Per Solum Lacuna: By Words Alone

by wintermoon2

Enchanted diaries bring solace to unlikely lost souls. It's a wizarding twist on the classic tale of penpals. What will happen when these mystery writers finally meet? HD Completed!

11. Lonely in Your Nightmares

Per Solum Lacuna: By Words Alone
Chapter 11 - Lonely in Your Nightmares

Because you're lonely in your nightmare, let me in.
Duran Duran

Ships that pass in the night,
and speak each other in passing,
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,
Only a look and a voice,
then darkness again and a silence.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Notes:
Text in Bold, Italics: Diary entries from Flash or Letters to or from Harry.
Text in Italics: (within a paragraph - thoughts or emphasis) Dreams, or Diary entries from Luc.

Apologies for this, but ff . net doesn't like anything more than the most basic of formatting.

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Draco walked through the front entrance of Gringotts in London and immediately relaxed as he took a deep breath, soaking in the comforting atmosphere of power. The goblins sure knew how to exude strength, and the building was designed to show just how powerful these goblins were. Draco revelled in it. It brought back some of the few good memories he had from his childhood. Only one thing could make him feel that way – the power of money, and he felt it beckoning.

The Head Goblin practically fell over himself as he personally escorted Draco to the elevator up to the third floor, to the heart of the Special Investigations branch. "Of course, Mr Malfoy, you'll need to sign the usual confidentiality agreements." Draco nodded, fully understanding the standard procedure. The goblins prided themselves in conducting a secure and confidential service to wizard kind, and the Malfoys had kept the trust of the goblins throughout the long years of the Goblin Wars, and even earlier. The goblins had long memories, and never forgot those who supported them. Draco had always made time for the creatures; after all, they did look after his inheritance – at least, on behalf of the trustees. He saw no reason not to treat them with all the respect they deserved. Besides, their magic was more powerful than that of wizards, and Draco had no desire to be at the wrong end of Goblin Magic.

The Special Investigations branch of the bank had been around for years – their work shrouded in secrecy. Their job was to ensure the integrity of dealing with high profile customers and large transactions. The goblins would have had no trouble running a bank; it was the involvement of wizards that made for an element of uncertainty in conducting business in the magical world. During the war, the wizards in the branch spent time investigating and disrupting Voldemort's sources of funding. They were also in charge of following up on the Wizengamot's ruling to extract compensation from the accounts of known Death Eaters.

Draco waited patiently as the elevator crept up to the third floor, trying to forget his concerns about the quickly approaching meeting. He was beginning to feel a little claustrophobic and consciously withheld the sigh of relief when the elevator doors opened up to the reception desk. Draco barely noticed the Head Goblin going back down in the elevator as he faced the young blonde witch who sat at the desk busily wrestling with a half dozen errant memos that hopped merrily as they danced for attention. One very insistent memo was tapping her shoulder, trying to urgently get her attention. A quick-quotes-quill busily continued to write out another memo to her unflustered and quiet dictation.

She looked up and smiled at Draco, who suddenly found his collar was too tight, and a light sweat broke out on his brow. Why do I suddenly have a bad feeling about this? Draco's divinatory sense had not kicked in and reacted in such a way in a very long time. The last time he sensed something like that was just before the skirmish that signalled the end of the war.

"Mr Malfoy?" the reception witch looked at him quizzically after a few moments of silence on his part. Nodding in acknowledgement, she handed him a sheaf of parchments – the standard goblin contract. Draco sat in quiet concentration as he read the customary agreement. Agreeing with the terms and conditions (basically, he allowed the bank staff to access his accounts - records and all - and they in turn could not discuss any element of his business with anyone outside of the branch), he took the proffered quill, and quickly signed. Pulling out his wand, he quickly activated the confidentiality and binding charms bound to it, watching closely as it reacted immediately with the goblin magic inherent in the charmed parchment. The parchment vanished, no doubt making its way to the investigator's desk, waiting to be signed and finalised.

A magical chime sounded in the room. "You can go through now, Mr Malfoy," she said in a bright and cheerful voice. He nodded in assent, his throat suddenly dry.

Draco rose, carefully pulling his vest down in a nervous gesture. The tightening feeling in his throat didn't go away as he made his way into the office. Luckily, he had just put his wand away (it was never good business to enter a bank with your wand in your hand), and Draco's first thought as he stood in stunned silence, was that he was grateful he had done so. His casting hand was itching from the immediate reaction to the vibrant red hair and seemingly fatuous grin of the wizard sitting behind the desk.

"Weasley?" he asked incredulously. "What the..." Draco stood – blinking. Surely this wasn't happening. He was speechless. Despite all the scenarios Draco had imagined for this day, it had never crossed his mind that he might run into anyone he actually knew. For that matter, even if it had, Weasley would not be on his 'we must surely catch up and do lunch' list.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the elusive Draco Malfoy. I'd say it's a pleasure, but we both know it isn't," Ron didn't stand. He merely pointed with his well worn quill to the chair on the opposite side of his desk. "Glad you are on time. Just sit down," Ron returned to the folder full of papers on his desk, practically ignoring the former Slytherin.

"So eager to catch up on old times, Weasley?" Draco finally found his voice. He'd been thoroughly stunned when he found himself facing the redhead, and he sensed that this wouldn't bode well. Suddenly, all the desire to childishly taunt him came to the fore, and he smirked. "You couldn't resist being on the welcoming committee, I assume," Draco still stood, not wanting to take the proffered chair. He would stand even if it killed him, and desperately tried not to lean further on his cane for support no matter how much he really needed it. He'd worry about the pain later. "Why don't you just go and get your supervisor, Weasley, and we can all get on with it. I haven't got all day you know," he replied bitterly.

Draco spotted the recently signed confidentiality contract on the desk, and watched as Ron smirked whilst casting his own mark on the contract. The signed parchment automatically sealed and rolled itself into a thin tube, before shooting up high in the air and slipping into a small vent near the ceiling. Ron turned, meeting Draco's eye in challenge. He was still trying to process what his mind wanted to fervently deny. Ron just sat behind his desk and continued the smug look. "Is there a problem, Malfoy? Did someone neglect to mention that I'm the one in charge here today? I guess we'll take as long as I say to get through all this." Draco could see the former Gryffindor was enjoying his moment of power.

Draco rubbed at the sudden nerve that started ticking in his temple. Just when I thought my day couldn't get any worse, he thought with bitter sarcasm. Now he was expected to listen to the smug git delivering the news about how much he had to pay the Wizengamot in fines and taxes. Surely that's why he was here.

Draco took a deep breath and tried not to let the forthcoming childish temper tantrum take a hold. Weasley's fiery temper had always had that effect on Draco, and even now, when the redhead was keeping his own temper reigned in, Draco felt his own anger rising. Since the end of the war, Draco had barely given a thought to anyone from school. Those few people from school that he had actually cared about were either dead or in Azkaban, with the exception of Severus, of course. Surprisingly, the unexpected sight of Ron Weasley didn't take him back to the memories of confrontations with him and his true nemesis, Potter; instead, he immediately revisited the very recent and vivid memory of the run in with Weasley's younger sister. He cringed at the memory. For a moment he suspected that the bitch had squealed and tattled to her bigger brother about her sexploits. As he carefully watched the redhead before him, he doubted she would have mentioned anything. Still, the thought of her raised his ire, and the scowl remained on his face.

Looking down, he noticed that the folders on the desk were adorned with the Gringotts crest, alongside the Malfoy crest and seal. These were the official records of his holdings – at least – his father's holdings. What the bloody hell is that git doing with all of those? He almost felt violated at the knowledge that the Weasel, of all people should be able to look at those. Sudden urges to further insult Ron flowed quickly to the tip of his tongue, but he repressed nearly all of them. "I really shouldn't be surprised you're here, actually. After all, with Daddy being the Minister and all, I bet you begged him to take on this job, didn't you? I suppose this is right up your alley. I bet you adore counting other people's money. How does it feel? Don't you just love the sound of thousands of galleons just clinking together? I'm sure there's something terribly cathartic about it." Damn, I just couldn't hold the childish taunts back any longer, he berated himself as he realised how immature he sounded.

"I have no doubt you get off on the thought, Malfoy," Ron snapped back quickly. "But unlike you, some of us actually earn a living. Not that I'd expect you to understand that concept. Besides, I was assigned to this unpleasant task. I'd rather try and make small talk with Snape than be here, so let's just get it over with, shall we?"

"Well, I do believe that's the first sensible thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth," Draco retorted hotly. He was surprised that the Weasel had passed up an opportunity to insult him, but quickly realised he had spoken too soon.

"Actually, I didn't think you've have the gall to show up today, Malfoy, after all, you vanished down some ferret hole not long after the war. Quite a few people thought you might have popped the perch, but alas, no such luck." Draco was showing marvellous restraint as the satisfied smile grew on his former rival's face.

"As much as I'd love to sit and trade insults with you all day, Weasley, I'm sure you are just dying to head back to your friends and family, and tell them all the gossip from this meeting. Actually, I'm beginning to see why your family gravitates towards working for the bank, Weasley – it's the closest you'll ever get to having any money of your own." Draco couldn't resist the jibe. It was just too easy, and he felt himself falling back into his old habits. He really wasn't up for this. All that time worrying and pondering about the outcome of this meeting, and here he was stuck with this git. His annoyance at having to come to London was not being helped by someone who had frustrated his school years at nearly every turn. There he was, backing up his perfect friend, Potter. If it weren't for Ron Weasley, perhaps Potter would have taken his hand in friendship all those years ago. Draco sometimes wondered what would have been different, had that been the case.

"I'm curious, Malfoy. Just where did you vanish to after the war?" Ron casually leaned back in his chair, making no move to force the meeting along quickly. He could see Draco's own temper simmering.

"I think we can dispense with the pleasantries, Weasley. You obviously knew where to find me, the letter from the bank was addressed to my home," Draco waved Ron off as he carefully sat on the edge of the chair. "Why don't you just get on with it and tell me how much it's going to cost. After all, isn't that why we're here? Bet you couldn't wait to deliver the bad news yourself and gloat one last time over my father's folly?" Ron looked at Draco sideways, not sure of the meaning of his words. Draco continued, "Tell me how much of my inheritance you plan to acquire under Wizengamot Ruling #2345 in relation to former Death Eater estates. What's the total bill?" All of Draco's patience was now gone as he feigned indifference. Now that he knew he wasn't dealing with some goblin, but another wizard - a wizard he had never considered a friend, at that - he just wanted to drop the façade, and go home. The tick in his temple started up again, and he rubbed it. Just another annoyance, like that git sitting over there, he mused.

Ron just stared at him, blinking in confusion.

"Well, get on with it? Or did you really come here just to reinstate your membership in the ever growing list of things that annoy me? I'm tired and quickly becoming very bored with this, Weasel. Just get on with it!"

"Malfoy, what made you think that this meeting has anything to do with the Death Eater Compensation Act?" Ron sounded serious – no hint of jest in his voice.

Draco furrowed his brow at Ron's confusion. "Well, I got a letter mentioning the ruling a while ago, then the letter telling me to show up this morning. I suspected you were going to tell me that you've finished investigating my father's estate, and that you were going to tell me just how much of it you plan on taking away. I mean, why else would you drag me back to this god-forsaken continent? It certainly isn't for my health. Naturally, I assumed..."

Ron looked equally confused. "Malfoy..." he stopped, and quickly scruffled around the paperwork on his desk before pulling out a piece of parchment. "Those monies were paid in full, 20 million galleons, back in July 2001."

"What?" Draco snatched the paper from Ron. The nervous tick beat erratically, and the earlier sense of dread rose again. He saw the parchment ledger from their Gringotts account, with the transaction, along with the attached letters of transfer. "But... but..." Draco took a deep breath. This is wrong. "They told me the estate was still being audited for this compensation. I don't understand." A copy of a letter, personally addressed to Draco, attached to the ledger. Draco shook his head furiously. "I've never seen this before. I never received it."

Ron shook his head. "I assume 'they' refers to the trustees of the estate – Messrs Mulciber, McTavish and Montgomery?" Ron read the names from another piece of parchment he pulled from the file.

Draco nodded.

"Actually, Malfoy, they're part of the reason why you were asked here today."

"Oh?" he had wondered why the trustees were not there.

"When was the last time you heard from them?" Ron asked.

"My usual monthly statement at the beginning of February." Realisation dawned slowly. "Weasley, where are the trustees? Wouldn't they normally deal with something like this?"

Ron sighed. "We thought you might be able to tell us, Malfoy." The tone was slightly accusatory.

"Just what are you getting at?"

Ron shrugged. "Oh, well we weren't sure if you were perhaps involved with them. Tell me, when was the last time you saw the trustees – spoke to them – in person?"

Draco thought back as alarm bells began ringing in his head. "Well, up until the other day, I thought they were still in their usual offices, off Margin Alley. Then my tuition went unpaid, and I tried contacting them to find out why, and I haven't seen or heard anything since then. Last time I spoke to them in person would have been about a year ago, last February, actually. They complained about the cost of the floo, and the travel to Paris to see me. That's when they suggested just sending me the monthly statements. I couldn't see why not. After all, father left them to control the estate."

"Ah yes, your father. So he was the one who put these guys up as the trustees?" Ron questioned, his tone voicing his unspoken thoughts about the infamous Death Eater.

Draco just nodded and shrugged. "Obviously I had no say in it. Father was dead and these guys arrived saying they were the executors of his will. I signed the papers, and let them get on with that they knew best. I just got on with what I had to do in the war. It's not like I can change it now, is it? The whole estate is tied up. I'm sure you already know that I can't touch anything until I'm twenty-five." Draco was starting to worry.

"Malfoy, you were a spy, right?" Ron asked. Draco was affronted by the question.

"You know bloody well I was." Weasley had been there often enough when Draco made his reports back to Order headquarters. "Just what are you getting at, Weasley?"

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, Malfoy. So much money. You should really take better care of it all. Just think for a minute. You honestly thought to trust the men your father put in charge of your inheritance? Did it not occur to you that they might have Death Eater sympathies? Did you ever think to get your books audited by an independent third party? How thick could you get? Honestly Malfoy, if I had that much money..."

"Do you honestly think I'd be stupid enough to not think of checking out the trustees? I did have an inside line to father's contemporaries at the time, if you recall. As far as I know, they had no love for the Death Eater cause – the only cause they were interested in was lining their pocketbooks with more money." A feeling of dread began in the pit of Draco's stomach as he realised where this conversation was heading, but he tried to block it out with more childish retorts. Draco snorted. "I bet you were busting your chops to find out just how much I was worth, weren't you Weasley? I'd be surprised if you could actually count that far... Did you have to go down to my vault to double check the numbers? Overwhelmed by the sheer amount of gold there?" Draco couldn't help himself. He had been dragged all the way across the channel for this meeting, and he found himself confronted with this – prat.

"Stuff it, Malfoy," Ron said, but the blush on his face told Draco that his former nemesis had indeed thoroughly gone through his file. "I had to familiarise myself with all aspects of this investigation, Malfoy. Your case was assigned to me by the goblins, not the Ministry. Besides, I'm not the one skimming from the surface and taking you for a ride." The redhead searched for another folder, and handed it over the desk to Draco.

"It seems there have been a number of anomalous entries in your books," Ron said. Draco took the folder and methodically began to scan the figures. Ron continued, "What shocking bookkeeping. It's so hard to find good help these days, isn't it?"

Draco ignored the jibe as he saw a number of entries circled in red ink in the ledger. "I don't understand... these... they don't correspond to what I get in my usual reports..." he could see other more familiar numbers in the ledger. Despite Ron's words, Draco had carefully scrutinised the files sent to him each month, and he assumed he knew the figures intimately. He saw his stipend listed regularly, along with the other usual expenses. But the sheer regularity of those other anomalous numbers was mind boggling.

"Well, if your trust is held until you turn 25, then technically, it's not your money yet, Malfoy. But I will say that it looks like someone else wants to keep it that way."

Draco sat silently, wondering just how this was happening. Was this an elaborate joke that Weasley was pulling – some sort of retribution for school pranks? Probably took him this long to think of it, he thought uncharitably. But he was concerned. This was too elaborate for Weasley to pull off. It showed all the hallmarks of a Death Eater plot. How could he be the victim of something like this?

"So, now is there anything odd about the trustees you wish to tell me?" Ron asked casually as Draco perused his files.

Draco shook his head. "I never had any reason to fault them. We fought over increases to my stipend to maintain my standard of living, but I doubt you'd comprehend that," he snarked at Ron. "Then I discovered that my tuition for this last semester was not paid, but I mentioned that before. Oh, and they finally handed over some property that was in my name – my chateau."

Ron continued to nod. "That doesn't surprise me. They probably couldn't dispose of it the way they wanted. Been in your family for a while?" Draco nodded again, his mouth drawing into a firm line. "Guess the family magic was too powerful around it and they couldn't sell it out from under you. I've heard of this modus operandi before."

"What the hell are you talking about? I've been frantically trying to contact them all week. I came today expecting to find out why my regular payments aren't being made, as well as to find out about the Wizengamot ruling. It was rather embarrassing having to explain why my tuition wasn't paid on time. Anyway, who discovered these extra payments? Why accuse the trustees outright?" A note of frustrated desperation crept into Draco's voice, as he waved his hands in the air.

"Malfoy, I'm getting there; just keep your hair on and calm down for a minute." Draco was indignant, too stunned to say any more. Weasley obviously knew something about Draco's affairs, and he needed to know how and what. He wasn't telling Draco what he needed to know quickly enough. He handed another parchment to Draco.

"That sheet in front of you is a list of monies transferred from the Ministry Treasury, into your father's estate." Draco looked at him in confusion. The entries listed in the sheet were labelled 'salary'.

"Father consulted for Fudge on a retainer. Everyone knew that."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Honestly Malfoy, look at the dates."

Draco looked again at the dates, and just blinked. All these transfers, regular monthly payments, some into the tens of thousands of Galleons, were dated long after the war was over. Long after Lucius was dead. The last date at the bottom of the page was only in January.

"So the Ministry forgot to stop paying? What's that to do with me, or with the trustees? Surely that's a mistake on the part of the Ministry?" Draco suspected the trustees should have found out about these erroneous payments, and informed him. They will be in a cauldron full of trouble for that, not me.

"Gringotts was asked to audit the Ministry Treasury after the new Minister came to power. Apparently, Fudge left the place in a shambles." Ron refrained from mentioning his father by name. He seemed all business. "Turns out that this, along with many other transactions, were unaccounted for. Two weeks ago we attempted to contact the trustees of the Malfoy estate, and never heard back. It seems that Messrs Mulciber, McTavish and Montgomery have vanished entirely."

Draco was shaking his head furiously in denial, even though he saw the truth of it. It was all suddenly starting to make sense. Horrible sense. Terrifying sense. The trustees had been embezzling funds from the estate. If the figures before him were correct, they had been doing it for years. That's my bloody inheritance, and I never noticed it, until now. I expected the Wizengamot to take their cut, but this! How could they? Father trusted them, but they weren't Death Eaters... but wait... It was all starting to become startlingly clear. Not only that, they had also been syphoning funds from the Ministry in the process.

"So what you're saying is that not only have I been embezzled, the Ministry's been embezzled, and the culprits have Apparated into thin air?"

"Finally, you get it Malfoy!" Ron rolled his eyes and clapped in feigned exasperation. "Five points to Slytherin."

"Well you could have just told me outright, instead of beating around the bush," Draco retorted. "So what now, Weasley? Planning on handing control of the estate over to me? After all, if I can't trust anyone else..." Draco asked in frustration.

Ron's eyes smiled. "Sorry to burst your bubble rich boy, but you won't be getting your hands on your money just yet – if ever."

Draco looked confused. "And why ever not?"

"Well, there's a slight complication, Malfoy. I was talking to a close friend in the Aurors..."

Draco scoffed. He had been absently wondering how long it would take before he mentioned the 'Great One'. "Potter, no doubt. Did you both have a nice laugh over the fact I've been embezzled right under my nose?"

"Some of us actually take our work seriously here. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to discuss your misfortunes with Harry, but as you know, the confidentiality contract is in place. Even if I had wanted to waste breath talking about you, I couldn't. Not even if I wanted to." Draco shrugged, not caring particularly either way. He wanted answers, and he knew he was going to have to look to find them.

"Anyway, this Auror, who wasn't Harry, not that you'd care either way..." Draco rolled his eyes as Ron continued, "... has been watching a group of Neo Death Eaters over in Wales."

"Neo Death Eaters?" Draco asked in confusion.

"Just what rock have you been hiding under, Malfoy? Haven't you been keeping up with the news about your old buddies?"

"Not on this side of the Channel, no, I haven't. If you care to recall, they weren't my buddies. They never were."

Ron stared at him strangely. "Just what happened to you after the war? Where did you disappear to – oh wait, that's right, Paris," Ron read Draco's address from the top of the pile of correspondence.

"Not that it's any of your business..."

"Your whereabouts are my business now, Malfoy."

Draco's ticking nerve was joined by an equally itchy nerve on the other side of his face. He needed something to clear his head. Spotting the tea service on the bench behind Ron's desk, he casually waved his wand, and poured himself a cup of freshly brewed tea. The cup and saucer barely wavered before levitating easily across to Draco's seat.

"Honestly, Weasley, where are your manners. You can't even offer a client a cup of tea? How rude!"

Ron ignored the comment. "Anyway, as I was saying, these Neo Death Eaters are gaining some renown in Wales. The Auror division has been trying to clean them up for a while now, but the bastards seem to be one step ahead of everyone else. Someone's been funding them. We've reason now to suspect your father's estate as the source of the funding."

Draco was completely stunned as all the colour drained from his face. He put the cup down very carefully. Of course. Father wouldn't want it to stop after his death? Would he? He never intended for me to get it. He knew I truly wasn't committed to the cause. The bastard. I wonder if it's possible to hate him any more than I already do.

"So not only have I been embezzled, they've been using it to fund Death Eaters?" Ron nodded in agreement, but wasn't smiling. "Fuck!" Draco yelled as he threw the tea cup into the fireplace, ceramic shards spraying all over the hearth.

"You know, when this whole issue came to light, I suspected you were in it as thickly as the rest. I never thought that they'd be able to get one over you. Pretty bold of them. Bet they never would have tried that on your father," Ron spoke quietly. "So I'm judging from your reaction you aren't involved, eh?"

Draco looked at Ron incredulously. "Of course not you idiot! You think I risked my life in the war – at greater personal risk than most, and gaining this..." he indicated his knee and cane, "... just to make a complete about face and start funding a bunch of upstarts who think that they can claim power and glory now that the war is over? Weasley, you know I'm not a Death Eater, and I'm certainly not my father, despite what you might think. You were there when I reported back to the Order. Besides, surely Saint Potter could clean them up. After all, what's a few Death Eaters after killing a Dark Lord or two..." Draco took some deep breaths before his temper worsened.

