing he could reach out a hand and comfort her – give her some small kernel of hope in her now bleak existence – but he couldn't. It wasn't his place and he didn't know what to say. She had been used, violated by an unforgivable, made to hurt others and there was no amount of words that could make it right. "I'll come back sometime."

Turning on his heels, the teenager barely spared a glance for anyone else in the pub as he made his way to the door, thankful for the glamour he had used so as not to feel the heavy weight of others stares upon him. He doubted with the way he was feeling he could handle it. At all.

TBC...

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End Note:
1. Cecil is pronounced Cess-il; just random trivia for you.

2. Realising that this is, indeed, a very short part, I can assure you that the next part is (finally) when the action starts.