"The Ministry aren't so sure about your affiliations now. Not in light of these revelations," Ron held up the records. "That's why they want to investigate."

"They think I'm involved?" Draco scoffed. "Their memories are shorter than even I give them credit for," he spat bitterly. "Do you think I'm guilty, Weasley?"

Ron thought carefully before answering. "I honestly didn't know. If you didn't come today, I would have immediately guessed it, but I saw how shocked you were just now at learning about the embezzlement. Even you aren't that good an actor, Malfoy."

"So there'll be an investigation, and the Aurors are going after the trustees? What about the estate? Will all the payments still be made on time? Despite what you might think, I too have commitments to make," he asked hopefully.

Ron shook his head as he passed another parchment over to Draco. "Sorry, but all of the Estate's assets have been frozen, effective immediately. Even the Wiltshire Manor has been warded. You can't even get in there now, Malfoy."

He couldn't believe what had happened. "So when will this investigation take place?"

"Well, first of all, they have to find the trustees. If they don't turn up in the next twelve months, the investigation will proceed, and you'll have to prove you weren't involved in any way. If it's any consolation, they'll ask me about my thoughts, and under Veritaserum, I'll have to tell them the truth."

"Which is..."

"That honestly, I think you are clueless." Draco opened his mouth to protest, but Ron continued. "You always have been. I still can't believe they could do this to you of all people, Malfoy. I thought you'd take better care of your money..."

"I'm beginning to see that Father really never trusted me. Guess I wasn't so careful, after all." Draco muttered to himself. Lucius must have arranged this long before his death. He obviously has less faith in me than I thought. Maybe he was smarter than I gave him credit for. "So the Ministry doesn't trust me. They all think I'm just like Lucius," Draco snorted, "bet they're dying to put me in Azkaban. Don't they remember the Order of Merlin they gave me?" he retorted bitterly.

"They're going to want to question you, Malfoy. Probably not the Aurors, but the F.I.G.s will. They will want to know if you know anything about these Neo Death Eaters."

"The F.I.G.s?"

"Oh, the Fiscal Investigation Goblins. They're the major part of our Special Investigations team, and it's they who decide whether or not Magical Law Enforcement or the Aurors get involved."

"What makes them think I know anything, or that I would tell them if I did? Oh, wait, that's right," Draco sneered, "once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater. I suppose they'll want to talk to Severus too, if that's the case."

"Well, weren't you and Snape fully immersed in their culture – for the sake of appearances? You would have heard their plans, got involved in all those Death Eatery things – the revels, the virgin sacrifices..."

"Stuff it, Weasley. You know well enough what I did. Do you honestly think any new crop of Death Eaters would tell me any of their plans? I'm not exactly popular in those circles – at least not after they discovered what I really was. My cover was blown right after your buddy popped the old codger. Besides, I haven't even been in the country for the past two and a half years, why the hell would I know or even care what goes on here?" he couldn't believe they would think he might know something about these new Death Eaters. This was the first he had ever heard of them.

"I don't know, Malfoy." Ron shook his head, "All I know is that they will want to question you, and that the investigation is already underway," Ron shrugged.

"So what's next? I have a life, you know, and I need my tuition paid. What about my other expenses? I need my stipend. It's not a terribly extravagant stipend..." Draco started.

"Not terribly extravagant?" Ron's eyes widened in disbelief. What was modest to Draco must have seemed like a fortune to Ron. He looked up to see the drawn lines forming around Draco's eyes. "Are you begging, Malfoy?" a wry smirk started on his face.

Draco shook his head rather too quickly. "Don't be ridiculous. Malfoy's don't beg. Surely you can see to it that my tuition is at least paid. It's only one more semester." He really was begging, and he tried desperately to keep the whine out of his voice, but he knew that Ron had heard it.

Ron shook his head. "I can't. The F.I.G.s are the ones who've frozen the estate. Your tuition and this... stipend you get (Ron again raised his eyebrows as he read the amount Draco received each month for living expenses) have ceased. I see here you have your own assets, so you certainly aren't destitute. Welcome to living like the rest of the world. Now you might get to see how the other half lives. The half that isn't filthy rich..." Ron was back to biting insults.

"The only filthy thing around here is the fact that you've had your greasy mitts all over my family's financial books... Bet you are just loving the fact I'm practically penniless. I bet you're getting off on that." Draco's ire rose at Ron's childish insults.

"You'll have to show that you're co-operating, Malfoy, before the goblins will even consider any concessions."

"But it's my last semester..." Draco whined. It had never occurred that his tuition funding would be rejected. He hadn't planned on having all his money frozen, and the reality was setting in. "I need this tuition money Weasley," he was starting to get a little desperate.

"Need? That's a little melodramatic, isn't it Malfoy? But then again, you were always one for the high melodrama, weren't you?" Draco just ignored the jibe. Ron continued. "Look, if it were up to me, I'd let you have your few measly tuition Galleons, just so that I could shut you up and let you crawl back into whatever hole you've made for yourself over in Paris. As it is, if your trustees can't be found, then this whole investigation could drag on for a while. Unless..."

"Unless what?" Draco grasped the slightly hopeful note in Ron's voice.

"Unless you really do know where those trustees are. You wouldn't be holding out on information because of me, now, would you?" So Weasley really didn't trust him, not to the full extent of his own words, anyway.

"Of course I'll bloody well co-operate. It's my money, and I want to catch these bastards probably more than you do." Draco was still in shock over what had transpired. He was still mentally cursing himself for not realising it sooner. "I still can't believe they would do that."

"They were friends of your father's – no doubt as rotten to the core as he was..." Draco looked at him sideways, but made no move to disagree. Weasley had the measure of his father, and who was he to disagree, especially since it was his own belief as well.

"So the upshot of this all is that my hands are tied?" Draco was reluctantly coming to terms with the fact he was not going to leave London with any money. Indeed, he was leaving much poorer than when he arrived.

"Basically, yes, you'll just have to budget like the rest of us mere mortals for a while."

"But it's my last semester. I was planning on going into research..."

"Can't you defer a semester or two, like most students, or are you a right girly swot as well?" Ron was as tired of their conversation as Draco was. "My only suggestion is that you defer. I'm sure the Paris Institute de Beauty can do without you for a while."

It was really happening. Draco's tuition would remain unpaid. He had a deadline to meet that afternoon, with no way of paying it. What was he going to do? The sudden shock of it all overwhelmed him, and he needed to take a deep breath to calm down. He really didn't need this, not now.

It wasn't the only shock. A small voice in the back of his mind reminded him that his stipend was no longer forthcoming. Draco was going to have to live from the proceeds of his chateau, and his small income from the winery. It was a rather nasty drop to earth to realise his hands were totally tied. He wasn't going to beg and cajole the likes of Ron Weasley – well, not any more than he had. It was not in his nature. He was still coming to terms with the fact that Ron, of all people was in charge of his money in the interim. Why couldn't it have been anyone else? Why the Weasel?

"Oh, and there's just one more thing." Ron remarked casually. "Our F.I.G.s want to speak with you later this morning – just around lunch time. Of course, if you don't come back, we'll just assume that you aren't co-operating, and I can assure you that your father's estate will be handed over to the Ministry quicker than you could catch a snitch. Of course, you only managed that feat once when it mattered, so I'm not sure you'd know what it was like." It seemed Ron had recovered and was on his second wind, especially if he was now referring to their school Quidditch days. Gryffindor's defeat at the hands of Slytherin in that final match of their seventh year obviously still smarted for the former Gryffindor keeper and captain. Draco took a small pleasure in knowing that.

"I'll be back, I wouldn't give you the satisfaction, Weasley." He didn't really want to come back; he assumed the interview with the Aurors would be just a painful. It could only be worse if it was Potter, but from what Weasley said, Potter wasn't one of the bank's Aurors. Thankfully. Draco stood to leave, not pausing to shake Ron's hand. He had a sudden urge to leave with one final retort about his sister on the tip of his tongue, but thought it would be counter productive, so he held his tongue.

"Weasley. Adieu," he nodded politely.

"Oh the pleasure was all mine, Malfoy."

Draco mustered every ounce of his Malfoy bearing as he stalked out of the room. The whole meeting had left him with more questions unanswered than when he arrived. He was angry – at himself mostly, for not considering that the trustees might have been working on their own agenda, and it was not a pleasant feeling to know that others had been embezzling from him. He found that he was even angrier at the thought that Weasley, of all people, was not only the one to bring it to his attention, but that he, the friend of Draco's major nemesis, had gone through the Malfoy financial affairs with a fine-tooth comb in order to find this information and bring it to light. He honestly felt violated.

But what made him angriest of all was the fact that his own father had not even trusted him. That hurt more than anything. As he walked back through the bank, he bit back all thoughts of Lucius. This trip had brought almost every memory of the man to the fore. It hurt, and he wanted that to go away.

As he walked briskly – as briskly as his knee would allow – the full implications of it all began to settle in his mind. He needed to talk this through with someone. Looking up at the giant clock in the entrance hall of the bank, he saw he still had a quarter hour before he had to meet Severus. He had been so distracted by the whole outcome of the meeting, he never noticed the stares and glares that had previously dogged his trip through Diagon Alley. He barely registered his protesting knee as his brisk walk lead him to the end of the alley, and back to The Leaky Cauldron.

It was only early, but they were now open for business, and Draco had a major thirst to slake.

---

By the time Draco sat down in his private dining room, he was grateful for the short respite from the walk. As if his mood wasn't sour and contemplative enough, he thought back on the reaction the bartender gave to his presence. If he hadn't agreed to meet Severus, or if he didn't have to go back and talk to the goblins, then he would have already left the country and safely returned to his studio. He was so caught up in his own troubles that he barely acknowledged the waiter with his order, and practically growled as the squib fled from the room. He immediately regretted not ordering something stronger, as he felt the urge to drown his miserable sorrows in alcohol.

A sudden knock at the door, and the comforting presence of Severus made Draco smile and momentarily forget his reverie. "Thank the stars – a friendly face at last!" He greeted his old mentor and friend warmly. The Potions master was as genuinely delighted to see Draco as they firmly shook hands in the way of old friends long lost.

"It's been too long, Draco," Snape replied, the warmth in his voice deepening as he looked over the younger man.

Draco sat back down and it was apparent to his old teacher that the morning meeting at the bank had not gone to Draco's expectations.

"Why don't you start from the beginning, Draco?" Snape knew Draco well enough to know that the problem would just eat him up inside if he didn't share it. The raised eyebrow told Draco he wasn't going to be able to skim over any of the details.

"If I'm going to do that, I'll need to fortify myself first. Excuse me, Severus, I'm going to get something a little stronger than tea. Would you like anything?" Severus shook his head and picked up the teapot as Draco pulled off his green cloak and laid it over an empty chair. He nearly walked out of the room, but paused, pulling a small parchment out of the cloak and handing it to Severus. It was his latest suggestions to improve the Wolfsbane, and he wanted to hand them to Severus before he forgot.

Severus glanced over the parchment, raising an eyebrow and offering what Draco knew to be an approving smile as he read over the results of Draco's recent research. "Thank you. I'll try this with the next batch." Considering his now futile research plans, Draco didn't have the strength to respond to that just then. He simply nodded curtly before exiting the dining room.

The pub had become seemingly more crowded downstairs, and Draco had to wait a moment at the bar. He tried to wait patiently. It was a part of his new resolutions, to accept people in general and not get so easily irritated by them. That resolution had been sorely tested that morning. He could admit to that failing, and silently thanked his new friend, Flash for helping him come to terms with that. He doubted his patience would improve immediately, but he could certainly make an effort. Flash had indeed had a profound affect on him.

A small explosion and a pall of smoke erupted not far from the bar, and a few people screamed and shouted. In the confusion, a few witches and wizards ran in all directions. Old habits die hard and Draco had spent enough time around attacks, explosions and dark wizards that he tensed at the noise, but relaxed as he recognised the vile stench of the Dungbombs. He resigned himself to waiting a bit longer for the people to settle down, sighing at the level of panic from the crowd and desperately hoping that someone would soon clear away the acrid stench. It was already beginning to seep into his clothing and Draco knew it would be difficult to get the smell out of the fine fabrics. He was consciously trying to reign in his rising temper when he was bumped from behind.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to..."

As Draco turned, he heard the apology and immediately knew that voice. He looked up slowly, and locked eyes with the one and only Harry Potter.

Stunned at the sight, Draco's mouth began to work before he had time to realise he was speaking. "Well, well, well. If it isn't the Boy-Who-Sodding-Lived." His mouth quirked in a visible, but restrained sneer. His resolution to be more patient was completely thrown out the window. He found himself involuntarily checking Potter out and silently rejoiced in the knowledge that he was still the taller of the two, even if only by a few centimetres. He forced himself to stop with the height comparison before his mind could consider anything else about Potter's appearance. The last thing he needed was his mental desire to check out the person he had cursed at least once a day for the past two and a half years. It was too late - his eye had already performed a quick scan, and had absorbed every nuance of Potter's favourable features. He scowled as he quickly forced subconscious images out of his mind.

Harry blinked as he recognised his former nemesis. Blinking again at the finely tailored image of the grown man before him, he let out a condescending "Harrumph!" As the panicked crowd stood aside to let Tom cast spells to clear the Dungbomb smell from the air, Harry couldn't help but let a myriad of stray thoughts cross his mind. The most disturbing thought was that it was Lucius Malfoy standing before him, albeit without the long hair. His eye momentarily caught the edge of Malfoy's tongue as it briefly swept over the lower lip. Recalling that same mannerism from many years earlier, Harry knew it was definitely the younger Malfoy before him. Quickly taking in the sight of the Order's former spy, Harry's subconscious surreptitiously noted that he looked surprisingly good, despite the sneer spoiling his face. Harry's slow burning ire rose as he processed Malfoy's condescending words.

Harry thought back to the last time he had seen Malfoy. He couldn't quite pinpoint it, but it was some time before the end of the war. He did recall thinking it strange that the spy didn't attend the post war Order of Merlin ceremonies, but then again, rumour had it that Malfoy was in St Mungo's. This was the first time Harry had laid eyes on him, and he was momentarily stunned by the brilliance. To have literally bumped into the man on today, of all days, really didn't help his ever shortening temper. It appeared Malfoy seemed equally as thrilled to see him, as it was apparent he was still nursing old grudges.

"Just when I thought my day couldn't get any worse. First Snape, now you," Harry snarked back bitterly.

"Making a habit of bumping into people, Potter?" Draco had forgotten just how much he enjoyed stirring up trouble with the vaunted war hero. "Don't worry yourself, I won't be sticking around long enough to ruin our saviour's stellar public reputation," Draco was surprised at the rising green fire in Harry's eyes. He found it rather appealing to discover his words had affected the other wizard.

Harry felt a familiar sense of déjà vu, as the drawling tone hurled a rather lame comment at him. His own automatic response seemed equally as childish, "Why don't you just crawl back into whatever ferret hole you've been hiding in these past couple of years, Malfoy?"

"Though I must say, I'm curious Potter, what brings you here? Shouldn't you be off saving the world somewhere? Or are you just fully relying on your fame to get you through life? You were making a good start of it back in school you know." Draco looked Potter over with a calculated look of disdain and allowed his features to slip into the familiar habits from his school days.

Harry felt his ire rising again at Malfoy's snarky comment and the well remembered sneer painted on his face. He'd never dealt well with the insinuations that he enjoyed his fame. Before he could formulate a response, however, Malfoy was speaking again.

"As pleasant as this little reunion has been, Potter, I do actually have someone waiting for me, so if you'll excuse me, I'll be going," Draco moved to head to the bar. He was yet to get his drinks, and if he had doubted whether or not he needed a stronger drink, he certainly needed one now. As he moved, he reluctantly leaned heavily on his cane, exposing his weakened side directly to Potter.

Harry stared after Draco, watching the obviously proud wizard struggling to maintain a show of dignity, even with his physical injury. Harry was slightly surprised at his former rival's limp – he assumed Malfoy would have eradicated such a weakness. It must be killing him to put up with that, he thought. The slight limp was the only thing marring the seeming perfection standing before him. Harry couldn't pinpoint why he was suddenly annoyed to be confronted by an almost unscathed Malfoy – perhaps it was Malfoy's finely cut clothes – or the fact that his recently underappreciated libido seemed to perk up at the sight. Naturally, Harry was unimpressed with his libido's train of thought, particularly after spending so many years not thinking of Malfoy at all.

Harry really needed to stop letting his sex drive do his thinking. That was all he seemed to be doing now that Oliver was out of his life, and he didn't need that right now. He would think about that later. Better yet, he thought, I'll have to tell Luc about this. He'll probably laugh at me and tell me I'm being silly. It suddenly felt extremely familiar to be standing there, trading barbs with Malfoy. He didn't need it after his rotten day, but the forgotten familiarity of their verbal duelling seemed somewhat comforting.

"What's brought all the snakes climbing up out of their holes today? Is there some secret snake reunion society happening? The 'All-Slytherins-Are-Gits' club, perhaps? I'm guessing you're meeting up with the greasy git?" For some reason, now that Malfoy was right before him, Harry didn't want to lose that feeling of familiarity their encounter engendered. Insulting Snape seemed like a way to keep the other wizard from walking away.

Draco spun quickly on his heel. Harry's words had the desired effect. He could see the irritated rage in Draco's face reflected in his pale blue eyes as he came nose to nose with Potter. Just as Draco opened his mouth to reply, a bright flash bulb temporarily blinded both wizards.

"Mr Potter, Mr Potter! Welcome back to London..." a young reporter stepped up eagerly to talk to the wizarding world's hero, barely acknowledging Draco, as he muscled in to talk to the famous wizard.

Draco watched curiously as Potter mumbled under his breath. Within an instant, the dim pub lighting began to flicker and fade furiously as the brilliant green fire in Potter's eyes flared. Suddenly, the reporter yelped as the camera in his hands burst into flames.

"Hey – what the..." the reporter jumped back as he dropped the burning camera, watching as it quickly turned to ash. Harry's eyes had returned to their normal colour, and he looked slightly dazed and confused. A number of other patrons stood back, carefully staying clear of Harry. Even Draco took a simple step backwards. The reported gulped before continuing, "... I just wanted to see what you're doing and why you're in London..."

The sudden flash from the camera had initially startled Harry. Seeing the camera and hearing the reporter's question had been the final straw. He muttered a nearly silent curse under his breath, and was momentarily dazed. Next thing he knew, everyone was looking at him askance, and he saw a very nervous wizard standing before a pile of ash; a pungent tinge adding to the now dissipating odour of Dungbombs. He briefly wondered if his sense of smell would ever recover from the strong smells. The reporter looked at him nervously, still awaiting an answer to his question.

The last thing Harry had needed was to talk to the press. Having sparred verbally with Malfoy, Harry was in no mood to be polite. "What I'm doing in London is my business..." Harry hissed, the anger in his eyes briefly flaring again - lighting up his face.

The reporter was pushing his luck. "But the public wants to know what you've been up to. It's been ages since we've heard from you Mr Potter. I think you owe it to them to tell them what you've been up to." The reporter began to defend himself as The-Boy-Who-Lived wasn't being co-operative.

This was the very reason Harry kept himself away in a quiet corner of the countryside. He briefly questioned his motives for wanting to come back to the city. "As I said, my business remains my business. The public has no right to my life. If I choose to tell them anything, I will decide when I'm good and ready." This reporter had brought out the simmering anger that had festered inside Harry all morning. The morning's events suddenly started to crowd him, and he had to let it all out in one giant rush of steam. His eyes glowed incandescently and the room lights flickered briefly.

"Don't you have more important things to report about?" Harry's tone of voice was firm. "Surely the new Minister and his sweeping reforms are more important than my mind numbingly boring life. What about the medical breakthroughs they've discovered since the end of the war? That's newsworthy. Has anyone reported what's happened to the war orphans? Have they all been placed in loving homes?" Harry was heartily sick of the public wanting to know all about his life, and for once, he planned on telling them. Harry was the only one in the immediate area that didn't notice the rising surge of power that came with his angry words. The glasses on the shelves behind the bar began to rattle, and Tom was more than a little concerned when the first bottle fell from the trembling top shelf.

"Why don't you print that?" Harry continued. "Tell your readers that's what they should be thinking about. Not me. I don't matter. So I killed Voldemort," He shrugged absently. "That's in the past, and my job is done. I don't matter any more." Harry didn't realise how hoarse his voice was as he shouted the last few words, but every patron in the Leaky Cauldron certainly heard just before their glasses shattered, the tiny shards falling to the floor and tabletops. The silence that followed was palpable, the tension building as everyone waited to see what Harry's anger would release next.

A young mother sitting nearby carefully held her sons close. She, like many of the other stunned patrons, was a little fearful that there could be another outburst of power from their wizarding saviour. Harry left the bewildered reporter standing there in shock with the quick-quotes-quill quivering quietly as he, along with everyone else in the room, stood in stunned silence. As Harry took a deep breath, he began to calm somewhat, and for the first time, noticed the flickering flames in the wall sconces. He could also feel the tinge of power decrease as it slowly dissipated from his body.

It had been years since Harry had lost control of a situation like that. Noticing all eyes on him, many of them fearful, he turned to leave. He quickly apologised to Tom as he saw the damage his fit of rage had caused. Flicking a few galleons onto the bar as he passed, Harry strode out the back door smartly, and headed back towards the alley.

The reporter wasn't the only stunned person left in the bar. Having been relegated to the role of spectator in the heated exchange, Draco's surprise was evident. Putting all his observation skills to work, Draco had carefully watched as his former nemesis completely lost it when the reporter interrupted them. He watched as the bespectacled wizard pleaded passionately for the reporter to channel his efforts into more worthy news. Not only had Potter managed to infuriate him with his childish taunts; the git had totally blown him away with a bludger - in more ways than one. However, as Potter strode away, Draco again found himself watching the other wizard. Despite the shock of seeing the sheer force of Potter's untamed power being unleashed, his mind picked up on the most trivial of points. Draco's inner voice was silently praising the fact that Potter had finally managed to get a decent tailor.

That stray thought continued as he watched Potter leave. For some unknown reason, he allowed his eye to rove over the cut of Potter's robes, watching as they draped and fell from his shoulders. It was hard not to watch the subtle hint of muscle that rippled just underneath the well cut robes. The robes' modern style hinted to Draco that Potter had certainly grown into the promise he had spied back in the Quidditch showers all those years ago.

That stray thought of Potter in the Quidditch showers brought Draco back to thoughts of Flash, and how that same memory had surfaced when talking to his friend. He turned away, pushing that entire line of thought to the extreme back of his mind. Somehow, he knew he'd eventually have to tell Flash about what had just transpired. No doubt Flash would say something cheeky about having long repressed feelings for the other wizard. Draco couldn't bear to think such horrifying thoughts.

Seems Potter isn't the perfectly happy Prince Charming, Draco thought, surprised at this knowledge. He doesn't want his fame; he doesn't think he's important. I always thought he revelled in his glory. Hmmm, I wonder what prompted this. Draco couldn't begin to wonder what had caused the pompous, attention seeking and thoroughly annoying wizard to feel that way.

With no evidence of any Dungbombs or combusted cameras in sight, the patrons of the pub turned back to their animated conversations. Draco realised Severus was waiting upstairs and he was yet to make it to the bar to place his drink order. After the past few minutes, Draco decided he needed the firewhisky more than ever.

As he made his way back to the dining room a full bottle of Ogden's finest in hand, another stray, yet slightly disturbing thought entered his head, one that he couldn't shake easily. I never realised Potter's eyes were so green. He had recalled from their school days that they were an unusual colour, but he had never seen such an intense gaze. The angry green fire within Potter's eyes danced throughout their whole encounter, literally burning the image into his mind. He was so lost in those thoughts that he didn't even notice the rush of conversation as all the patrons in the pub began sharing their views of the unexpected outburst from the Boy-Who-Lived.

---

Severus could see the slightly confused look on Draco's face as he watched him sit down in the wing chair beside the fireplace of their dining room. Severus had helped himself to the tea, but Draco's order of soup had remained untouched. Severus watched as Draco quickly poured himself a rather generous shot of the firewhisky and downed it in one gulp, before staring into the fire. Having sensed the strong magical surge, even from the private dining room, Severus finally gave into his curiosity. "What was all the shouting and carrying on down there? Did I detect a magical surge?"

Draco snapped out of his disturbing thoughts. "Potter happened, that's what," he suddenly realised he sounded surly and childish, but Potter had always brought out those traits in him. Especially since he found himself admiring how Potter's arse looked in his well tailored trousers. He shook his head in disbelief, and snorted. "Who else?" Looking up at Severus' raised eyebrow, he smirked. "I understand you also had a little run in with our illustrious wizarding saviour," Draco snickered, taking another sip of his drink.

"I wondered if you would see him downstairs," Severus nodded and commented wryly. "Please tell me you didn't provoke him and cause such an outburst. If I could feel the magic from here, then he must have truly put on a spectacular show. I believe it's been some time since he lost control like that, though I'll admit that he didn't seem to be living up to his heroic tag when I saw him earlier. Quite the opposite, actually." Severus recalled the young man's magical outbursts as a teenager, and after seeing Potter's mood during their earlier run-in, he wasn't surprised the former Gryffindor was the cause of the errant magical energy.

"I wasn't the one acting like the spoilt, petulant child, Severus," Draco paused, staring at his glass. The Potions master looked at him doubtfully. He knew the history between the two former rivals, encouraged it for a while also. Draco relented, "Well Severus, could you really see me bowing down and worshipping at his feet? I highly doubt that. Besides, he was the one who thought I ruined his day." Draco took another large mouthful of firewhisky. As if 'Perfect Potter's' day could be any worse than mine, he thought, his subconscious agreeing a little too readily with the 'perfect' part of his throw away thought.

"Well what caused our illustrious hero to lose control? What did he do?" Severus questioned, still curious.

"We were just catching up on lost insult-time, when one of his sycophantic fan club reporters came over and fawned all over him. Apparently he isn't all that enamoured with his fame any more." Draco was thoughtful for a moment, realising just how much damage Potter had caused with his petulant outburst. "You know, for once, I'm rather glad I wasn't on the receiving end of his wrath. Although the reporter's camera wasn't so lucky."

Draco found himself suddenly curious about how Potter had finally killed their 'so-called' master. "You were there when he finished off Voldemort, weren't you, Severus?" Draco vaguely remembered Severus talking about Potter and that fatally final confrontation. Apparently it had been some sort of inexplicable outburst of Potter's power that had finished off Voldemort. Draco knew, had it been up to him, he could not have done it. It had been horrifying enough having to bow and scrape to the megalomaniac when he began his spy duties, and despite his life falling apart at the time, Draco was not unhappy to see the end of the madman, or the conflict. Perhaps he had underestimated Potter all these years.

Severus nodded at Draco's question "And you wonder why I had to step in and stop you from letting him kill you so many times when you were a boy? He was terrible at control. Apparently he lost it with Albus, once, but had he let his anger get out of control when in class, well, you can fully understand why we tried to keep him from killing all of you," he spoke reflectively. Still staring into the fire, Draco was lost in thoughts. Severus frowned as he watched his young friend take yet another quick drink. Something had obviously rattled him if he was not paying attention to how much he was drinking. Severus smirked as he realised what had shaken Draco's inner resolve. "You've let him get to you, haven't you?" he asked Draco.

Draco suddenly became defensive. "What? No I haven't," he said a little too quickly. "I just... didn't need to see him after my perfectly joyful morning," he drawled sarcastically.

Severus raised the eyebrow again. "Oh, and what's so terrible about the sight of Potter these days? I do say, he is extremely easy on the eye, isn't he? Who knew that under all that heroic bravery and hero worship that he would end up being so completely and obliviously good looking? Must have inherited that from his mother, pretty little thing, she was," Severus looked away thoughtfully, lost in thoughts of Lily Evans.

Draco was lucky he wasn't drinking at that moment as his friend's words sank in. "Pardon? I could have sworn you just said that you fancied Potter," he asked incredulously.

Severus nodded again, "You heard correctly Draco. You'd have to be a blind newt not to notice Potter. I would have thought, considering your proclivities, that you would have at least noticed how well he wears adulthood. I know if I were twenty years younger, I might even consider..."

This time Draco did spray his drink all over the table, "Severus, you are not serious, are you? Potter?" he noticed the mirthful smile on Severus' face. "Don't scare me like that." Severus' eyebrow twitched slightly and he smiled as he cast a quick charm to help Draco clean up his mess.

The potion master's carefully schooled expression was unreadable, as he further taunted his former charge. "Surely you noticed that aura that just radiates from him? His mother had a similar aura about her..." Severus stopped for a moment, silent as he continued to think about his unrequited crush on Lily Evans. He didn't continue, staring into the fire in his reverie.

Draco was shaking his head furiously – surely Severus did not say that. "Severus, if there's one thing I don't ever want to know, is just who you take a fancy to in your spare time. Especially if you are telling me about you and Potter's mother. That's just... disturbing - on so many levels." Draco could see the wry smile on Severus' face, and wasn't sure if his old friend was trying to stir him up, or if he was serious.

Having sufficiently rattled Draco, Severus suddenly became serious. "What did Potter do downstairs – other than unknowingly get under your skin, Draco?"

"I've not seen anyone wield that much power in anger since Voldemort." Severus nodded his head in understanding. "He just radiated this burst of power, destroying the man's camera and nearly all the glasses in the bar. I can still feel the aftershock of his rage, even after he stormed out of there in an angry huff. You thought I was prone to fits of melodrama?" Draco was still stunned at just how powerful Potter was. He still wasn't happy he had, for no apparent reason, let the other wizard rattle his demeanour.

Severus poured himself a small shot of the firewhisky, as he contemplated the incident. "Hmmm, really? How interesting." Lost in thought, both men sat quietly by the fire. Severus finally recalled Draco's earlier conversation. "So Draco, just what happened this morning to put you in such a mood? Dare I say you look like you've lost a Galleon and found a Knut."

Looking up from his drink, Draco sighed, "If I had two Knuts to rub together," he paused, wondering how he could ask for Severus' help. "Did father ever talk to you about his plans – I mean did he ever say anything about our money – the Malfoy money?" Severus was a little surprised Draco would discuss such a topic with him.

"Lucius never said a thing, Draco. He always thought discussions about money were crass, and beneath him. Of course, that never stopped him from throwing it around to influence others. No, Draco," Severus shook his head, "Lucius said nothing. What nasty surprise did he leave behind that's got you so worked up?"

Draco spent the better part of the next half hour explaining what had happened. Severus was equally appalled at what Draco had learned at the bank that morning.

"I had no idea, Draco. I... I really don't know what to say." Severus had stopped drinking halfway through Draco's recitation. He watched in concern as Draco poured himself another generous drop of the firewhisky. "Don't you have to go back and talk to the goblins?" he asked.

Nodding, he reluctantly put down the freshly poured glass. Not wanting to think about his father, nor about his money, he turned to other matters. "Have you been questioned by anyone about these Neo Death Eaters, Severus? Just how bad are they?"

The Potions master snorted and nodded in reply, "Of course the Aurors came around and had a little discussion. I had thought they would realise by now that I'm not in the pocket of any Death Eaters. Dumbledore would know if I scratched my nose the wrong way. Why would I want to leave Hogwarts and join up with their little band of merry men?" His tone became sarcastic.

"Am I sensing some disillusionment at Hogwarts, Severus? Surely you jest? Why don't you get out – you know you're one of the most knowledgeable Masters in Europe. If half the tutors at l'institut knew only half of what you do, then they might actually be better masters themselves. Your talents are wasted at Hogwarts."

"Draco, when have you ever known me to enjoy teaching those dunderheads? Surely you know by now that I have had little desire to stay in such a dead end job. The Powers That Be have every intention of keeping me under their noses, just in case I change my mind about my loyalties. Even more so now that these children play at being Death Eaters. Do they honestly think that after nearly twenty five years, I would suddenly change loyalties?" The bitterest edge crept into Severus' words, but Draco understood the sentiments completely. He assumed that he would always be associated with the Death Eaters, no matter how hard he tried to prove his worth. Hearing that Severus was still facing prejudice after so many years of proven dedication, Draco became even more disillusioned.

"So leaving Hogwarts is not an option?" Draco had always been curious about Severus' need to stay at Hogwarts. Surely that was well and truly in the past now.

"Oh, don't worry, Draco. I've been keeping up my correspondences, ensuring I don't stay out of the loop. I have a few plans, and I've actually been talking to a few people about them, so when the perfect opportunity arises, I'll be out the door quicker than a Niffler on a Galleon. But honestly, Draco. I do love teaching. It's just the students I can't stand." Both men had a small laugh over that. Despite this, Draco was still a little concerned about his friend's treatment at the hands of the Aurors.

"But what did the Aurors ask you?" Draco was curious.

Severus shrugged. "You remember the drill. It was the same questions they asked you when you were in St Mungo's. Don't worry, you'll be fine. You're the victim here, Draco, as much as you must hate to admit that. I honestly think that even if we find those trustees, you will find the money is all gone," he watched as his young companion visibly sagged as the enormity of his current situation began to overwhelm him. "At least you've got your studies, Draco. When will you be ready to start your research?"

Draco had conveniently forgotten about his tuition deadline, and now the silent fear overtook him. He drew a mental blank at how he was going to pay for the outstanding fees for his studies. Sudden images of destitution on the street overwhelmed him. Running his hands through his hair, he stared into the fire, deep in thought.

"Well," he smiled and laughed bitterly, "That's the clincher, isn't it? It seems father has managed to prevent me from even finishing study. My fees are unpaid, and with the accounts frozen, I have no way to pay it by the deadline in..." he looked over at the clock, "... a little over a few hours."

"Are you serious?" Severus asked in surprise.

Draco shrugged. "I can't do anything, can I?" he shrilled in near desperation. "I haven't got the funds to finish the semester, so I may as well just pack my bags and forget about finishing my studies. Of course, I could always go to Prague. Plenty of need for Wolfsbane in that fair city," he muttered ironically.

"You could always apprentice..." Draco held his hand up before Snape had the sentence out.

"You expect anyone to put up with me as an apprentice? I'd like to see how long that would last! No, I couldn't do that Severus. My thesis is complete all bar the final draft, and my research proposal was almost ready to process. I couldn't bear the strictures of having to work for someone else, then let them take all the glory for my hard work. Besides, how long do you think I'd last under all that authority?" he smiled at the last. His ambition in his chosen field was admirable, but he could see his dream slipping quietly through his fingers.

Snape nodded at the ambition in the eyes of his former student. "Always one for the grand plans, Draco."

"What?" Draco knew it was a good natured rebuke. Seeing his mentor had been just the tonic he needed. He didn't need to stew any more over his horrid morning, but the thought of it all quickly began to overwhelm him. He downed another glass of firewhisky to help ease him through the situation.

"Draco, I need you to listen to me." By the look on his face Severus knew that Lucius' son was indeed on the slow and steady road to wallowing in depression. He mentally placed himself in Draco's position, and realised just how desperate the young man would be feeling. His words were firm, but warm. "I need you to stop dwelling and wallowing for a while. Why don't you forget what you can't change..."

"But I don't know whether to be angry at myself, or at father or at those damn trustees... I should have known better than to think that father would have trusted me. He could not leave well enough alone, he had to come back and continue to haunt me..." Draco snorted in irony, "No doubt this is some way of getting back at me for my sexuality. I certainly won't be passing the family fortune on to anyone, so why shouldn't it be spent on his great cause?" Draco was ready to down another drink, but Severus cast a very quick Sobrietus charm on the younger man, making Draco defensive and angry. "If I had wanted your help, Severus, I would have asked."

"You've had quite enough to drink, and I don't want to see you lose your temper with the goblins. Don't be a fool, Draco. Don't give in to them. You still have your dignity. If I can still manage to have mine after all these years, no matter how much my families name and fortunes have waned over the years, then you should be able to keep yours." As he spoke, Severus cast several freshening charms on Draco, helping him to get ready to head back to the bank.

Draco hung his head. He knew Severus was right. He still had his dignity, for what it was worth. "Why Severus, anyone would think you were fathering me." Draco drawled as he stood. Severus also stood, helped Draco put his green robe back on, smoothing out the lines at the shoulders. Draco took another deep breath.

"Well someone has to do it. I for one don't want to see you lounging in destitution on the streets of Prague, peddling yourself, or your skills on the black market. You are a Malfoy; you still have your dignity – nobody can take that away from you," Severus imitated Lucius' mannerisms as he delivered the last line to Draco.

Looking at Severus, Draco could see the concern in his old friend's eyes. He felt guilty that their lunch had not gone as well as he had expected. The soup had remained barely touched, and the tea in the charmed pot was still warm, but had steeped too long. Draco took a deep breath, steeling himself for the meeting. "I'll floo you when I have news." Just this one more meeting and Draco could head home. It had been wonderful seeing Severus, but he was looking forward to some rest, and the ability to brew some well needed painkilling potion.

Draco's knee was past the point of pain, but he could barely feel it as he made his goodbyes to Severus. He had no idea when he would next see him, but he felt a little guilty for not visiting him more often. He was suddenly reminded of Flash – he was making friends, and he could never afford to lose Severus' friendship.

As they shook hands, Severus gave one final piece of advice. "Remember, Draco. Remember the Slytherin Code."

"Live to fight another day? Don't worry Severus, I know, I remember."

As they parted, Snape turned to Draco. "Don't leave it so long before the next visit. Besides, could it get any worse than this trip?" he smiled sardonically.

---

Harry wandered the stalls and shops of Diagon Alley, walking aimlessly through the crowds. His excess magic began to dissipate but he failed to notice that it had an energising effect on the crowd around him. As he slowly calmed down he realised he was at the far end of Diagon Alley and he had only the vaguest of memories of where his feet had taken him during his wanderings. He'd been so focused on settling the magic within himself, that he hadn't paid attention to the physical realm.

He was pleased to be away from the suffocating crowd of The Leaky Cauldron. At times when his emotions ran high, he simply didn't care to be around too many people. It made him edgy. Glancing at his watch, Harry saw that while he had been wandering for over an hour, he still had some time before Ron would be free for lunch. Glad of the extra time, he decided to continue his mindless wandering in the hopes that it would continue to calm him down and put him in a better mood for his visit with Ron. In his attempts to calm down, Harry lost himself again in his quiet musings. He didn't even notice when his steps automatically lead him around the corner to Knockturn Alley.

With a flourish of robes, he descended the stairs leading down to the dodgy end of town. His eye caught a reflection of green as he passed the corner. Why did it seem so familiar? Turning quickly, he saw no one, but the familiar scent of that expensive cologne wafted past him for a third time that day. Surely it was no coincidence that he smelt it again. Whoever was wearing it was trying to trigger some long dormant memory. He couldn't quite place it. He shrugged. Goodness knew how many wizards wore that particular cologne, but he couldn't place anyone he knew who wore it.

---

Stepping out into Diagon Alley brought the flood of unpleasant smells to Draco's nose. If this were Le Quart De Sorcier, then the smell of coffee and freshly baked pastries would have overpowered even the weakest of noses. Instead he was bombarded with what could only be described as the fetid smell of war. The stench of the smoke and destruction was still fresh in his mind, despite the rebuilt stores and shops. Fresh timber and paint could not hide the acrid smells that held such bad memories. Combined with the stench of the overcooked curries and overboiled cabbage; the place did indeed have an interesting bouquet – one that Draco tried to forget.

Draco headed towards the bank as briskly as possible. As he neared the entrance to Knockturn Alley, he walked quickly; not wishing to reacquaint himself with the less salubrious part of town, for many reasons. Being in London was bad enough without visiting people who, by nature of their business, would possibly remember his father in a fond light. As he passed, he caught the scent of a musky cologne. Draco took a deep breath, savouring the other wizard's extremely pleasant scent. The stench from the earlier Dungbombs had burned his nasal passages, and this cologne was refreshingly clean and warm with that ever present touch of musk. It was compelling enough that Draco wanted to seek out the wizard wearing it. It certainly didn't come from any of the well known fashion houses; of that Draco was certain. He looked around for the wizard who might be wearing it, but the only other wizard he spotted was a short and balding owner of the nearby Doner Kebab stall.

Shrugging, Draco assumed the wizard wearing the divine scent had entered one of the shops, or headed down Diagon Alley. Had he not been in such a hurry to get to the bank, he might have made more time to seek out the owner of the intriguing scent. With a flourish of his green robes, he kept walking.

---

Harry wandered through the alley, studiously ignoring the people around him and the shops he was passing. He was lost in his own thoughts and he much preferred it that way. I'll have to talk to Remus about this, especially if it continues. Harry was still uncertain what had caused his outburst. Honestly, he'd never cared for the fame and attention, never wanted the reporters and questions and photos, but he had never lost his temper like that over something so small. In comparison, it really was small, and Harry was just thankful that no one had been injured, not to his knowledge anyway. It was only when he passed the vaguely familiar storefront of Borgin and Burkes that he realised he had left Diagon Alley. He paused, trying to remember the path back to Diagon Alley. Seeing the vaguely familiar Dark Arts store, Harry was reminded of Malfoy once again. Something in the back of his mind told him that it was a noteworthy coincidence that he would wander past the very store where he had nearly run into Malfoy many years earlier. He discarded that notion as he began to get his bearings in Knockturn Alley.

Not having been here since he was twelve, Harry fleetingly wished Hagrid would show up again to lead the way, but quickly pushed that thought aside as thoughts of his departed friend threatened to bring him to tears. He was too far on edge to deal with this now, his emotions broiling at the surface, waiting for another excuse to release the still-surging magic. He paused in a quiet corner between two shops and followed the instructions he normally gave his students until he felt more centred. Finally feeling a bit more control, he continued down the street and back toward the heart of Diagon Alley, silently applauding his memory when the bright white Gringotts building came into view. It was nearly time for Ron's lunchbreak, and Harry had yet to pick anything up. He'd planned on taking fish and chips from The Leaky Cauldron, but wasn't ready to go back there just yet. He decided that Doner Kebabs from the small street cart would be an acceptable alternative. He doubted Ron would notice the difference, his stomach doing his thinking for him.

---

It was a little after lunch when a very tired and weary Draco stepped out of the Special Investigations Office. He was more than ready to head back home. The Fiscal Investigative Goblins questioning him had been thorough. He was used to the disdain with which he was treated by a number of Ministry officials, but the goblins were thorough, yet impartial in their questioning. They actually believed every answer Draco gave, but of course, he had no doubt that they used some obscure goblin magic to ensure he told the truth. At least their magic isn't as invasive as Veritaserum, he thought.

He smiled at the witch on reception as he left; she returned the smile warily. At least the Weasel isn't around, he thought uncharitably. I really couldn't stand to face any more Gryffindors today. As he waited for the elevator, his foul mood returned as the reality of his situation suddenly struck. Nobody could mistake the murderous frown as he made plans about what he would do to the trustees if he ever found them. The immediacy of having to budget was something he was unaccustomed to. Not only was he going to have to explain the lack of money to the registrar at l'institut, but his stipend was now non existent.

Draco had never had to worry about money before. It had been bad enough when he first had to learn to live within the strictures of his stipend. Have they been ripping me off for that long? He stewed over that thought as he waited for the elevator. Could these elevators be any slower, he thought sarcastically. Any slower and you'd swear that Muggles were hand driving them. It was frustrating not being in an area where he could readily Apparate, but Gringotts disallowed any method of coming and going other than your own two feet (other than their rather hairy cart rides, but he didn't want to think of those now).

---

Harry managed to squeeze into an elevator just as the doors were closing. The enticing fragrance of the warm food filled the small space and triggered Harry's appetite. He was looking forward to lunch with Ron and was glad he'd had the forethought to make these plans. Ron will help me cheer up. He knows how frustrated I am with these rotten wankers in charge at work, although I don't think I want to tell him what happened at the pub, although he'd get a kick out of the fact I met Malfoy. He pressed the button for Ron's floor again. C'mon. Why is this lift so slow? I'll be Dumbledore's age before I get out!

--oo0oo--

"Oh do Hurry up!" Draco muttered under his breath impatiently. The wait for the elevator seemed interminable. It seemed the quicker he wanted to leave London, the slower the elevator took. Finally, he heard the bell chime as the elevator arrived on his floor.

As the doors opened, he quickly stepped inside, hoping against hope that the ruddy contraption wouldn't take as long to get to the ground floor. He heard the second elevator arrive and caught a ghosted hint of that familiar cologne yet again. Craning his neck to look for the wearer, his view was blocked as the doors closed on his elevator, and he was again left wondering as to the owner of the perfect scent.

--oo0oo--

From that second elevator, Harry stepped out and started quickly down the hall to Ron's office. As he stopped in front of the neighbouring lift, another flash of green caught his attention in the shining metal walls before the doors closed. He was vividly reminded of his recurring dreams and couldn't help wondering why he kept seeing this dream image during his waking hours. He blinked. Perhaps it was something wrong with his eyes. The scent of that cologne wafted past again – the same scent that had followed him around. He shrugged. Perhaps it was just a coincidence, or it was the latest fashion fragrance. If only he knew the name of it.

Harry continued down the corridor toward the offices as he pondered the déjà vu and the dreamed images that seemed to be taking over his life. He had noticed a decrease in the frequency of those dreams since Oliver cheated on him, but there was a nagging suspicion that the confusing images were making a resurgence.

Harry stopped thinking at that point. I'm not going to get anywhere thinking in circles like this. He was about to have an enjoyable lunch with Ron, and the Doner Kebabs were not getting any fresher. He quickly cast a warming charm on the food, as he entered Ron's office. He smiled at Georgina, Ron's assistant. The blonde witches eyes lit up as she smiled warmly at Harry.

"Hi Georgina! The boss around?" She barely had time to nod before Ron appeared and ushered Harry into the office. As the door to Ron's office closed, the beginning of their conversation was lost in muted laughter.

--oo0oo--

The cheerful conversation and savoury lamb had done wonders for Harry's mood. He'd found himself in stitches as Ron related a story of the twins newest invention, flavoured socks. Seemed they were modelled after something Muggles called Toe Socks in which each toe had its own compartment, like gloves for the feet. Only the mischievous Fred and George had decided to combine this idea with Bernie Botts' Every Flavour Beans to create Weasley Wizard Wheeze's Every Flavour Edible Toe Socks in which each toe had its own flavour and the owner/wearer never knew what it would be.

Toe Socks aside, it had been lovely to catch up with Ron, and Harry was thrilled to hear that preparations for the wedding were already under way. Ron, however, was highly nervous about the honeymoon. He'd promised Hermione a very romantic getaway, but was completely unsure how to handle the promise now that it was time to follow through and make reservations. Harry grinned at the familiarity of his old friend's insecurity. Harry was glad to be there, just to listen to his old friend and the normal day to day worries of a normal wizard. It helped him to put things in perspective and take his mind away from his worries with the Ministry and the anger outburst.

All told, though, Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd been so incredibly glad to be home. His day had gone from bad to worse and then continued on into the depths of hell before it was over. In retrospect, he was very glad that the meeting with Ron was his last commitment in London. The rest of the day was worth forgetting. He barely acknowledged Hedwig as he moved through the flat, heading straight for his bedroom in the hopes that a good sleep would help matters, despite the fact it was barely dusk. He was asleep within moments, the tension and pressure of the day draining out of his body as he drifted off into fitful dreams.

Green. There it was again. Harry saw the flash of green reflected in the shiny surface of the metal doors in front of him. Turning around in the lift, he expected to see something green, or someone dressed in green, but all he saw was Draco Malfoy. The cream coloured shirt and dark brocade vest offered up a vision that cried out his immaculate taste and wealth. His trousers draped snugly over his slim hips and hung casually from there to rest atop his shiny dragonhide boots.

Harry expected an insult but somehow knew he wouldn't get one. What surprised him was how very glad he was of that knowledge. He didn't feel like trading insults with Malfoy anymore. He wanted to trade touches and kisses instead. Some distant part of his brain knew that this was not a logical thought for him, but he had no choice but to ignore it when he looked into Malfoy's crystal blue eyes. They sparkled like cut gems and seemed to flicker with invitation as Harry watched that luscious mouth quirk into a rarely seen smile. He ran the tip of his tongue across his lower lip again, the familiar gesture that had haunted Harry during their final year at Hogwarts as he came to terms with his sexuality. "Come on, Potter. What is it you want?"

Harry swallowed hard at the thoughts that fought in his mind to answer that question. He wanted a lot of things, but the top of the current list would be to have physical contact with Malfoy. Rather than answer, he followed his instincts. He took the two steps quickly and placed his hands on the wall on either side of Malfoy's head before leaning in to claim those smiling lips. It was heaven. It was everything he'd imagined a kiss should be, but had never connected with Malfoy before. The pressure of their lips was perfect, and the silky warmth of Malfoy's tongue sent a shiver straight to Harry's groin. He took advantage of the moment, and their positions, by pressing himself fully against the other body, unmindful that they were in an elevator and the doors could open at any time. He felt his breath catch in his throat when Malfoy's hands came to rest gently on Harry's waist. The tenderness and sweetness of the gesture was so very different from Harry's expectations that he wasn't entirely sure what to do. He broke off from their kiss and searched that blue gaze for a clue.

Malfoy just looked at him. "You should learn to control yourself, Potter." The voice came from Malfoy, but sounded more like Snape, leaving Harry feeling even more confused than before and slightly concerned.

"I do control myself."

"You called that control?" The room spun and suddenly he was standing in the Leaky Cauldron again, viewing the damage he had left after his mid-morning outburst. He saw the frightened looks from the patrons, the resigned expression on Tom's face, the shattered glass covering a majority of the floor, and the dripping Butterbeer and Firewhisky from the broken bottles. Spinning quickly to leave, he found himself face to face with Malfoy once again. "Leaving so soon?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but found he was now standing at one end of the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch. He took a step backward and felt the left goalpost in his back. Malfoy was too close for Harry to leave, and Harry realised he didn't really want to. He was trapped between the goalpost and Malfoy's firm body, suddenly wondering where their clothing had gone. His hands wandered up and down the smooth, supple skin of his childhood enemy, tracing the contours around the firm muscles, mapping the curve of Malfoy's tight buttocks. Malfoy smiled. "Ah, ah, ah," he taunted. "This time it's my turn."

With those words, Harry was spun around to face the post, and wrapped his arms around it as he closed his eyes tightly. He felt the confident fingers soothing over his skin, gliding towards his opening, and knew he was about to be well-buggered. He heard the almost imperceptible whisper as Malfoy's tongue ghosted over the shell of his ear, whispering a lubricating charm. He felt warm fingers trailing down his spine. As he felt a finger ready to breach his tightness, he gasped. Opening his eyes, he found he was now standing in front of his classroom.

He took a moment to quickly ensure he was indeed clothed and turned to discover that Malfoy was nowhere to be found. Either it was an odd daydream, or he had dozed off into an even more bizarre nightmare. Facing the class, he saw that his regular students were not there. The room was instead filled with young adults that he knew to be the children of his own contemporaries. He spotted a dog eared calendar on his desk, the year 2020 clearly marked on the bright parchment. Harry began to feel claustrophobic as he realised that he'd been trapped in this room, and in the tutoring position, for nineteen years. 'I'm not taking this anymore. I'll quit. I'd rather not work than be here any longer,' he thought. With that decision, he spun on his heel to leave, only to find that the door was gone. There were no doors, no windows, no form of exit or escape. He was stuck. Harry couldn't breathe, and began turning in circles waiting for the door to reappear.

Harry awoke with a stifled scream, tangled in his sheets as usual, and with an unshakable feeling of terror creeping over him. He had the feeling that he had just faced his best and worst dreams all at once, but for a change, he couldn't remember a single image from his slumber. He rubbed his face, pulling the slick, sweaty strands of hair back from his face. He shivered involuntarily as a cold chill crept over his sweat cooled skin. I hate it when I can't remember my dreams. Looking at the clock, he saw it was just after midnight. He tried to rearrange the tangled bedclothes, but gave up before he turned over and forced himself to go back to sleep, briefly wondering if that flash of green had resurfaced in his forgotten dreams.

--oo0oo--

By the time Draco landed on the rug in front of his fireplace in Paris, the sun was long gone, and the moonlight played shadows through the window, casting long shadows across the studio floor. Petite Amie meowed in welcome, rubbing against Draco's sore left leg in an eager greeting. Falling heavily into the overstuffed chair by the fire, Draco absently waved his wand, lighting the candles in the sconces and burners. Another muttered spell, and the fire banked, rising in warm flickering tendrils.

Well, if that wasn't the worst day of my life, he thought sourly, rubbing his temples in slow circles. He was tired, grumpy, and most of all - angry. His anger was mainly directed at the fact he was so stupid. Why did I never bother to check up on those trustees? Why did I take them at face value? They seemed to have my best interests at heart. Who would have thought Father could have continued to have so much influence after being dead all these years?

Thinking about his father made Draco wish for another strong drink. He appreciated the fact Severus had sobered him up a little before going back to the bank, but he was tired, thirsty, and as he rose from the chair, he realised he was in more pain than he cared to admit.

In his eagerness to get out of London, Draco had foolishly blocked out most of the twinges of discomfort as he made his way to the Ministry, and back home. Now that he was here, he wanted nothing more than to forget the worst parts of the day, but as always, he had other responsibilities.

Looking over his work area, Draco searched for the right cauldron to create a pain killing potion. All his regular sized copper cauldrons were currently simmering, or steeping on the countertop. Fretting for just a moment that he didn't have the right cauldron available, the reality of the situation struck very hard, and he faltered mid-step. He wouldn't need any of the potions he was currently working on. They were simply useless pots of bubbling research – totally useless now that he had no place at l'institut and no future. His deadline had passed. His enrolment was cancelled.

The registrar would have made sure that Draco's enrolment was cancelled. It wasn't the fact that he no longer had a place in the course that bothered him. The events of the day – from learning his father had again double crossed him, to the encounter with a rather angry Harry Potter – along with all that eventuated in between – had boiled down to one thing. Waste.

The bubbling cauldrons were a complete waste of his time – of time and effort and ironically, money. Not thinking clearly as he obsessively focussed on that one thought, he began to throw the pots to the floor in a fit of anger. It was a waste. All the work he had put into trying to be his own man had been for nothing. It didn't matter what he tried to do, his father was still dictating the terms by which he would live. He was making Draco pay.

Seeing the now oozing and bubbling mess of mixed potions and bases as they melded together on the floor, he came to his senses and cast a quick cleansing charm. Absently picking up one of the cauldrons, he placed it back on the counter, casually casting a scourgifying charm over it. He buckled slightly as another twinge of pain overtook his knee, radiating up and down his leg. Draco grabbed the counter top as he tried to remain standing, pausing a few minutes for the pain to subside. Looking up through the cloud of pain, he spotted a bottle of Ogden's Finest Firewhisky. Without thinking, he poured an entire glass, throwing it back in one long gulp. The burning liquid passed down his throat, but failed to mask the pain radiating from his knee.

Although the alcohol didn't help the pain, it did numb some of the immediate anger. Draco didn't have any more resources to deal with anything else this day. All that mattered was that he was home, and that he was now going to brew a pain killing potion to stop the ever increasing and excruciating pain in his knee.

Draco barely paid attention as he threw the ingredients together for the potion. He had made this pain killer dozens of times before, and he easily mixed, blended, stirred and brewed until the potion was finished. As it cooled, he heard Petite Amie s yowls of hunger as she put on a show to beg for food. Looking into the pantry, he pulled out the fresh meats, undoing the preservation charm keeping them fresh. She gave a contented purr of delight as she relished her feast.

Draco downed the cooled potion, awaiting the cessation of twinges and aches that told him it was working. As he sat by the fire, he thought again on the astounding day. He wanted to find those trustees. He wanted to find them and... well, a myriad of uncharitable thoughts and a number of the darkest curses crossed his mind as he let his anger continue to overwhelm him.

Taking another long sip of the Ogdens, he started to become drowsy. That's funny, he thought. This potion doesn't normally make me feel drowsy. The flames in the fireplace began to reduce and smoulder, and it was all Draco could do to keep his eyes open. A deep burning pain began in his lower belly, and he felt quite nauseous. Needing to lie down, he cast an everburn charm on the fire, and warded the floo against any calls or visitors. It wasn't long before he fell into a fitful sleep on the couch.

--oo0oo--

The streets were cold in Prague in the winter. It was the late autumn, and the city was cold as ice as a bitter wind blew in from the north. As Draco wandered aimlessly through the still and silent cobblestone streets, he turned up the collar on his leather jacket, wishing fervently for some other warmth.

Passing a small alley, Draco stopped, stepping quietly behind the rubbish bins lining the Muggle streets. A feeble fire struggled to burn in the upturned drum. Crossing quickly, Draco warmed his hands by the fire, seeing for the first time the tattered gloves, and feeling the slow trickle of cold snow as it ran down his neck and into his clothing. He was cold. So very cold. He couldn't pinpoint why, but he felt guilty. Horribly guilty.

Whatever he had done, he had been wrong. Not able to work out why he was feeling that way, Draco shook his head. He knew there was something important he had to remember, but he could not put his finger on it. 'Hey, move on, this isn't your fire – oh, it's you,' the angry hag suddenly changed her tune when she saw it was Draco. 'You got it?' the hag asked. Feeling into the dark recesses of his pocket, he passed the vial to her as she passed a small money pouch into his hands. He felt the guilt weigh more heavily on him as he pocketed the few coins. Nodding to the hag, he rubbed his hands once more over the fire before moving back to the wind chilled streets.

As he walked, he felt a burning ache radiate from his left leg. The further he walked, the more the ache burned, until he could walk no longer. He had to sit, no longer able to support his weight. He leant heavily against a lamp post, suddenly weary and burdened by the ever present guilt.

The cold winds blew more, and the snow began to fall heavily, but Draco continued to sit in the bitter cold. His hands were numb, but a warm, dark glove was extended. 'Here, let me help you', a deep voice said. He couldn't pinpoint the familiar deep inflection, but a warmth suffused him at the voice. When he looked up, the person was gone. Looking around, he could only see a dark shadow as a figure in dark robes quickly blended into the mid distance.

Feeling a tingle from where the warm hand touched, he looked down to find himself holding a broom; the familiar grip was something Draco had missed. It was comforting to hold a broom again, and he suddenly felt the need to get on the broom and escape. The need to get away from his current situation was ever present, and he hesitated before standing astride the broom.

It had been too long since he had been able to ride, but the grip and the feel of the broom between his legs was not forgotten. He readjusted his grip, ready to take off. He could not determine why it had been so long since he had flown, but he knew that it was something he was eager to do. Bending his knees, he attempted to launch himself, but felt a sharp tug as he, and the broom, remained stationary on the ground.

Something was holding him back, and as he pushed further to escape, he heard a familiar, yet long forgotten laugh. The sound sent chills through his spine, and he turned, not surprised to find Lucius holding the end of the broom as he laughed in amusement at his son's struggle.

The more Lucius laughed, the more determined Draco was to get away from the sound reverberating through his mind. His urge to get away from Lucius became more important than the air he breathed. He finally found voice, turning around towards his father.

"Can't you just leave me alone?" he cried.

"What? And let you live the high life? Tsk Draco, did you honestly think I'd let you have it all? After what you did?" Lucius sneered, but didn't let go of the broom. "You betrayed us all. You betrayed your Malfoy duty, Draco, and now you have to suffer."

"Why can't you just leave me alone? Wasn't it enough that after you died, your friends came and killed mother?" Draco was struggling more desperately. He could see a hint of gold at the corner of his eye. His seeker reflexes wanted to take off and go after it. His palms were itching for the touch of the small golden ball.

"But son, you are only getting what you deserve. You betrayed your family, you betrayed the Malfoy honour –"

"You call bowing down to Voldemort honourable?" Draco bit back.

"Had I known you would have turned out as such a dismal failure at being a Malfoy, I would have had you drowned at birth." Lucius looked his son up and down. "You obviously inherited your disturbing proclivity for men from your mother's side of the family..." Lucius looked at Draco in complete disdain.

Draco blocked out Lucius' insults. "Leave mother out of this. If anything, I'm proud of the fact that my mother was a proud and decent witch. Why can't you leave me alone? You've ruined my future. I really didn't care about the money, why did you have to stop me from having a life – any life? If anything, you let me down. I don't care about the Malfoy name – it's certainly not something to be proud of after you were through trashing it." The sudden urge to chase the snitch became more urgent. He could sense it, and knew that it needed to be caught – was waiting to be caught.

Finally, Draco struggled enough to break the broom from Lucius' grip. As he took off, his heart racing at the familiar need to get to the snitch as it hovered teasingly before him, he could hear a final epitaph from Lucius' lips, 'You deserve nothing... you are nothing.'

As Draco raced away from Lucius, he could sense the freedom as he ducked and wove through the air, racing towards that ever present snitch. Strangely, the small golden ball wasn't flitting erratically, as was its wont; instead, it hovered teasingly in the one spot. Bending low against the broom, he flew straight and true towards it. A sense of relief suffused him as he moved towards the ball. As he closed in on it, he felt the presence of another seeker on his tail, and tried with all his energy to get to the prize.

A sudden lurch, and he felt an excruciating pain in his knee. He recalled why he had not been on a broom in years as he remembered the awkwardness of his injury. Looking down, he could see the awkward angle of his leg, and he felt the broom lurch and sway as he veered off course.

Losing control, a sickly feeling rose in his stomach, and he began to fall. A severe throb in his head accompanied the fall. Falling. Falling. Expecting impact, he felt a great rush of wind as warm hands grabbed him, arresting his fall and sweeping him away.

'It's all right, I have you now.' The warm voice from earlier spoke again. He tried to turn around, but couldn't see the face of his rescuer, as he helped Draco onto the front of his broom. One hand grasped his waist as the other steadied the broom. As they hovered there, waiting for Draco to get his balance, the snitch hovered teasingly before him.

'Go on,' the voice whispered teasingly in his ear, 'take it. It's yours. It's been waiting for you.' Draco reached out and took the snitch, as he felt the warm arms grasp him and keep him safe and warm.

---

Harry awoke slowly, as if emerging from a sudden dive into a deep, warm lake. He began to feel the sheets and duvet wrapped around him, but his sleep-addled brain couldn't quite make out where he was. Eventually, as he slowly untangled his legs from the bedclothes, he awoke enough to remember that he was home, and that he'd been to London the day before. As he finally summoned the energy to pull himself out of bed, he recalled the burst of anger he'd felt at the pub, and the resulting carnage he'd left behind. It hadn't been until he went back to the Leaky Cauldron to floo home that he had finally realised the extent of damage he had done.

He'd had to apologise to Tom, and despite the hunchback's objections, Harry ended up leaving a few more galleons to ensure the damage would be covered. He couldn't help feeling horrid for what had happened, but he was worried more about the damage he could have caused than about the damage he had caused. Harry knew that there were very few people in the world who understood the extent of his power, and the amount of work that had gone into helping him control that power. The fact that he had allowed that control to slip after so many years was not a good sign of things to come.

He sat down at the desk to send a letter to Claire, determined that this needed to be taken care of right away. He had to know what was going on. He had a right to know. More than that, he had a responsibility to know. He couldn't help the nagging feeling that this power surge had something to do with the Neo Death Eaters he had heard people mumbling about around the office. It had been decided at the end of the war that his power was somehow directly related to the threat presented against the wizarding world. He had experienced his first power surge when Voldemort attacked him as a baby. Then, during most of his youth, the power had simmered, only coming to a boil again when Voldemort began his efforts to regain his life. It was Severus Snape who had discovered this, realising shortly after Voldemort's death that Harry's power level was consistently lower than it had been in previous years, and that he was no longer prone to dangerous and uncontrollable outbursts when provoked, angered or frightened.

Tuesday, 18 March, 2003 Claire, As promised, I will be returning to work tomorrow. I must request a meeting with you at your earliest convenience. Something important has come up and it requires fairly immediate attention. I cannot begin to speculate on the outcome of this, nor can I emphasise the importance strongly enough. If I haven't heard otherwise from you, I will plan to meet with you at 3:00, after my last tutoring session of the day. Thank you,
Harry Potter

After writing the letter Harry felt slightly better. He knew that he could handle himself for a few days, and he felt that talking it over with Claire would help him chose a course of action for the coming weeks. Claire would be able to fill him in on the hushed goings-on of this new Death Eater group. Once he knew what was happening, what to expect, he would feel much better about the entire situation. I should probably go talk to Remus and Dumbledore this weekend, though. He knew that his old friend and the Headmaster could help him to put everything in perspective. They, along with Snape and a couple of the now-dead Aurors, had been the impetus for his initial grasp on his power.

Through them, he had learned how to recognise it, how to keep his temper in check and keep his power at a steady level. He had learned to understand that power and to reign it in when need be.

Ultimately, it was Snape's near imperceptible nod and encouraging gaze during that final showdown that allowed Harry to embrace his anger and channel it through his power. The result had been something Harry never imagined or expected. Unleashing the raw power upon the Dark Lord, Voldemort had been taken by surprise. He quivered and glowed as he writhed in pain, his essence quickly dissolving into a vapour cloud. The dense black smog folded in upon itself as Harry continued to glower and force his rage through his power. Ultimately, the ever decreasing pall of smoke disappeared into the now smoking length of yew that was Voldemort's wand.

Harry had watched this, feeling somewhat separated from reality at that moment and unmindful of the crackling and trembling throughout the rest of the room. Once the mist had been fully absorbed by the yew wand, Harry had conjured a flame, picked up the wand, snapped it into four separate pieces, and threw it into the flame followed by a curse to ensure that it would be disintegrated thoroughly. A far distant phoenix cry could be heard as Harry thoroughly destroyed what was left of the former Dark Lord. The cry was triumphant, and the last vestiges of the wand sparked in red and gold before disintegrating into the ashes.

He snapped himself out of the morbid memories, and pulled out another clean sheet of parchment.

Tuesday, 18 March, 2003 Remus, I know I was just there, but I was hoping I could come back to visit this weekend. I've had a bit of a disappointment with the Ministry, and then a bit of an incident in Diagon Alley. I think a meeting with you and Dumbledore would be a good idea. It's got me a little worried, though I'm sure I'm overreacting. Owl to let me know if you are all right with me coming up this weekend. Thanks,
Harry

He sealed that letter as well, and offered Hedwig a treat before sending her off to deliver both messages. He set about the rest of his day, paying particular attention to his tea and crumpets. He relished the steaming cup of Irish Breakfast tea and immediately felt himself start to calm down, grounding himself to get rid of the excess energy that swirled within. After breakfast, Harry set about completing a number of mindless, but very busy chores. Cleaning the flat in the traditional Muggle way offered a further outlet for his anxiety. He went out for groceries to replenish the dwindling supply, stopped off at the local bookstore to see what new releases they had, and then decided to reorganise the items he'd brought back from France the previous week. He set aside the film that needed to be developed and made plans to buy himself a new photo album to support his hobby.

Pulling out another shopping bag, he realised that he'd nearly forgotten the final impulse purchases from the Indian textiles shop. He lovingly fingered the scarf he'd bought. The bottom layer of the scarf was a fine cream-coloured polished silk with a slight sheen to it. Hand-sewn over that was a sheer crimson silk with a delicate white lily embroidered on it. It made him think of his mother, and he simply had to have it. Reaching back into the bag, he pulled out the comfortable spun silk pants and jacket he'd bought. The black fabric was neatly hand embroidered with black thread in an intricate pattern of vines and leaves. He'd been so enthralled by the fabrics and clothes in that shop that he had finally gone back to buy this, but then promptly forgot about it.

Now, however, he quickly pulled off his jumper, slipping into the jacket to check the fit, which was perfect for him. He changed into the new trousers as well, feeling quite comfortable and relaxed in the loose garments. It had taken nearly all day, but he was starting to feel much better. He suddenly realised what he really needed to do, and he jumped up, nearly spilling his hot sandwich in his lap, before reaching for the journal. He could feel the tension ease from his rather mundane day, but it was the best therapy for what had happened the day before. Why didn't I think of this earlier? I should really talk to Luc. Grabbing his quill and ink, he found the words flying from the end of the quill.

Tuesday, 18 March, 2003 Hello Luc! I know it's not yet Sunday, but I had to take a moment to tell you about some recent events in my life. For starters, do you remember when you asked if I've ever met someone who just oozed sex? Well, I have. Only, I knew him ages ago, when he was a kid. I guess, even though he had only just reached adulthood the last time I saw him, I never quite stopped seeing him as an annoying little brat. Now, however, I must admit to some immediate reactions when I saw this man again. It's been a hell of a week, and I got the run-around from the Powers That Be at work. It appears that they want to keep me stuck in my current dead-end job for as long as possible. Then there was the quite unexpected run-in with that man I mentioned earlier. As I said, he was just a boy, and a rather spoilt boy at that. The sort that was obviously raised to believe he was better than everyone else. He seemed to be treated as if he were the best thing since pumpkin juice. Oh, I'll grant you that in hindsight I can admit he's not a bad bloke, and I suppose it could be said that he was rather helpful during the war. Still, the point is that I ran into him and was quite immediately taken by the changes in him. He seemed to have an aura about him. Something subtle that quietly promises a fabulous experience to anyone who ventures there. In retrospect, I can even say that memory suggests he may have inherited this from at least one of his parents. It was quite confusing for me, Luc. I am by no means the right type of person to pursue an interest like that, not with this man, not even if I wanted to. I don't, you know. I really don't want to pursue anything with him. I'm sure that underneath the finely tailored clothes and the carefully placed expression of disdain, he is still the same self-centred and spoilt little boy I knew.

Harry looked over those paragraphs, realising that he seemed to be desperately trying to convince someone that he wasn't interested in Malfoy. He sighed, reminding himself that attraction is normal, and so long as he wasn't acting on it, there was really no problem with being attracted to Malfoy on a purely aesthetic level. After all, with the pale blond hair, and those sharp cheekbones, and his trademark sneer, he bore a slight resemblance to James Marsters, the Muggle actor in the role of the platinum vampire from Buffy. Harry was of two minds about admitting that to himself, having held a long burning torch for that particular vampire character. He didn't want to think that he would have to admit to hidden feelings about Malfoy.

You did spend a bit of seventh year wishing he weren't straight, Harry's inner voice reminded him. He, of course, promptly told that inner voice to sod off, and reaffirmed that there was nothing deeper to be worried with. Besides, Malfoy was hardly the most important part of my day in London. With that thought, Harry returned to his writing, pointedly ignoring his abrupt subject change.

The only high point of my week was the opportunity to catch up with an old friend. We shared a few drinks and had a lovely lunch which was very pleasant. I regret that I haven't seen him as much as I would like, and I feel a bit neglectful of our friendship at times. He's doing rather well, but did have some decisions to make and I was pleased to listen to his concerns and be a bit of a sounding board for him. I must admit to loving the feeling of being needed that comes with offering advice, and I do believe I've found a solution for him. You see, I tend to shut myself off from others, losing myself in my hobbies and trying to forget some of the crap in my past. Merlin knows that my work can be very involving, and especially during the war I never had a free moment to myself. Now that it's over, I'm so set in those habits that it's not unusual for me to fully forget to communicate with people. If not for the required interaction at work, I would likely go days without speaking to another person. That may well be why I value our friendship so much. I mentioned this to my friend as well, about our writing. You've really kept me from becoming completely introverted over the past months. I want to thank you for that. Wow, I've only just realised how much I've written. I only intended to tell you about that man and his bloody sexual aura. I should be getting to sleep now, so I can face another day of my never-ending torture where I'm not allowed to explore my passions and I'm forced to deal with under-appreciative idiots who wouldn't know talent and skill if it bit them on the nose. Flash

---

Harry begrudgingly walked into work the next day, thankful that he had had the foresight to take Tuesday off. He had a bit of a challenge to keep from showing his anger to the Aurors in training that he was tutoring. It was difficult to think of this as merely a tutoring position, and he simply couldn't bring himself to cheat the students by lightening up on the information he covered. It wasn't the student's fault that he was stuck in this job. He knew that his 'tutoring' sessions would be more beneficial to them than most of their official training program. He remembered that from his own days in the Auror training program. The trainers often had a tendency to approach things as if they'd never been in the field.

Auror Cowley was one that Harry specifically remembered. A great brute of a man, he was especially obnoxious, acting as if he were the authority on everything and conveniently omitting the minor detail that he hadn't been "in action" for over twenty-five years. For that matter, Harry had discovered that Cowley was taken off the field and reprimanded before he ever had to face Voldemort or any of the Death Eaters. Apparently the man had developed a habit of drinking a bit too much firewhisky and the Minister and Head Auror had decided, in their infinite wisdom, that a drunken git would be better off teaching the incorrigible young Aurors than fighting in the war.

Now, with the rising threat of the Neo Death Eaters, Harry was determined that the new generation of Aurors would be able to fight safely and effectively by learning from his own mistakes. He found it difficult, though, trying to keep his emotions in check after being told that he was really just a tutor. It was startling to realise that he was most bothered by his own expectations. He certainly didn't want to be given special treatment because of his name, but he felt that he had surpassed the name with his actions; actions that included saving countless lives, fighting a war from the age of eleven and eventually destroying Voldemort, the darkest wizard of his time. Those actions warranted more than the name. Those actions warranted recognition, respect and a position of authority.

Of course, it wasn't truly his feelings that disturbed him. It was Draco Malfoy. Malfoy's snide comments at the Leaky Cauldron kept coming back to him. Malfoy had always seemed to get a thrill out of putting Harry down and presuming that Harry was enjoying his celebrity status. On more than one occasion during their time at Hogwarts, Harry had found himself facing off with Malfoy, pushed to his breaking point by the boy's comments and accusations. It seemed toward the end of their school years, those face-offs were nearly always interrupted by Snape, but it never made any long-term difference. Malfoy and his lackeys had always enjoyed making comments about Harry using his status to break school rules, to garner better grades and even to retain his friends. Those comments Malfoy made on Monday in his condescending tone, along with his feeling of indignation because he couldn't get the teaching position he wanted (despite his experience and power), left Harry feeling as if perhaps Malfoy had been right all along. Perhaps he really did rely on his celebrity status.

Harry was trying to keep these thoughts in check as he dealt with a class that couldn't seem to see past the ends of their wands. He'd been testing them, offering up scenarios all day, in the hopes that someone would finally realise that they couldn't always rely on their wands. Of course, it wasn't working. Between his thoughts and worries about the celebrity issue, his worry over the unexpected outburst at the Leaky Cauldron, his lingering anger towards the Ministry, and his frustration at not being able to get through to the trainees, Harry was quickly losing hold of his control again.

When his star pupils, Jasmine and Byron began discussing what they could fall back on to protect themselves, he began to think that perhaps they had finally seen the light.

"Protego, Byron. That's what you need. Protego is a standard shielding spell!" Jasmine was once again reminding Harry of his old school friend, with her confident demeanour and her mental textbooks.

"No, Jasmine, you can't simply rely on that." Harry looked over the half dozen students in the room as they pondered what else could be used to protect them during a fight. Sighing, he finally realised that he would have to offer them a slight push. "What if your wand were broken, or lost, or taken from you? Or for that matter, what if your wand happens to be related to that of the person you are fighting, thereby rendering it essentially useless?"

Gary, a slightly nervous and unsure student, looked worried. "But, sir, without our wands, we can't do anything."

"I'll have you know, Gary, that you can fight without a wand, and you can, in fact, win without a wand. I doubt you are aware, I didn't use a wand to defeat Voldemort. I mentioned related wands... my wand and Voldemort's wand were brothers; their magical core came from the same creature. I couldn't use my wand, so I had to use my wits instead, and my internal power. You all have that as well." A few murmurs broke out in the room, and a few of the students nodded in understanding. A few were genuinely surprised; the exact details of Voldemort's demise were not public knowledge.

Through the whispering, Harry heard a snort of disbelief. "Not like you," Clifford spoke up. Clifford reminded Harry a great deal of Vincent Crabbe and was a rather thick-skulled young man who often seemed oblivious to things around him and unwilling to consider new ideas. It was a sad reflection on the wizarding world when some of the longest pureblood lines resulted in idiots like Clifford. "We can't be expected to do those things, we're just ordinary people. You're Harry Potter; you're The-Boy-Who-Lived!"

That was the final straw for Harry. He couldn't believe one of his students would be spouting that nonsense. He heard Malfoy's words come back to him, Are you just fully relying on your fame to get through life? Harry felt his doubts swirl about in his head again, and with them the anger returned to a full boil. He knew his magic was leaking out again, knew his tentative hold on self-control was slipping quickly. He felt the air around him crackle, and noticed the lights flickering just a bit. It reminded him all too much of what he had done in London just a few days earlier. The room became deathly silent as he glanced at Clifford. Harry didn't even notice the trembling desks, or the levitating books. All he was aware of was that he was dangerously close to losing his temper, yet again, and felt it best to leave the room before anyone could get hurt. Taking a few deep breaths to calm and centre himself, he turned quickly and left the room, walking straight toward the front door of the building, only stopping briefly at Claire's office to inform her that he couldn't handle being there and would contact her next week.

"But Harry," she complained, "you've been gone so much lately. I'm not sure it's a good idea..."

"Claire. Stop." Harry was consciously focusing all his energy on withholding the power that was threatening to cause a repeat of the Leaky Cauldron incident. Claire looked up and saw the fiery power behind his eyes, and stood agape. Upon noticing that various items around Claire's office were rattling, he took a deep breath in search of his centre and spoke through gritted teeth. "I can't be here right now, Claire. I will contact you next week." He left the office with a flourish as Claire watched in slightly frightened awe.

Rather than his usual walk home, Harry decided to Apparate directly into the flat. After taking a few moments to maintain his calm, he walked into his bedroom, changing quickly out of his bulky and uncomfortable robes. His new jacket and trousers were perfect, and the soft feel of the silk helped soothe some of his errant energy. As he lay on the end of his bed, Hedwig's soft hooting interrupted him. He smiled. Heading out to the living room, he was pleased to see a response from Remus waiting for him.

Harry, Of course, you are more than welcome to come up this weekend. I must tell you that when you say you're overreacting, I worry. Was this a severe incident? Were you hurt? I'll contact Dumbledore as soon as I post this, and set up a meeting, but I'd like to know that you're all right. Floo me if you need to, I'll be home all evening. Remus

Harry immediately went to the fireplace and reached for the Floo powder. He felt a bit calmer once he saw Remus' face. "Hello Remus."

"Flash!" He smiled brightly, obviously attempting a cheerful expression, but Harry was keen enough to notice the clear relief on his friend's face. "Glad to see you. You look well." It had been a while since he had heard Remus use his nickname, and for a fleeting second, he thought perhaps that Remus was Luc. He shook off the stupid notion, realising that Remus was not in France, and that his old friend was the one who gave him the nickname in the first place.

"Thanks, Remus. I'm well, but there is a problem, and I've just decided that it can't really wait until this weekend." Harry sighed as a slight sense of nervousness overcame him. "Do you mind if I come up to Hogwarts tonight?"

Remus blinked, trying to read his young friend, but knew that he would have a better chance of that once Harry was at Hogwarts. "Of course not! I'll leave the Floo open, come in whenever you're ready."

By the time Harry gathered his things for the weekend, warded his flat and Flooed to Hogwarts, he was both mentally, and physically exhausted. Remus knew him well enough to simply offer the guest room and not ask questions yet.

---

Harry's sleep was even more fitful than usual that evening. He remembered vague images from a myriad of dreams that seemed to all blend together. There were more memories of chasing snitches that turned out to be slugs, acorns, mouldy apricots, shrivelfigs, pulped dungbeetles, or squishy overripe tomatoes. He seemed to always be after these things in the oddest of places. He flew through busy, crowded city streets; Muggle towns; dark, cold, rainy forests; even endless clouds that held him trapped for so long he couldn't breathe and his clothes were damp. The snitch dreams were blended with a sensation of helping someone else, and he could almost remember the calm words and soothing tones he was offering to this person. He felt calm and confident during those moments, sure of himself and sure of his actions. It was a very nice feeling, and culminated in the moment when he knew this person – this frightened, anxious, distraught person who had in actuality done no wrong but was riddled with guilt and angst – this person was falling, and it would be completely up to Harry to catch him. He clearly remembered seeing a flash of green from the edge of his vision before reaching out to catch someone. Then suddenly, he was at Hogwarts, standing in the middle of the pitch, and holding an honest-to-Merlin golden snitch. The snitch fluttered in Harry's hand and the wind rippled through his blue flannel pyjama bottoms sending shivers down his spine. Harry looked around, feeling quite pleased that he had the real snitch this time, but there was something else. He couldn't pinpoint it, but he knew there was still something missing. It was almost as if that snitch was supposed to be shared with someone.

He woke with a start, shaken by the powerful emotions in his dream. He couldn't quite identify them, but he knew they were strong. Glancing at the clock, he saw that he still had a couple of hours before daylight, but he knew without a doubt that he wouldn't be getting back to sleep any time soon. He decided some meditation would be a good way to start the day; thus, some thirty-five minutes later, he was calmed, centred, dressed and waiting for the house elves to deliver him a cup of tea.

---

Draco woke with a start – sitting bolt upright in his bed. It was a very bad idea as a pulsating thrum immediately took up residence in his head. It was such a bad idea, he was soon lying back against the sweat soaked pillow. He couldn't remember what had startled him awake, but he knew it was a fitful sleep. His dreams had been disturbing – at least what he could remember of them was disturbing. Lucius had been there, of that he was certain. It had been a long time since he last dreamt of his father, but he wasn't surprised to find the nightmares had returned.

Trying to wake up was just as much of a nightmare. As his consciousness crept slowly into the forefront of his mind, he attempted to swallow. The thick, dry sock that had replaced his tongue was unable to comply, and he coughed. Upon feeling the ache in his ribs and abdomen, he promptly decided that death would have been preferable to whatever had happened to cause such pain. The regret at opening his eyes was instantaneous; the bright light burned, causing the dull throb to increase in pace and volume. Hacking and wheezing, he ended up sitting upright, but being vertical was equal to the challenge of waking up.

With a deep sigh, he fell back on the pillow, desperately hoping to drift back to unconsciousness. He fervently wished he could remember the good parts of his dreams, if only to have something to hold onto when he was trying to get back to sleep. Images bombarded his brain as the memory of his hellish trip to London flooded him. Oh, he thought. He remembered drinking a considerable amount of firewhisky, but this didn't feel like any ordinary hangover. He gave up on ever wanting to get out of bed, turning his energies to rolling over instead.

The cause of his unease became instantly apparent as a wave of nausea swept through him. Lurching over the side of the bed he vomited up everything he had ever eaten, and then some. The dry sock in his throat tasted even worse for the effort. As he wretched and heaved until he could give no more, he felt a comforting presence, and the warm tingle of magic.

A strong and firm pair of hands helped him back under the covers, as a softly muttered spell cleaned up his mess. Embarrassed at the need for assistance, Draco opened his eyes, fighting the light, only to see a dark silhouette. He squinted, but he couldn't make out who it was. A voice offered up a clue.

"Good evening, sleepyhead. I see that you've passed the first stage. You'll be okay now. Thank the Gods! It was a close call, Draco. I was lucky Tante Em found you in time and Flooed me." The deep, dulcet tones somewhat soothed the throb in Draco's head.

"Jean... Jean-Paul?" Not his most articulate thought, but as he tried to sit up, he felt the strong hands helping him back to the pillows.

"Shhh, now just lie back. It was touch and go there for a while, but the fever's broken, and I think you'll only be left with a bad headache. I'd like to give you something for that, but after the poisoning, well, I don't want to risk any more potions. Particularly ones I brew. I might cause more damage," he chuckled at the last, brushing a stray strand of hair back from Draco's face.

"P... poison? I... what?" now Draco was confused, as well as ill.

"You were brewing some sort of painkiller?" Draco nodded. "Hmmm, well that would explain it. I knew I could smell the mandrake root – did you soak it properly?" Jean-Paul asked.

"Of course I did," his throat protested as he spoke.

"Well then I hate to suggest it, but I found quite a bit of alcohol in your system. I think perhaps that your potion counteracted with it, Draco." His mild reproval could not hide the concern in his voice. "I've been trying to leech it out of your system now for nearly two days."

Draco was confunded. "Two days?"

"Shhhh, don't worry yourself. It's now Wednesday night. You've been running a fever whilst the poison left your system. Now I think of it, of course it had to be the alcohol. It counteracted the mandrake properties, and the toxicity of the roots came out instead of the healing properties." Jean-Paul's hands were resting warmly on Draco's chest. Draco's naked chest. He was lying in his bed naked – a thin sheet between him and the other man. Draco couldn't pinpoint why this bothered him. His head was still too clouded.

Squinting, he recognised the swift and sure movements of Jean-Paul's hands as he performed Reiki healing on Draco. He had seen the alternative method of healing before, but had never experienced it. He felt an inner warmth as healing energy was pushed into his body. The warmth pushed through his skin, along his chest, through his body and right up into his head. The throbbing headache seemed to cease, but the blissfully euphoric state he now found himself in soon lead to his thoughts quietening and his mind closed.

He could hear the low murmur as Jean-Paul chanted healing spells, and he fell asleep with the sincere hope that the handsome and very talented medi-wizard would still be there when he woke.

---

The next time he reached consciousness, Draco immediately felt the glow and warmth of the positive energy Jean-Paul had fed into his suffering body. Did I really poison myself? How could I be so idiotic? His now sharpened mind recalled the sheer amount of alcohol he had consumed on the day-from-hell. Even the Sobrietus charm Severus had cast didn't help. The alcohol remained in his system, and it had reacted with his painkilling potion. I should have known better than that. What sort of dunderhead makes such a basic mistake?

The positive energy was dissipating as his self confidence took a blow in the early morning light. He knew it was morning from the angle of the sun as it fell across his bed. That, along with the telltale sounds of the Paris streets awakening, were just two things he would miss about having to leave his studio. Well I can't stay here now, can I? How will I pay for the rent? I own the chateau; guess I'll just have to live there and use my winery proceeds to pay my basic expenses. I don't think I'll be able to manage, otherwise.

Slowly sitting up, the wave of depression that had threatened him earlier in the week came back with a vengeance. A sudden thud from the living area alerted Draco to the fact he was not alone. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he quickly grabbed his silk dressing gown from the end of his bed.

"Ah, I see you are now completely awake – and might I say you look much better than you did yesterday." Jean-Paul stretched and yawned, his mussed hair sticking up in all directions. Draco thought it was the sexiest thing he had ever seen. I really don't need to be thinking these thoughts now. He won't want me now, not after showing him how stupid I could be. What sort of potions genius nearly poisons himself?

"You stayed?" he asked, surprised that the other wizard was still there. From Jean-Paul's statement, he figured it must be Thursday morning. Draco tried to stand, but as soon as he stood, he desperately wanted to lie back down.

"Hey, slow down," Jean-Paul grabbed Draco and carefully helped him to sit in the settee by his bed. "You have been one sick young man, and you're going to need to take it easy for a while." His firm grip lingered overlong on Draco's arm, but it was not unwelcome. Draco looked up to find Jean-Paul kneeling beside him – his gaze intent on Draco's face. "I just need to make sure we have all the poison out of your system. Once that's out, well, you should be back to your beguiling ways in no time at all."

"Beguiling? I could say the same for you." Jean-Paul didn't answer, but the knowing smile on his face warmed Draco. "You stayed this whole time? What actually happened? I thought you were due in town today." It suddenly dawned on him what was so special about Thursday. "Hey, aren't we supposed to go out for dinner tonight?" That invitation had seemed a lifetime ago, and only now did he recall the anticipation of that dinner. Guess I've ruined that now, as well.

"Well, I've heard of people cancelling dinner when they don't want to go out with someone, but I think attempting to poison oneself is a little harsh, don't you think?" The imitable grin was not shaken as he waved his wand at Draco, muttering a few simple diagnostic and healing spells at the convalescent.

"If it's any consolation, it was a complete accident. I guess I didn't realise just how much I'd been drinking." Jean-Paul picked up on the dejected tone of Draco's voice.

"I guess you don't do things by halves, do you Draco? Tante Em Flooed me late on Monday evening. Apparently your cat had nearly howled the building down in worry." Draco looked out for Petite Amie, but she was nowhere to be seen. That was no surprise. The animal was a law unto herself. A soft hoot in the rafters from Melchett told Draco that his owl was displeased with him. "He certainly has a personality," Jean-Paul indicated the owl, "he barely let me anywhere near him. Of course, he did accept the owl treats I left out. There, almost done." With a final flourish of his wand, the magic ceased.

Draco felt invigorated, but the maudlin thoughts in his mind did not leave so quickly. "How can I thank you?"

"It's all right, you help Tante Em out so much, this was the least I could do. Besides, she would kill me if I let anything happen to you." His smile was broad, and Draco found the laugh lines in his face truly mesmerising. It felt so wrong. Here he was – practically knutless and destitute, and this gorgeous, sensual creature before him was grinning at him like a loon. He didn't deserve it.

"Hey, what say you to some breakfast? You can't pass up eggs. Not today, anyway. It's Ostara. Besides, you need some sustenance to build up your strength." Draco watched as Jean-Paul, clad only in light sleep trousers and an open neck sleep shirt, leapt up and made his way to the kitchen. Draco could not help but watch the promising muscles beneath the light fabric. Halfway to the kitchen, a low, loud growl in Draco's stomach made Jean-Paul grin.

Draco stifled a small smile. "Guess I am hungry." He neglected to mention the focus of his hunger, but he was sure the other wizard did not lose the meaning behind his words. He stood carefully and slowly. He looked around quickly, but couldn't find his cane anywhere. He braced himself to put weight on his knee, but was pleasantly surprised to find very little pain in it at all. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he felt the lack of pain.

Reading his mind, Jean-Paul piped up, "Oh, I figured you were taking that potion for that knee of yours. I had a bit of a look at it; hope you don't mind me taking the liberty of casting some pain reduction on it. It was rather swollen." He sounded guilty for taking the initiative. Draco didn't mind at all. Normally he didn't want to talk about his knee, but with the recent amount of pain, he would accept any help. He swung his knee around a few times gingerly. Not quite perfect, but the range of movement was much more than he had in the past couple of months.

"Wow, I can't remember the last time it felt this good. Besides, it wasn't a liberty. I daren't ask how I got into bed completely naked. Last I recall, I was fully clothed," He smirked back.

"Oh, well, erm..." Jean-Paul seemed embarrassed now. "Well, we didn't want to have to cast any wrinkle free charms on your exquisite robes, now would we? Trust me Draco, I'm a medi-wizard. You were gravely ill. I'm just so relieved you pulled through. Tante Em came around again last night – she's been beside herself with worry. I don't envy the tongue lashing you'll be getting from her."

I'd rather another type of tongue lashing. Draco could not believe he thought that. His body was positively brimming with all the positive healing energy, and some of it was undoubtedly leaking into his mind. Of course, the fact that Jean-Paul's sex appeal was oozing all over the studio could have had something to do with it.

"I'm going to shower," Draco called out. He could still smell the cloying stench of his own illness. Somewhere in all of it, his nostrils still scented the wafting detritus of Diagon Alley.

As he felt the steaming water sluicing down his back, Draco began to feel his equilibrium returning. The positive energy the medi-wizard poured into Draco was waning, and his mind turned to more maudlin thoughts. His past. His future. His hell. How could he have been so stupid as to let the trustees get away with his inheritance? Of course, now his tuition would remain unpaid. Where would he go? What would he do? Draco pondered it all over again, letting the negative thoughts well up inside him once again.

It was totally numbing to realise everything he had wanted – everything he had worked for since the war – would account for nothing. He had defied his father and joined the Order at greater personal risk than most of them, even Potter, and what did he have to show for it all? Nothing. He really wasn't surprised to discover that many of his war allies still questioned his loyalty. Are you satisfied father? The bitterness returned. As he stood under the steaming water, trying to drown out the depressing thoughts, one recent event skimmed to the forefront of his mind. Potter. He never really gave their confrontation that much thought – he was too surprised by what he had seen. The boy had fulfilled all his promises, and was now the powerful and well thought of wizard that Draco had aspired to be. Just something else to hate him for, he thought with bitterness. Not only well dressed and dashing, but powerful too. The strength of Potter's power had surprised Draco, but he had been glad not to have been on the receiving end of the dark surge. It had indeed been a surge of dark magic. Draco could still recall the pull of it that tugged at his own inner darkness.

Not only did he sense the tug of Potter's dark magical impulses, but the sight of the other wizard had piqued Draco's interest. He certainly showed fine form under those robes. If only the body didn't have such a git associated with it, I would have probably propositioned him. Who the fuck am I kidding? It's Potter, for Merlin's sake! Even Severus thinks the prat is good looking. Unfortunately, Draco's libido chose that moment to display its opinion of the look of Harry Potter's legs and firm, toned body under the fine silks and linens of his robes.

The tinny screech of the shower curtain being pulled back startled Draco from his thoughts, and he turned, fully naked, to find Jean-Paul standing there.

"I thought you were drowning yourself. Come on, you've been in there long enough." Draco couldn't help but notice the appreciative gaze Jean-Paul gave his naked form. He felt self conscious for just a moment, before complete mortification set in. He was aroused. Not just aroused, but completely hard. No wonder the medi-wizard was giving him such a lascivious look. "I, er, didn't interrupt anything, did I?" he asked querulously, slightly disappointed. He obviously thought the worst of Draco.

Grabbing his fluffy white towel from the rack, Draco quickly covered up, fleeing out of the room and heading for the dresser. In a vain attempt to open his drawers and find some boxers, he fumbled, finding he really didn't have the strength to open the drawer. Dripping wet and half hard with embarrassing arousal, he flopped onto the side of the bed. Jean-Paul must think I'm crazy. I guess I've just blown all hope or chance with him. He hung his head in his hands. It was official. Everything that could go wrong with his life had gone wrong. This was the final nail in the coffin. He was destined to have no love interest. He'd be a lonely, bitter old wizard pouring his heart out to Flash in that journal until his beard touched the floor – and beyond.

"Hey," Draco felt the soft hand on his shoulder, but didn't look up. He was so embarrassed, and felt stupid. He didn't deserve any sympathy from this man, and Jean-Paul certainly deserved to be with someone who didn't have such a tumultuous life. "You don't have to be embarrassed. I'm a medi-wizard, remember. And I promised – we'll take things as slowly as you need."

Draco shook his head. "Why? It's not fair." His hands grasped lamely for something to hold. Right at that moment, he craved a cigarette – something he'd not indulged in since the start of the war. His whole body was shaking – from the combined effects of embarrassment, mortification, or arousal – he didn't know, but the chill rose up his spine.

"What's not fair? That you're ill? It was an accident."

Draco shook his head furiously. Droplets of water flew in every direction, landing on everything from the silk pillows, to the woven rug on the floor beside the bed. "It wasn't meant to be like this," he whispered. "At Imbolc, I had all these grand plans – they were all supposed to come to fruition. Instead, everything's gone wrong since then." He barely noticed the warm hands rubbing in slow circles across his back. The movement was soothing and not unwelcome, but became more enticing the longer Jean-Paul stayed in contact with his skin.

Jean-Paul shifted on the bed to get a better seat, but didn't once stop the comforting massage of skin to skin. "Well, you can't expect things to improve overnight. If it's bad enough, Draco, it takes time. But it's Ostara now – time you put those Imbolc plans into action. Whatever bad things have got you so worked up, they've really put your Yin and Yang out of balance," The older wizard frowned.

"My what?" Draco asked dreamily. The soft circular motion had progressed to simple kneading, and he felt the pressure slowly draining out of his back as he relaxed into Jean-Paul's touch. He sensed a hint of magic in the medi-wizard's hands as he sensed the tingling ripples of energy following the lines of his warm touch.

"Your Yin Yang energies. Right now I'm guessing your negative, dark energy– that's your Yin; seems to be outweighing your Yang – the positive and strong energies in your body. That could be a side effect of the poison," the medi-wizard mused. "Perhaps there are still some traces in your system." As he spoke, Draco felt those hands change course slightly, applying pressure to a variety of new areas along his back and shoulders. The agony was brief but the relief was positively amazing. Draco let out a stifled breath as he closed his eyes.

"This massage should get rid of any of your excess negative energy, Draco. It will help you face all those trials you are yet to encounter. Now, just relax. I promise I won't do anything you don't want."

His body was already in such raptures from the touch, he could only nod – lest he let out an embarrassing moan. He sat on the edge of the bed, his arms leaning back on the mattress for support. He couldn't see the other wizard, but sensed that Jean-Paul was kneeling on the bed behind him. Either that or his hands were in so many different places at once he must have grown extra limbs. "Just breathe – slowly," the instruction was whispered in his ear. The cold air across such an erotic place sent gooseflesh up and down his arms, and a very different message to his still very alert cock.

The first time Draco met Jean-Paul, he was mesmerised by his hands. To have them on his body, in such an intimate way, was truly even more spellbinding. The man kneaded muscles with the gentlest of touches. His fingertips followed the arch of his spine, from his neck, down to the tantalising top of Draco's tailbone. Draco felt the trail of inherent magic as it followed the hands. He could feel the energy as it quested around, seeking out the negativity and releasing it in a blaze of fire. Draco's body became more lax, and he felt the inner coil of tension start to drain away.

As they delved lower, the fingers hesitated slightly, seeking permission to knead away the pressures and tensions within Draco's lower body. He didn't remember giving explicit permission, but then again, Draco couldn't articulate much more than a few groans and moans of satisfaction. He nodded furiously, trying to keep up the steady pace of breathing.

Unable to think any coherent thoughts beyond that of immediate pleasure, Draco began to feel the unmistakeable coil of sexual tension unfurling in his lower belly. The fire began burning low, but he was unable, and very unwilling, to force it back down. At that same moment, Jean-Paul moved closer and brought Draco into the V between his knees. This allowed him better access to Draco's chest, and his touching ministrations soon moved in that direction. Unsure if he heard a stifled moan, he soon felt the long hard lines of Jean-Paul as he let his body move in flush against Draco's.

The coil of tension burst as the magic of the medi-wizard's hands became more insistent – kneading and pressing and releasing the pressure that weighed down on him. He was vaguely conscious of Jean-Paul voicing words, but again they ghosted across that pleasurable spot along his ear, and all he heard was the sound of gooseflesh as it rose across his body.

Jean-Paul's kneading became more insistent as his hands ghosted along Draco's abdomen and stomach. Draco's hips began to buck with the rhythm, and the other wizard was also moving surreptitiously with the unvoiced rhythm. The burning fire in the pit of his belly ignited the coil that had been slowly tightening, and as Jean-Paul leant in to knead away the last of the tension, his bare chest brushed against the sensitised skin of Draco's back. He also felt the unmistakeable bulge that indicated the masseur was also inherently aroused.

The electrifying touch was all that it took. Having paid little heed to his burning arousal during the feast of sensual sensations, he was thoroughly taken by surprise when the coil of tightening tension sprung and unleashed, making him buck and come and cry out as a wave of sheer pleasure overcame him.

The rush of power and magic and sex subsided along with the roar in his ears. He fell back on the bed, and he mourned the loss of Jean-Paul's hands and touch. He lay quietly, allowing his heart rate and breathing to come down to earth. That had been the most intense sexual experience of his life, and Jean-Paul had not even touched him that way. Still not properly dry from his shower, the towel that had hastily been wrapped around his waist was loose, and the sticky residue of his release cooled slightly on his stomach. A warm body shuffled in beside him, and he turned to face the other wizard. He was suddenly very embarrassed. This was not what he had expected, and he avoided Jean-Paul's gaze.

Those hands cupped Draco's face, forcing him to look into the deep chocolate brown eyes. He was surprised by the hint of lust in them, along with the playful grin on his face. He came down to kiss Draco softly on the lips. He was too intoxicated to respond properly, but the soft lips were already gone, as Jean-Paul brushed that stray strand of hair away again. It was then that a wave of guilt was swept away by Jean-Paul's winning smile.

"Woah, that was intense," Jean-Paul murmured softly, as he lazily wrapped his arm around Draco. "When I started that massage, I never suspected you were repressing so much sexual tension."

"I... I don't know what to say, Jean-Paul. I'm sorry. That shouldn't have happened. I wasn't ready..."

"Shhh, your body disagrees with you. That would never have happened if you hadn't needed to have such a release. Of course, I can guarantee you that the last of the poison is definitely out of your system. You don't have to apologise. You did nothing wrong. If anything, I should apologise for forcing that upon you. I just thought I could help release some of your other tensions," the concern on his face was soon dispelled. "I, erm, well, you could say that we both needed it." Draco looked down to see the increasing wet patch at the front of Jean-Paul's trousers, and the sheepish grin of apology on his face.

Draco sat up, now eager to bring those lips to his. Grasping Jean-Paul by the back of the neck, he brought him down and gently captured them. There was no pressure, no tension between them, and Draco didn't want to hear any more apologies. For once, Draco took what he wanted. Their kiss lingered, but with their recent mutual releases, there was no urgency in it – only the promise of more to come. Draco was either seeing stars, or was still on a post orgasmic high, but behind his closed eyes he began to see visions of what was to come – a hint of green, a flash of dark hair, slippery, sweat soaked flesh grinding against each other, and a touch of Jean-Paul's dark hair as Draco grasped it firmly.

He woke to find a worried Jean-Paul leaning over him. "Wha..." Draco was disoriented.

"You blacked out, and I guess that's my fault. Sorry. You really need a little more rest, and some food," Jean-Paul was apologetic as he moved off the bed. He grabbed his wand and quickly cast a cleansing charm over the pair of them, before running a hand through his hair, and heading down to the kitchen. "It's high time we both ate. After such an illness, you'll need to regain your strength. And you'll need if it you are planning in engaging in any more physical activities," Jean-Paul chuckled at his own joke.

Draco sat up again slowly and eventually made his way to get dressed. He could not believe the intensity of what had just transpired. He had held off on forming any relationship with Jean-Paul as he was too reluctant to make the same mistakes. Was he really ready to have a relationship with the sexual being that was radiating such presence from the kitchen? Or was he just still coming down from such an amazing release of physical and sexual tension?

Jean-Paul's ability with his hands started and ended with healing. After a dismal attempt at cooking some breakfast, he hauled Draco down the back steps as they headed for some breakfast and coffee at a nearby café. As they ate, Jean-Paul managed to get Draco to tell him everything about his horrid time leading up to his accidental poisoning. Jean-Paul was a good listener. He seemingly understood all that had transpired in Draco's recent life, and he was sympathetic.

"Draco, you have to understand – none of this is in any way your fault. So you made a little mistake. Anyone would have under the circumstances. It's not every day you find out such shocking news. It's good to talk it out. Don't repress it. But no matter what, you should never drink alone, Draco."

Draco's appetite was more voracious than he first thought. It had been a while since he had eaten so well. Yes, but will you be able to afford to eat this well in a few weeks? The negative thoughts were still humming in his head, and he tried to shake it out. Draco watched Jean-Paul become engrossed in his own meal, a simple omelette.

"I should have let you do the cooking this morning, Draco. I'm sorry again. They say Potions masters make the best cooks. If that's the case, I can't wait to sample your cooking," it was an open ended invitation if Draco had ever heard one. Obviously Jean-Paul felt no more guilt over what had transpired between them earlier. Alas, the comment didn't quite have the desired effect.

"Well if I'm as good at potions as everyone thinks, I wouldn't nearly kill myself," he said dejectedly as he picked at the dill on the side of his Eggs Benedict. In the harsh light of morning, the reality of his future hung right in front of his face.

"You have to stop cutting yourself up over what happened, Draco. Now, I'm only slightly empathic, but I can feel the negativity just building up in you again." Jean-Paul sounded terse.

"Oh, and how can I do that?" he asked, sarcastically. At that, Jean-Paul leaned over the table, and brought Draco's mouth into another hungry kiss. The hint of fire behind it left him with no sense of doubt about Jean-Paul's intent. An elderly wizard a few tables over coughed in embarrassment, but Draco barely heard him. Again he felt bereft when Jean-Paul again sat down, and finished his breakfast.

Draco just stared at him. Jean-Paul raised an eyebrow in return. "What? Well, it made you forget about your worries, didn't it?" he teased. Blushing, he realised just how much he wanted Jean-Paul to stay around. He had allowed Draco to forget about his father, and his other problems for just a moment. It felt good to hand over control to someone else, someone he trusted.

"I... I... well, I guess you did. Or you confunded me more. I don't know what to say, Jean-Paul," Draco was truly confused. He had told Flash he wanted to be with this man, and now that he was here, and they had taken their first step, he was scared to take another. Something was holding him back, and he hesitated. Am I afraid of a relationship? Why? Could this work out to be the right one? As he sat and watched Jean-Paul, he realised he was doing it again – jumping into something after thinking about little more than sex. He barely knew the man, although his body was drawn to his sexual magnetism. Am I going to stuff it up all over again?

"After I've finished with my meetings today, why don't you come back with me to Marrakesh?" The offer came straight out of the blue, but Draco saw the sincerity on Jean-Paul's face. "We could work on those negativity issues you keep having. I thought that since you have no pressing commitments, now that you are free from study," Jean-Paul made the cancellation of his enrolment sound like a holiday, "you might like to come with me. You'll love the place. And if you felt you needed to brew a potion or two, I could certainly use your expertise. Who knows? You might want to stay, and I certainly couldn't say no to that. Not now." The hint of lust was unmistakeable in Jean-Paul's voice.

"You want me to come with you back to Morocco?" he asked, still unsure of what to say.

"I don't make hollow offers, Draco. I want you to come back to Marrakesh with me. Hell, if you come, I don't think I'll want you to leave, but I can't make that decision for you, and I respect whatever you want, Draco."

Draco couldn't believe what he was hearing. Here was an open offer to start a relationship. It was offered so openly, and not couched in any hidden terms, and he could see the open and inviting look of hope on Jean-Paul's face.

"Of course, if you just want to come and visit as a friend, I can understand that too, although I won't hide the fact I'll be bitterly disappointed."

"I don't know what to say, Jean-Paul. I... wow." Draco sat back in his chair, thinking. This was all happening so fast. "Are you sure?"

Jean-Paul shrugged. "I've been nothing but open and honest upfront with you Draco. You know how I feel, and I think you know what I want. I can sense your hesitation, and I can't say I blame you for that. Tante Em told me a few things about your past relationships, and I think you have shown marvellous restraint. I know I could never be that strong." He took a deep breath, "Of course, if you just want to be friends, I can understand that as well. Although speaking as your medi-wizard, it isn't healthy to repress certain desires for too long. Although, I'm sure you wouldn't mind me helping you with that – if the need ever arose again," he raised another suggestive eyebrow.

Both men laughed at the humour. "I don't know if I'm ready for another relationship, Jean-Paul," Draco said in all seriousness. "But, I can't help but find you thoroughly intoxicating. I can barely think clearly around you."

A hint of colour rose in Jean-Paul's cheeks. "I don't apologise for that. I had hoped you would feel that way. So, instead of our date tonight, how about Flooing back to Marrakesh with me?" he asked casually as he downed the last of his shot of espresso.

Draco was so conflicted. He wanted to run away with Jean-Paul to Morocco, but then he remembered that even though his enrolment had lapsed, he did have some responsibilities. Responsibilities to Emmaline, and to finding those thrice cursed trustees. He couldn't just run away, no matter how much he wanted to. Here was another dilemma he faced.

---

Draco was somewhat dejected when he returned to his studio. Jean-Paul had accepted his decision not to run off to Marrakesh straight away, but the older wizard left the offer open. Jean-Paul had quickly returned to Emmaline's studio, where he dressed in full robes and headed out to his meetings. He would not be seeing Draco before he went back to Marrakesh, and Draco was immediately regretting his decision.

What Draco needed was a little time. A little time to make plans for his new direction in life. He would need a nice long chat with Emmaline, she would be able to help him out. He really wanted to talk to Flash; after all, he was the only other person who could fully understand what Draco had been feeling towards Jean-Paul. It probably wouldn't hurt to talk to him about the other craziness that had ensued in Draco's life that week as well. He remembered that Flash was also looking forward to something that week, and he had a strong desire to talk to his friend right at that moment.

As he walked around the studio, he shook his head at the freedom of movement his knee currently gave him. Unfortunately, like everything else, Jean-Paul warned that the spell would wear off, and he would again find the pain return to its familiar level. Unfortunately, the magic sustaining the spell was terribly draining, and if Draco attempted to cast it again, well, he had learned from some mistakes.

Sitting carefully with quill in hand, he was planning on writing out a list of places where the trustees might hide. He tried to call on knowledge his father had tried to pass on, but Draco had conveniently forgotten. The task was futile. Each time Draco thought of another place where the trustees could be, he thought back to his father, and just how much he despised the long deceased man. It took a real talent to make people hate you even more after you were dead, but Lucius – well, he would no doubt be priding himself on the fact.

An officious looking owl tapped at the window, as Melchett let out an indignant hoot at the intrusion. Revelling in his momentary freedom, Draco walked over to the window to let him in. Upon seeing the official seal of the envelope, he instantly regretted the decision. The small, childish script belonging to the registrar of l'institut adorned the envelope and the inner parchment.

Draco sat for ages, just staring at the letter. Until then, it hadn't seemed quite real. If he closed his eyes hard enough, he could pretend that everything was normal. Seeing a letter from the school asking him to attend a meeting on Friday morning to finalise his 'voluntary withdrawal' from the course, made it all too real. In sympathy, Petite Amie, sensing Draco's sadness, came and jumped into his lap, purring furiously. Even Melchett gave up his indignant hooting for a while, heading out to hunt for his own dinner.

"Well Petite Amie, looks like things are about to change," he rubbed the cat under the chin, which brought about another bout of intense purring. "Say, what would you think about living in the Chateau? Think you could handle moving from Paris? Or perhaps Prague? Do they like cats in Marrakesh?" he joked with the cat, but she was oblivious. As long as Draco kept up the love and attention (and regular meals), she'd follow him to the ends of the earth.

---

Early Thursday morning, Harry sat at the edge of the lake, lost in memories as he watched the breeze ripple over the water during the earliest stages of the sunrise. Returning to Hogwarts always made him melancholy. Today Harry looked out over the vast lake, remembering his flight on Buckbeack in third year and the frantic worry as he dove into depths of the lake in his desperate search for Ron during the Triwizard Tournament. He thought about the over-water Quidditch practices that Ron had instigated in their sixth year, hoping to offer new challenges to the Gryffindor Quidditch team. There were a great many memories here, happy and sad alike, but as his mind mulled over recent events, it was his final day at Hogwarts that stuck out in his mind this morning.

There was no rest for Harry once school was over. The leaving feast of his final year was barely digested when the Order had held a very important meeting. The time had come to step up the defences and to bring out the offensive moves on Voldemort. This was it. Finally, within a few days, the second war against Voldemort that had been threatening for all those years would begin in earnest.

This, the largest Order meeting Harry had ever attended, was a chance to determine the next step - the strategy with which they would begin. It was during this meeting that Harry had been officially recognised as the one who would call the shots. Any active advances from the Order would be done by direction of Harry Potter. Any planned attacks, rescue missions and ambushes would be discussed, cleared, and – at least in part – planned by Harry Potter. He wasn't thrilled to learn that these duties would fall on his shoulders. At that time, despite his three years leading the DA, Harry didn't view himself as a person prepared to lead a true army. He'd never pictured himself directing a war, just fighting in it, and ultimately knowing it was up to him to strike the winning blow.

Now, years later as he sat by the lake and thought about that day, it wasn't really the war that he had on his mind. He was certainly not reminiscing about the responsibilities he'd been given that night. He wasn't even contemplating any of his subsequent actions throughout the war. No, the one bit of information from that meeting that was plaguing Harry's memories at the moment, was the announcement that Draco Malfoy had taken the Dark Mark with the Order's full knowledge, in order to become a spy.

"Excuse me, sir, but what is Malfoy doing here?" Harry had a dread suspicion he knew the answer. It was the only logical answer, really, when one considered the purpose of this meeting. Nonetheless, Dumbledore looked at him patiently and smiled.

"He's working for us, Harry. It's one of the things we'll be discussing tonight." They were interrupted at that moment by the Slytherin in question.

"Evening Potter. Still checking with the Headmaster to ask for a rematch? You know you can't change anything. Must be hard for you, losing like that." The ever present smirk had not waned, despite what Dumbledore had just told him. Here they were on the eve of a truly important strike in the upcoming war, and Malfoy was still harping about his one and only victory over Harry in their final Quidditch match. No doubt the pointy git would still be harping on that in years to come.

Harry quickly became exasperated. He didn't need to hear any more of Malfoy's nonsense. "Honestly Malfoy, you think that's what I'm worried about? You catch one measly snitch after playing against me for five years and you honestly think I'm going to be upset? Hardly! Especially since Gryffindor got the House Cup anyway... just bugger off!" The conversation was quickly brought to a halt by Dumbledore signalling the beginning of the meeting.

Of course Malfoy, being Malfoy, had to get the last word in. As he slipped by Harry to take a seat, he leaned close to whisper "Bugger off, eh, Potter? I'm flattered, truly, but I don't swing that way. Sorry to disappoint, Potter. Although if you're offering to convert me..." The raised eyebrow accompanied the smirk, but Harry turned away in disgust as Dumbledore began talking.

The gentle breeze flowing over the water rustled the hair at the back of Harry's neck, brushing tiny strands against his ear and reminding him of Malfoy's breath when he whispered. The sensation sent a chill down his spine and set off a case of goose bumps.

Throughout the rest of the Order meeting, Harry had tried desperately to forget the feeling of that warm breath against his ear and neck. It had only been a few weeks earlier that Harry had spied Malfoy in the Quidditch showers, and unfortunately, the mental images were combining with the new sensation he'd been provided with. Not only were the thoughts entirely unwanted, it was obvious to everyone with two eyes and ears that Malfoy was heterosexual. He had a girlfriend. He was practically married to Daphne Greengrass. Harry should not even be thinking of him in such a way. By the time he shook off the unwanted thoughts, Dumbledore and Snape were explaining Malfoy's purpose in the Order.

It seemed that Lucius had arranged for Draco to take the Dark Mark, so he had approached Snape and the Headmaster with his plan to help the light side during the war. He would be privy to information that could prove very useful in defeating Voldemort, and didn't want it to go to waste. Harry had to admit he was bludgered by this notion. He would never have expected Malfoy would have considered turning to the Order and helping to defeat Voldemort. Not based on the attitude the git displayed at every given opportunity. Later that evening, Harry had his own chance to question Malfoy at length.

Harry had gone out for a walk by the lake, hoping to clear his mind and relax before bed. It was late. The Order meeting had gone on for hours and if Harry couldn't settle down before long, the sun would be coming up before he got any sleep. He was just grateful that he, along with most of the Order, would be staying a few extra days at Hogwarts. He'd hate to think of travelling this late, as tired as he was.

He'd been walking for a half hour or so when he happened upon the shadowy figure of another wizard leaning against a tree. He could make out the silhouette, one foot propped against the tree, robes open and shifting slightly as the breeze blew past. He saw the red embers of a cigarette glowing in the darkness and wondered who he knew that was a smoker. He had just begun to think it must be a Muggle-born student - because he'd never heard of a wizard smoking anything but a pipe - when the clouds shifted and the nearly full moon shone down on the lake and the trees and the top of the smoking wizard's pale blond hair.

"Malfoy?" He hadn't intended to speak aloud, but realised his mistake a moment too late.

"Potter," came the quiet reply as Malfoy took another drag off the cigarette. "Aren't you supposed to be planning your acts of heroics?"

"Aren't you supposed to be grovelling at Voldemort's feet?" Harry couldn't understand why the two of them always fell back on the snide remarks and childish cut-downs. He had wondered on a few occasions if there had ever been a chance they could have been friends. If Malfoy hadn't insulted Ron, if Harry had been raised as a wizard, if... but that was a pointless train of thought and he honestly didn't know why he cared. "Why are you doing this?" he asked after a few moments of silence.

"Doing what, Potter? Smoking, standing outside, breathing? What is it that you're questioning?"

"Why are you working for the Order? It seems to be against everything you've spouted for the past seven years."

"Perhaps who I am, and who you think I am aren't quite the same. Or perhaps I have an ulterior motive," Malfoy shrugged. "Maybe I've just had a change of perspective. Is it really any of your business?"

Harry suddenly realised what he wanted to articulate to the annoying wizard. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I think it is my business. If I'm supposed to trust you, I have a right to know what makes you trustworthy. You've always acted like your father's shadow, just waiting for your chance to serve the Dark Lord and help revive the pureblood numbers and status. Yet here you are, working for the Order, spying on that Lord of yours and ... and indulging in a Muggle habit! Isn't all this beneath you?"

"Beneath me." Draco was silent for a moment, taking another long drag on the cigarette, thinking about what Potter had said. Was this beneath him? His father had certainly made it clear that Muggles and Muggle-lovers were not worthy of associating with Malfoys. For that matter, all things Muggle were looked upon with disdain in his father's eyes. Yet, he could no longer bring himself to see that view. "No Potter. It's not beneath me. I have layers. I have angles. You think you know me, Potter? You don't. I have my reasons for what I do, and they are many. You don't need to know any more than what Dumbledore told you. Although if it will make you feel better, I'll clue you in. I've met Voldemort. I've heard his rhetoric. I don't agree with it. I had no choice but to take the Mark, and so I approached the Order before that fateful day." Harry was stunned, not expecting the passion behind Malfoy's words. But he wasn't finished. "I've given my word, and I've been cleared by Dumbledore's fancy chicken in there. That should be enough for you." Malfoy turned away, puffing quickly on the remainder of the cigarette.

"So I'm supposed to just accept that you've all the sudden gone from being a right evil git to being a perfect little angel who's going to help save us all?"

Malfoy turned, staring down those mere centimetres at Potter. "No. I'll never be perfect, and I'm hardly an angel, but then, neither are you." Harry watched as Malfoy stomped his cigarette out in the damp ground and took a step away from the tree. They were face to face and Harry could see the intense blue of Malfoy's eyes and the determination that flashed through them as he continued speaking. "That's something you might want to think about, you know. You present yourself as the perfect student, friend, warrior, or whatever. You're our saviour," Malfoy mimicked, "The good boy. Well, I have news for you Potter, something your goody-goody friends might not have told you. You're not all good – or perfect." He poked Harry in the chest. "Deep inside of you there's a seed of darkness. It's probably small, and you might not even believe it's there, but one day you'll know. One day that's going to sprout if it hasn't already, and when it does, you'll find out what it means to know the different aspects of your personality. Because you see, Potter, no matter how bad you thought I was, I still have something good to offer the world. And no matter how good you think you are, you have a bit of the devil inside you, just as we all do."

Harry was left speechless as Malfoy walked away, heading back to the castle.

The sun had risen over the hills by the time Harry halted the course of those long forgotten memories. It had been the last time he and Malfoy spoke before the meeting on Monday in London. Of course, that comment had stayed with him. He had no idea how right he was, Harry mused. He had, at that time, already begun his training in meditation and Tai Chi because of the various outbursts he'd had. That temper worried him because he didn't know where it came from and he didn't know how to control it. Malfoy seemed to be talking about his anger and the effects it had on his magic. Harry could even believe that perhaps Malfoy knew about these issues because of Snape. What he didn't think Malfoy knew was the theories on Voldemort marking him as a baby. 'A bit of the devil' indeed. Harry had discovered a few bits of Voldemort's power within his own magic, expressed by the visions, the Parseltongue and, possibly, the rage-induced eruptions of errant power.

He wondered if Malfoy knew more about it now than he had then, or if Malfoy still had that desire to offer something good to the world now that the war was over. He shook his head. He had to get past the entirely inappropriate thoughts of Malfoy wandering through his mind. No doubt by now the git was probably well and truly married off, and producing equally annoying offspring to come back and haunt him in his old age. It was entirely unfair that someone who exuded such sexual radiance, was wasted on the female population. Story of my life,he thought bitterly. I'm either attracted to the wrong ones, or they are bloody straighter than an arrow. Or in Malfoy's case, it's likely both. Oddly enough, as he walked back to the castle for his meeting with Remus and Dumbledore, he found himself absently wondering if Draco Malfoy still partook in the Muggle habit of smoking fags.

---

Despite the fact he was nearly 23 years old, sitting in Dumbledore's office still made Harry feel like a child. Something about the curved walls with the floor-to-ceiling shelves always made him feel small. Fawkes sat on his perch, preening his newly acquired feathers as he carefully watched Harry and Remus in case they were intent on trouble.

Harry knew that both these men had to be wondering what was happening, why he felt the need to meet with them. He'd had so many meetings with them over the years, he had thought perhaps he could keep his nerves at bay by pretending this was a standard check-in. When that didn't work, he tried to convince himself he was just here to catch up on old times. That one had almost been accepted by his subconscious, until he walked into the office and saw Albus looking down at him over his half-moon glasses, that damnable twinkle glinting merrily.

"Tea?" Harry declined as he watched the charmed tea service pour a cup for Remus, who smiled at the headmaster as he reached for the levitating cup. Harry knew what would be offered up next. "Sherbet Lemon?" Albus held the small tin of sour candies out, offering them to Harry as he had done for a dozen years.

"No thank you." Harry really didn't want small talk, although Albus' traditional rituals were somewhat comforting. He needed to get this over with so they could tell him he was overreacting and that nothing was wrong. He wanted to be normal. He needed for things to be normal "I don't know if Remus told you why I wanted to meet with you..."

"He simply said you had something to discuss. I presume it relates to the incident in London?"

Harry's head shot up in surprise. "Do you know everything?"

Dumbledore chuckled, his long white beard bouncing with the rhythmic movement. "No, my dear boy. I simply read the papers." And with that, he conjured that morning's edition of the Daily Prophet to show Harry. Not surprisingly, there were no pictures with the article – Harry imagined that it would have been difficult to salvage a photo from a pile of ashes – but there were plenty of statements from those in the pub who had seen Harry's outburst. He should have known better than to hope that his statements would have made a difference to that reporter. Scanning the article, he noticed that most of the sources had chosen to go unnamed, but none of the quotes sounded like Malfoy, which was at least a little bit of relief.

He sighed, laying the paper down and looked back and forth from Remus to Dumbledore in desperation. "So, It's happening again, is it?" he sighed with resignation. "What am I going to do about this?"

"Well, Harry, is what that paper says true? Did it really happen that way?" Remus looked concerned and defensive, as if he were ready to go hurt anyone that might have lied about Harry's actions.

Harry nodded. "Yes. I'm afraid it is. I just lost my temper and the next thing I knew..." he looked down, once again beginning to feel overwhelmed by the fear of his power and the shame of his lack of control. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible and held a slight tremor. "The next thing I knew there was broken glass everywhere and people were backing away from me in fear."

"Harry, I think you already know what to do, don't you?" Dumbledore was forthright, and Harry didn't really expect any miraculous answers. Deep down, he knew what he had to do to help himself, he just needed to share his fears with those he trusted the most. Harry nodded in assent. "Well, then," Dumbledore nodded. "You'll need to reacquaint yourself with your old training regime. I trust you remember your old control exercises?"

Harry simply nodded his head before Dumbledore continued. "But I do think we need to find out more about the cause of this. That's why you're here today, isn't it?" Harry was grateful that Dumbledore understood his anxiety in the matter. "I think we should contact Rufus Scrimegour - if there is anything going on that would trigger a surge in your power, he would know."

Harry saw Remus nodding his head in silent agreement even before the Headmaster finished speaking. "You remember the former Minister, don't you Harry?" Remus asked.

"How could I forget? He's head of Magical Law Enforcement. What's that got to do with my power surges?" Harry was a little confunded as to why they needed to involve another party in this. Surely it was his own problem.

It was Remus who spoke up. "I don't think I have to remind you that we suspected in the past that your power surges were connected to Voldemort's threats over the wizarding world." Harry nodded. This was why he had tried to talk to Claire about it, in the hopes that she would have been able to offer some insight. "We need to determine if there are any new threats. The Department of Law Enforcement would be working on that."

Harry nodded. "Of course, how could I forget? It's all I've worried about since yesterday. I planned on having a meeting with my boss, Claire, but if anyone would know of any threats, then I'm sure it would be Scrimegour."

Dumbledore made a quick Floo call to Scrimegour's office, but he would not be able to meet them until the next morning. Harry and Remus took their leave moments later, planning to reconvene after breakfast the next day, when Scrimegour was scheduled to arrive. They walked toward Remus' quarters in silence until they passed the Great Hall. One set of the heavy wooden doors was opened slightly, and in his peripheral vision, Harry caught a quick glimpse of green that made him stop in his tracks. He turned suddenly and looked into the Hall, but couldn't see anything green in there until he took another step, adjusting his view. It appeared that Slytherin was in the lead for the house cup, and the Hall had been dutifully decorated in their green and silver banners. Harry felt a slight chill run down his spine as he realised that the green he'd been seeing in his dreams was exactly this shade – Slytherin green. He stood transfixed at the sight of so much of that colour that had eluded and haunted his dreams.

"Harry?" He was startled by the soft voice behind him, momentarily unsure if he was even awake. He turned to look into Remus' soft brown eyes, certain that he must look like a madman. His mind was racing, his senses reeling with the sudden onslaught of emotions being dredged up from his dreams. Those dreams had left him feeling nervous, worried and anxious at times, yet also triggered comfort and satisfaction, sometimes an inexplicable joy, and on more than a few occasions... arousal. As he stood there looking into Remus' eyes, and thinking of that fleeting glimpse of green, it was the arousal that seemed to take over. "Harry, are you all right?" Remus asked.

Harry cleared his throat and quickly looked away, snapping out of his daze as he silently willed the swell of lust to recede. He continued down the corridor. "Yeah, just remembering some really strange dreams I've had lately. They leave me feeling... odd."

"Do you think they're related to your power leaking? You didn't mention it to Albus." Harry could sense the hint of concern in Remus' voice.

"No," he shook his head, "they don't seem related. Actually, I can't remember most of them, and what I do remember comes to me in little snippets, like random images thrust into my mind." His steps paused again and he audibly took a deep breath to quell the thoughts triggered by his own use of the word 'thrust.' His burgeoning erection made itself known to him and he had to stifle a moan deep in his throat. Merlin, I've never had such a one track sexual mind before!

"Are you sure? Maybe you should talk about them; I might be able to help." Remus stopped in his tracks as he looked his younger friend over, a vexed frown on his face. Harry felt it only right to assure his friend that he would be fine.

"Well, I'll tell you this, Remus," he began, locking eyes with his friend. "I wake up from these dreams feeling very emotional, all over the charts. I rarely remember anything but chasing snitches, or talking to people I don't know. Sometimes there's a lot of disappointment, sometimes there's a lot of happiness, sometimes I just feel worried about someone, but I don't know who. I think it's someone who's lost, only not really lost in a physical sense. I can't explain that part, but there's one thing that's almost always the same." At this, Harry leaned forward slightly and tilted his head just so. His green eyes were burning with lust and he could tell that Remus' wolf senses had been triggered by the building arousal. Remus looked confused, but interested and Harry could see his nostrils flaring ever so slightly, signifying that the werewolf was consciously taking notice of the pheromones being released.

Harry briefly acknowledged the quiet little part of his consciousness that wondered why he was acting on this. He ran his hand through his hair in that well known nervous gesture. Why was he teasing Remus like this and how close was he to offending one of his oldest friends? He pushed those errant and entirely inappropriate thoughts aside and continued his explanation. "That one thing is that I wake up feeling horny as hell, as if someone's been teasing me mercilessly all night long but they never let me come." By this time he and Remus were mere centimetres apart, and he felt a very unexpected urge to actually kiss the older man. Instead of following through with it, he simply plastered a teasing grin on his face as he leaned back and asked, "Is that something you think you can help with, old friend?"

---

March 21 - Friday

For the second time that week, Draco wore his best robes and headed out for a meeting he didn't want to face. He was too stupid to deserve a place at l'institut anyway. What sort of Potions master would he make? Was there some fundamental flaw that made him do such stupid things as drink before brewing something – particularly something as specific as a painkilling potion? Who am I kidding?

Delaying the inevitable, Draco chose to Apparate rather than Floo. That way he could walk from the fifth Arrondissment, and savour the atmosphere of his former school. Gratefully, he didn't run into Emmaline on his way out. He didn't want to face the lecture he knew was inevitable, no matter how good natured it might be. Of course she had been worried for him. Still, he thought, how lucky am I that Jean-Paul was coming, and that he knew how to help me through the illness. It could have been worse.

He took his time walking to the office. Knowing now that he was no longer enrolled, he wanted to truly appreciate the campus, and to savour the atmosphere of the old buildings, the stale yet sweet scent of the potions classrooms. He would truly miss it.

He didn't hear the voice calling his name until a hand touched his arm. He looked up. Arianna was smiling at him sweetly, giving him a warm and friendly hug. "Where have you been? We haven't seen you all week! I tried to floo you, but you had the fireplace locked." Arianna seemed truly happy to see Draco.

Draco smiled slightly, honestly glad to see a friendly face. For some reason, he had felt that since he would no longer be at the school, then the entire establishment and all its inhabitants would frown upon him. Knowing he still had friends was something he felt glad for. Thinking of friends, he realised he should talk to Flash. He wanted to talk to the other wizard – help sort out his crazy week, but he didn't want to wait until Sunday night. He made a mental note to write in his journal when he returned home.

Draco kissed Arianna on the forehead, "Hey there, glad to see you too. I've been... indisposed... all week, so I haven't been around. Sorry." He was truly sorry. He would miss her friendship now he would no longer be at the school.

"So, are you walking to class?" she asked, but suddenly noticed his fancy robes, and his distinct lack of his familiar carry bag. "Since when has formal wear been required for Professor Lefèbvre's class?" she asked curiously.

"It isn't," he indicated the nearby door to the administrative offices. The distinct yellow of the university's interoffice memos lit up the hallway as dozens of memos constantly flitted too and fro in the entrance to the busy administrative wing of offices. "I have a meeting with the registrar," he tried to sound casual and confident, but Arianna had an empathetic sense for his feelings.

"What's wrong? You sound as if the world is ending," she asked him. Looking at him closely, she watched his difficulty keeping a look of despaired regret from his face.

Shaking his head, he grabbed her hand. "Oh, it's just the end of the world for me. I'm talking to him about the fact I can't pay my final semester's tuition, so it looks like my enrolment is cancelled."

"What? That's crazy! They can't do that – can they?" Arianna was suitably upset and angered on Draco's behalf. He nodded and she shook her head furiously in denial. "But they can't," she drawled petulantly, like a spoilt child being told she couldn't have what she wanted. "Can't they do something? Surely you could pay the tuition by working it off? You could tutor!" her eyes lit up at her own brilliant suggestion.

Draco shook his head. "I've got no idea, Arianna." He quickly looked up at the clock tower in the courtyard, and checked the time. "I do have to go now, or the Registrar will probably hex me on top of taking pleasure in kicking me out of here." He gave her a little kiss and squeeze of her hand to say thank you.

She smiled, kissing him back, "We're having coffee." He nodded in agreement as he swept into the registrar's office. The registrar was kneeling before his Floo, finishing off a conversation. Draco felt momentarily annoyed at the man. Standing in the Floo with your back to the door was the height of rudeness, and Draco could not abide bad manners.

Turning around, the registrar saw Draco, and indicated he take a seat. Words were tumbling out of his mouth before he could control them. "I must apologise for not contacting you earlier in the week, but after I returned from the bank in London, I became quite ill."

He was quickly cut off by the registrar, "Mr Malfoy," his stern face was unreadable. Draco wasn't surprised. The man shuffled a pile of parchments aside, before pulling out a folder containing Draco's official records, "You're a very lucky young man."

Draco didn't hear his words. "I had a few thoughts about my enrolment. I know the deadline has passed, but seeing as it's only one more semester, couldn't I work as a tutor, or even an assistant? Surely you could use my services. You know I am more than qualified..." The registrar cleared his throat to cut Draco off.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mr Malfoy."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, that's no longer necessary. As I was saying, you would have to be the luckiest young man alive." Draco thought about that, never considering that statement would apply to him. That was something someone would say to Perfect Potter. As he glanced over the table, he could see transcripts from the British Ministry sitting inside his official record folder. He suspected what the registrar was talking about.

"Really?" he drawled sarcastically. The man had obviously been reading Draco's war record. He knew how much the man hated Death Eaters, and no doubt he was going to use this meeting to have a final say before taking distinct pleasure in booting Draco out on his ear.

The registrar picked up Draco's war record and perused it casually. The man had obviously read it and knew its contents intimately. "Perhaps your luck is what allowed you to survive in such a dangerous role during the war," he intoned bitterly.

"You no doubt found my war record of great interest. Perhaps I should write a book about it," Draco drawled back. This man had dragged him in here to have a pissing contest. He was starting to get angry. He didn't need this crap right now.

"I make a point of finding out the background of all our students, Mr Malfoy. I'm always particularly interested when decorated war heroes wish to attend our school."

Draco really didn't have time for this. "Look, is there anything I can help you with? I know I did not contact you earlier, and our deadline has passed. If this is about any outstanding library books, or any borrowed ingredients from the universities store, I can assure you..."

"Yes, well, I did wish to discuss your enrolment, Mr Malfoy."

Here it is, Draco thought. He's going to take great pleasure in this.

"It appears that everything seems to be in order. Your tuition has been paid – in full." Draco suspected he misheard. Surely he didn't just say the money had been paid. Surely Weasley didn't just change his mind and pay the money out of my account. He wouldn't be so noble. Not for me, anyway.

"It appears your services have been bought by a Master in need, and he has provided remuneration to the school in lieu of your tuition. Of course, you are now bound to his services - for the standard three year apprenticeship contract..."

Draco's ears were still having difficulty. He could not comprehend the words he heard. "I'm sorry, did you just say that my tuition has been paid, and I'm now bound in apprenticeship to a Master?" he asked incredulously.

"That's right. Congratulations, by the way," he didn't sound sincere.

"You just let some old Potions master pay for my tuition, and then sign an agreement on my behalf, giving away three years of my life?"

"On the contrary, the master in question was quite adamant that he only wanted your services, and not those of your classmates," the registrar frowned at Draco.

"So who is it that wants my services so desperately?" As Draco asked the question, he suspected he knew the answer.

"Well, you know him apparently. Quite well, after all, it was upon his recommendation that we accepted your enrolment in the first place. It's Master Severus Snape. Congratulations, you are now his apprentice."

---

"Draco? Did you hear me? Are you listening?" Arianna's sounded concerned as they sat at the student's coffee shop a few hours later, sipping on celebratory drinks. He was still stunned by the fact Severus had helped him. He wasn't sure if he was happy, or if he was angry at Severus – it was taking quite a while for the news to sink in. He had walked out of the office in a daze. It hadn't all gone pear shaped. Draco hadn't been booted out. The opposite had happened - his old friend had taken his concerns and addressed them, paying out his tuition and helping him in a way he couldn't begin to imagine. Arianna poked him again to get his attention.

"What?" he asked absently. He noticed the coffee in his cup had become cold.

"You – why look so glum? You just managed to be the first in your year to be offered a place as an apprentice, and officially graduate! You would think by that look on your face that you would rather be facing a Dark Lord, or something..." Arianna was excited for Draco, and she chattered animatedly on dozens of topics.

Draco raised an eyebrow at her comment about Dark Lords. If she only knew how up close and personal I was with the last Dark Lord... I certainly wouldn't want to face that again.

"But you should be thrilled, Draco. You deserve this, although I would like to be selfish and say that I don't want you to go," she pouted. "I want you to stay so I can continue to pick your brain when I'm having troubles," she sighed heavily.

"You'll miss me?" he asked in surprise. It suddenly occurred to him that if he was apprenticed to Severus, then he was to leave Paris, and no doubt return to Hogwarts. That was if Severus was remaining at Hogwarts. His mind was racing with dozens of questions, many of which would be answered if he just spoke to Severus. He would have to wait until the classes finished, so he sat back and ordered another coffee.

"Of course I'll miss you. I miss friends when they leave. Besides, the girls sometimes are a little too self absorbed in their own little world. I think you are a great listener, Draco, and I'll miss not being able to dump all my problems on your shoulders," she held his hand a little long, and seemed sad that he would be leaving her.

"I'm not dying Arianna, just leaving Paris. You can always Floo me or send an owl." The thought of leaving Paris was tinged with sadness, and he knew that he would miss the city more than ever.

"So are you quite prepared for my novella length correspondences, Draco?" she asked teasingly. "I've been told I can be rather wordy at times." He nodded as a grin crossed his face. He realised he would miss her. His friend. "Good," she continued when she saw his smile. "I need someone to dump on when father is getting too much," she sighed in exasperation.

"You just tell me when he gets on your case, and I'll listen." Arianna smiled and nodded at Draco's genuine offer of a friendly ear, or shoulder to cry on if the need arose.

Draco took his time walking back to his studio. This was a perfect ending to the craziest week of his life. It felt good in many ways, but he was still a little unsure of where to go and what to do next. He had Jean-Paul's invitation to Marrakesh, and now, a real chance at a future, despite the fact he would be an apprentice, as much as he loathed the idea. Earlier in the week, before finding out he was practically knutless, he would have been more vocal in his objection to being an apprentice. Now, he was more grateful than he cared to admit.

His knee showed the first sign of resistance and pain since the healing Jean-Paul had done, so, not wanting to make it worse than necessary, Draco Apparated the remainder of the way home. He had barely thought about the knee, but knew he had to take it easy, as he couldn't use the painkilling potion again until he was a little stronger. He was reluctant to use any potion on himself, at least for a few more weeks. To add to that thought, he was reluctant to even take a drink. Pouring a glass of cold, refreshing water, he checked the clock, and threw a hand of International Floo powder into the flames.

"Severus," Draco sounded stern.

"I was wondering when you'd call," the familiar face of the Potions master came into view.

"Would you care to explain? What the bloody hell were you thinking..." Severus interrupted before Draco could start his rant.

"What else was I supposed to do? See you wallow in your own self pity again? I saw how upset you were on Monday. I remember the melodrama that you carried on with when you discovered you weren't getting your inheritance until you turn twenty-five! Look at you. You look dreadful! You've made yourself ill with worry, for Merlin's sake. You didn't just expect me to sit back and watch that all over again, did you?" Severus pleaded.

Draco became suddenly defensive. He didn't want to admit that Severus was right. "I could have taken care of it myself..."

Severus shook his head "I've known you since you were born, Draco. I know you too well. You might have been able to fool yourself for a little while, but you would be miserable inside. I've watched you grow into the intelligent and handsome young man before me. You've worked too hard to let Lucius take away something that he could have never had."

"Oh? Surely father could have bought whatever he wanted," Draco sulked.

"That he could, but he was so bitterly jealous of the fact he was rather useless at potions, and no amount of his money could help him to be his own Master. I guess you have your Grand-père's talents with the cauldron. Old Abraxas Malfoy was one of the brightest masters of his era. I guess that must have hurt Lucius as well. To see you doing so well, when he failed, made him more jealous than you could possibly imagine." This was news to Draco. He never realised his father had been jealous of the one thing Draco excelled at. Severus continued. "You have one of the brightest minds in the potions world Draco. I couldn't bear to see it go to waste." Severus pleaded dispassionately.

"I didn't think I was being melodramatic," was the first thing Draco could think to say.

"I'd offer some more pearls of wisdom at this point, Draco, but I've exceeded my quota of those for the year," Severus frowned as he scrutinised Draco carefully. "You truly do look sick. I wondered why you took so long to get back to me."

Draco nodded. "I was ill," there was no way he was going to tell Severus that he botched a potion, thus nearly poisoned himself. The fact he was now an apprentice was still sinking in.

Severus could see that Draco was still unsure of what to do. He would beat it into his skull if he had to. "Look, you said yourself that you didn't know any Potions master who could put up with you. I know I can, and I know you already know my own quirks," Severus was being frank. "Besides, where else will you be allowed to work on your Wolfsbane research? You have a willing participant right here – at Hogwarts."

"You... you'd let me work on my Wolfsbane research?" Draco asked, so caught up in his confused thoughts, he'd overlooked that part of his future.

"Did you think I was going to make you wash out cauldrons, Draco?" Severus rolled his eyes. Draco was truly in disbelief. "You are far too good for that. We both know that this is an apprenticeship in name only. You are practically a Master already. I doubt you've ever botched a potion without good reason..." Draco tried hard not to look guilty as Severus spoke. Now he definitely knew he would never mention the past few days to his old friend.

"I guess I had the best teacher in the first place," he remarked dryly, covering the awkward moment. It was more testament to Jean-Paul's healing skills than his own brewing skills that allowed him to stand there and talk to Severus.

Severus was uncomfortable with the praise. "Yes, well, it's all signed and formalised now, so don't think I'm going to change my mind. It's high time you returned home – even if it's to keep an eye out for your father's friends." Draco nodded. The more he thought about the trustees, the itchier his wand hand became. "We'll talk more about that aspect of things when you start."

"When do I start, Severus? Of course, I'll need time to pack up this studio, arrange some quarters for myself in Hogsmeade, and quite likely will need some time to adjust..." The mere mention of leaving Paris made it all seem so real.

"Oh, there's no need for all that Draco. Dumbledore was rather pleased that I've finally agreed to take on an apprentice. He mumbled some nonsense about it being well overdue. There's no need for you to go looking for a flat, Draco. You will have rooms here in the castle. Besides, I wouldn't want you to walk too far," Severus looked at Draco's knee as he spoke.

Draco knew it made sense, but it was nonetheless a surprise to realise he would be living back at Hogwarts. The one place he never expected to see again. The one place with so many errant memories. He wasn't yet sure how he felt about that.

"But if you read your contract carefully, we still have a month before you need to be present and accounted for."

Draco nodded absently, still in thought. If he had a month, that meant he could still head to Marrakesh. The sly smirk on his face was so obvious, Severus commented.

"Well what's made you look like the cat that got the cream?" Draco nearly snorted at the metaphor. Things seemed to be falling into place, and if he was lucky, he'd do more than just get the cream. His mood had taken a complete about face in the past few moments. Talking to Severus had made that happen.

"Oh, just making plans, Severus," The grin widened.

"Why does that make me worry? You remind me of someone I once knew when you get that look on your face." Severus didn't seem to like the predatory look that Draco had when he suddenly thought of heading to Morocco.

"Oh, do tell, Severus. Was he as devilishly handsome as me?" As some of the worry was lifted from his shoulders, Draco found his old humour returning. It felt good to throw jibes at Severus. It had been too long since he had the opportunity.

As usual, Severus was not amused by Draco's teasing. "Well if you must know, it was a rather acrimonious split. I don't like to talk about him any more," the older man's sense of humour fled as he undoubtedly relived a number of unpleasant memories.

Draco raised his eyebrow. "Someone actually dared to cross you? Who could have been so bold?"

Severus sighed. "I can see you will just keep harping on it until I tell you. Don't expect me to ever talk about him again. I was so silly to think I could find happiness at my age," Severus began to murmur. Draco was now sorry he brought the subject up. "But I honestly thought Jason Ollivander and I were going to share quite a few years together. As it were, well, I'd rather not talk about it any more Draco. It's still rather fresh."

Mentally kicking himself in the head for being a fool, Draco nodded, and quickly changed the subject. He really regretted getting onto this topic with Severus. The man was sometimes unbearable, but Draco knew that he had a lot to give. This Jason Ollivander must have been more than just a casual acquaintance to make Severus seem so downcast.

"Well then, Severus, I should go. Or should I call you Master, now?"

Severus glanced at Draco askance, "Cheeky Monkey."

---

The momentum of the afternoon had continued, and it wasn't long before Draco found his bag packed, ready to go to Marrakesh. He thought about surprising Jean-Paul, but he remembered Flash's nasty experience with surprising Ollie, and he didn't think he would want the same sort of surprise. One fleeting opportunity with Jean-Paul, and I'm acting as if he's exclusively mine? Hmmm, am I truly ready for this? Draco had a sudden moment of insecurity at the thought. He shook his head, refusing to wallow in any more self doubt. Hadn't Jean-Paul told him the same thing the day before?

A quick Floo call, and Jean-Paul knew to expect him. He was certainly thrilled that Draco changed his mind about visiting.

Looking around the room, he realised he was forgetting something. Heading over to his desk, he found the journal. He hadn't forgotten about Flash, indeed, his friend was in his thoughts more often than ever. He would need to take it with him if he were to keep to their arranged chat time for Sunday evening. But what if I'm busy then? I would hate to ruin any of Jean-Paul's plans. He decided it would be prudent to leave a note – just in case he was indisposed.

At the thought of being indisposed at Jean-Paul's hands (yes, those firm and confident hands), he smiled and took a seat. Just as he was about to dip the quill in his emerald green ink, he realised that Flash had written his own short note. Draco grinned from ear to ear. It seems the Englishman couldn't wait until Sunday either.

He couldn't help but smile as he read about Flash's horrific time. It wasn't nice to think that way, but it was somewhat nice to know that he wasn't the only person in the world who had been dealt a horrid week. He was glad that Flash had discovered someone who oozed sex appeal. If the man in question was anywhere as good looking as Jean-Paul, then Flash was as lucky as he was.

As he read further through Flash's entry, an uneasy sense of déjà vu crept over him. I've heard this before, he thought. Somehow, he'd heard Flash's words somewhere during the week. His heart pounded as he read one particular paragraph:

The only high point of my week was the opportunity to catch up with an old friend.

Phrases jumped out from the purple ink, and flashed across his eyes, the words suddenly given voice by a familiar baritone. The Powers That Be at work; I knew him ages ago, when he was a kid; he was just a boy, and a rather spoilt boy at that; I was quite immediately taken by the changes in him; he may have inherited this from at least one of his parents.

Draco sat back, staring blankly at the page. Flash's words suddenly spoke as clear as a bell – In Severus Snape's voice. He recalled his earlier talks with Severus, and found that the beautifully crafted purple letters on the page mirrored his friend's thoughts perfectly. Right down to his description of meeting Potter. No, he refused to believe it. Severus can't be Flash.

Draco's hand began to tremble as he put down his quill. Could Severus be Flash? He replayed the entire meeting and their later Floo conversation in his mind. Severus had been telling Draco how impossibly good looking Potter had become. Flash was telling Luc how he met a kid he knew who was now oozing sex appeal.

Draco reopened the journal. Rereading the words, he fervently wished that he had misread them all, and he was just daydreaming. Just as he realised they weren't any different, another glaring coincidence occurred. Jason Ollivander. Ollie. Acrimonious split. Fuck. He quickly closed the journal, pushing it as far away as he could, merely staring at the cover. He shook his head. It couldn't be possible. Severus was not Flash.

His heart thumped heavily in his chest as his discovery began to sink in.

---

An hour later, Draco was still sitting at his desk staring at the cover of the journal. He couldn't bring himself to open it again and check. He had mulled over every word he recalled from Severus that week. It had matched up perfectly with Flash's words, and he couldn't get his head around that thought. A soft hoot from the rafters brought him out of his reverie, and he looked at the clock. He should have left for Marrakesh ages ago, but was too stunned to even move.

As he stood, he looked at the journal and hesitated. Do I ask him outright? Do I leave any message, or should I just say something non committal? He felt guilty about leaving things up in the air. Knowing Severus like he did, he would be a real sourpuss if things didn't go his way. If Draco didn't write something, and then didn't manage to get to their scheduled chat on Sunday, the Potions master would be grumpier than ever.

Guilt got the better of him, and he quickly decided to pen a short reply. Suspecting the identity of the wizard on the other end, his words seemed hollow, and lacking in sincerity.

Vendredi 21 Mars, 2003 Bonjour Flash, Just a quick note to let you know I may not be around on Sunday night. I'll be taking the journal with me, but don't worry if I'm not there to chat with you. It's been a hell of a week, and I'm spending a couple of weeks with Jean-Paul in Marrakesh. Yes, with Jean-Paul. That's a development that's taken a pleasant turn – believe it or not he's been the only certainty in my life this week.

Soon, the magic of the journal drew some of his concerns to the fore, and he continued to write.

Have you ever had one of those weeks where it feels like you are just a participant in your own life? Where every other little detail is out of your hands? Well, welcome to Luc's world. Of course you have, you were only telling me about your own horrible week. I sympathise completely. I have had a mixed bag of fortunes this week, but I don't really have time to elaborate on them all at the moment. Apart from nearly killing myself (by accident – life isn't that bad), having my arse saved by a very old and trusted family friend, and having to deal with a number of narrow minded people, well, let's just say that I have a lot to think over whilst I'm in Marrakesh. The fact that I broke down and kissed Jean-Paul (amongst other wicked and not terribly wholesome things) seems almost anti-climactic (even though it definitely wasn't). It's the only sure thing in my life right now – apart from your friendship, of course, which I find to be the one solid thing I have clung to at each twist and turn this week.

Draco paused. The words had flown out of his quill before he could think. He re-read the last sentence. It was true. He did find Flash's friendship to be a rock. But then again, Severus was always a rock when he needed to turn to someone. Is it just that I am drawn to this one person? To Severus? It seemed the quill was not finished writing words from Draco's subconscious. Thoughts of his meeting with Severus lead down the path to thinking about Potter, and before he could stop himself, the words were on the page.

But I did want to pose one question to you, my friend. Have you ever had to deal with people who have a preconception about you? For instance, if someone from your school days, or an ex lover met you, would you have expected their opinion to change, just because you have? I've had some interesting conversations this week and I find my own preconceived notions about others have been somewhat challenged. Has there ever been anyone you've met from your past, then realised they appear to be totally different to the person you thought you knew? Well, this short note has turned into a ramble. I will try to be here for our Sunday chat, but if I'm not, then you'll know that Jean-Paul is keeping up his duties as a good host (amongst keeping up other things! – I cannot believe I wrote that. This journal is truly dangerous. Definitely some dark magic in here, if it makes me write such lurid thoughts). Adieu for now,
Luc.

He closed the journal. He couldn't even detach himself from Flash, not even when he tried. He couldn't deal with those thoughts now. Jean-Paul was expecting him. Shoving the journal down the side of his bag, he donned his jacket and entered the floo. As he called out his destination, he suddenly thought it was strange that someone would name their home 'Souk Souk', but it was too late. With a whoosh of flame and air, he was hurtling though the floo system, his journey nowhere near as churned and confused as the thoughts within his own mind.

Draco was surely hoping a warm pair of hands and a lustful chocolate brown set of eyes would be awaiting him in Marrakesh – helping him forget.

---

Friday was turning out to be just as emotionally charged as the rest of Harry's week. After many hours and many flying emotions the meeting with Rufus Scrimegour ended. The Headmaster had decided that the core members of the Order should all be in attendance because of the brief report he'd received from Scrimegour the day before. This meant that Harry had to repeat the information about his leaking magic and raging outbursts in front of not only Remus, Dumbledore and Scrimegour, but also Ernie Macmillan, Anthony Goldstein and Alicia Spinnet, who had all become prominent Aurors during the war, as well as the new Minister, Arthur Weasley, along with Dedalus Diggle, Hestia Jones, and worst of all, Professor Snape.

Scrimegour was, by far, the most outspoken about the idiocy of those who chose to keep Harry uninformed about the Neo Death Eaters. He told them about the most recent attacks. "It seems they are a group of distant supporters, many of them children of the First Wave," he said. The phrase 'First Wave' had been coined to refer to those Death Eaters active during the war, so as to differentiate them from those who began to show dark sympathies after Voldemort's death. Scrimegour wasn't finished, though. He was near livid! "I can't believe those fools would keep you in the dark like that, Harry. Guffries and Bridgewater should know better than that. Honestly, a rising threat like this, people all over the place beginning to fear for their lives, even fearing that Voldemort has returned yet again – and they had possibly the greatest power of our time, and most logical person to offer vital input… but they stick you in a back room somewhere tutoring kids instead of working on this case."

Harry felt rather good about Scrimegour's outburst, glad to hear that someone had finally recognised his power and his strengths without falling back on the familiar titles; The-Boy-Who-Lived or The-Defeater-of-You-Know-Who. He was one of a handful of people who had mentioned Harry's power in a nonchalant manner, as if it were just one more thing that makes him who he is, rather than being the whole of his personality. Harry could not be sure, however, if Scrimegour was doing it to get on Harry's good side, or whether he had finally managed to respect Harry and his power. Jones however, seemed to disagree with him. She insisted that the Ministry had made the right decision because they shouldn't be allowed to rely on a child like that.

"He's hardly a child, Hestia," Remus replied angrily. "For Merlin's sake. Have you forgotten already what Harry has done? Perhaps you'd like it better if Harry hadn't killed Voldemort? He's as experienced as the rest of us, more so in many ways. It just seems to have been a long-standing habit of the Ministry to ignore the gifts available to them, the warnings offered to them, and the basic ideas of logic." The werewolf was on a roll now, defending Harry like he would a pack mate. "Harry is, as Rufus said, the greatest power of our time. He is also the one who had a connection to Voldemort, studied the Death Eaters, and was silent witness to countless Death Eater meetings. He went to school with many of the people you suspect of being Neo Death Eaters, and could likely pinpoint many of those likely to have joined. If that's not enough for you, he's also a decorated war veteran, a fully trained and certified Auror, a qualified Auror instructor and, just for the record, a nearly 23-year-old adult! I suggest, if you wish to remain a regularly informed member of the Order, that you think about this and offer him the respect he deserves."

Harry felt himself grow warm inside at the memory of Remus' defence. It was nice to know that he was held in such high regard by the friend he admired so much. He always got a little sentimental when heard nice things about himself from other people, real people who actually knew him. Amazing how much of the rubbish that we hear as children affects us when we are adults. He thought momentarily on his time at the Dursleys. I guess I'm just starved for affection and kindness.

That train of thought ended abruptly when Jones snorted derisively and was promptly attacked by Fawkes. The magical bird had taken a liking to Harry immediately and was known for standing up to adversaries of those he considered loyal. Hestia Jones seemed to be quite taken aback by the sudden flutter of red feathers in her face and the obviously angry squawking of the Phoenix. Fawkes swooped over to the Headmaster, chirping and squawking at him in a manner which clearly said "Get this woman out of here, I don't like her anymore," then swooped back to Jones and perched on the arm of the Auror's chair. Jones watched in silence, her cheeks turning pinker than usual as Fawkes regarded her closely, and finally turned to Dumbledore as if seeking help. Albus Dumbledore, however, had no help to offer the woman. He appeared to be thoroughly involved in sucking on a Sherbet Lemon and, to all intents and purposes, seemed completely oblivious to the uproar taking place in his office.

Of course, those in the office were quickly disabused of that notion when Albus held out his arm for Fawkes to perch on, and looked Hestia Jones square in the face, his expression one of carefully schooled disdain. "I believe you have been plainly asked to leave."

With an insulted huff the black-haired witch rose and exited the office, much to Harry's relief. He had begun to worry that Remus would completely lose his temper if the woman didn't leave. Dumbledore allowed a moment of quiet murmuring among the remaining members before reminding them that they still had pressing matters to discuss. The meeting progressed uneventfully and Harry was grateful when it was finally over and they could retreat to the Great Hall for dinner.

He thought about the Neo Death Eaters as he walked through the castle towards Remus' quarters that evening. It seemed logical that they would have someone heading up their plans, organising their attacks, motivating them. He wanted to know who. Just as with Voldemort, if he could take out their leader, it would give the Order a huge advantage. Of course, he doubted he was dealing with anyone as resilient as Voldemort this time, which would certainly tip things in his favour. Just when I thought this nonsense was all over. How many more upstarts will want to crawl out of the woodwork? Am I destined to relive this every few years? He had always imagined a quiet life after the war, but it looked as if things were about to start all over again.

All thoughts of the First Wave, the Neo Death Eaters and his upcoming struggles left his head the moment he entered the guest room in Remus' quarters. The journal was lying open on the desk, and Harry could see a new section of green writing in it. Amazing how this seems to take precedence over everything else, he thought. It never failed, a journal entry or conversation with Luc could brighten Harry's day and relieve his stress like little else. Even talking to Ron or Hermione wasn't quite the same. They were wonderful, helpful when needed, and great fun, but they didn't spark that little sense of excitement in his stomach. Harry was beginning to wonder about that, what it meant, whether or not Luc felt it, too. He was afraid to mention it, afraid he was becoming obsessive and strange about this, so he just pondered on it occasionally, and kept it to himself.

Of course, he was given something altogether new to think about when he noticed a keen sense of disappointment and irrational hope after reading the first few sentences of the entry. He felt foolish getting upset at the idea that he might not be able to talk to Luc on Sunday, but tried to ignore that as well as he kept reading.

...apart from your friendship, which I find to be the one solid thing I have clung to at each twist and turn this week.

Harry found himself incredibly touched by that, pleased to note that Luc seemed to be just as invested in this friendship as he was. He was sympathetic to Luc's feelings about life being out of control, and couldn't help the sudden worry over Luc's health, despite the fact that the other wizard seemed to have recovered from his bout of ill health.

Have you ever had to deal with people who have a preconception about you?

Every day of my life, he thought. He wondered about this; wondered who Luc might have run into to prompt such a question. Harry thought back on his earlier run-ins with Snape and Malfoy, as well as that afternoon's meeting with the Order. Did any of those people realise he had changed? Could they tell he wasn't the same person he had been as a teenager? Did they care? Did he care if they knew? He remembered the way Malfoy had leaned surreptitiously on his cane at the Leaky Cauldron. That cane, that limp, those were new characteristics of Malfoy that seemed incongruous with the image he'd always had of Malfoy. Harry felt a familiar surge of sorrow and guilt, once again wishing that he could have found a way to kill Voldemort earlier, to keep that conflict from spreading between the two of them. It had been his fight, destined since birth, and he hated the fact that so many were killed and injured. He felt he owed each and every person affected by the war a personal apology – even Malfoy.

After he finished reading, Harry smiled slightly at Luc's suggestive closing comments. He understood his own desires all to well, especially since his odd dreams and the hungry looks he kept imagining he saw coming from Remus continued to send him a myriad of mixed messages. He was entirely unsure what to do about that. I should mention that to Luc during our next chat. The Frenchman seemed to have incredible insight on such matters, even though he held no confidence in that insight when it related to his own relationships.

Harry slid into bed that evening with mixed emotions. He felt that there was entirely too much activity in his head, but couldn't deny the feeling of contentment he felt being at Hogwarts again. The lush bedding and warm, crackling fire made the place feel like home in a way his flat never did, and the subtle magics that ran throughout the castle were a nearly tangible reminder of the difference between a Muggle building and a wizarding building. I need a new place, he thought sleepily. Something inviting, something magical. Something…green. He was already dreaming before the thought finished.

---

-TBC-

Publish Date: (this chapter) 28-August-2004
Updated: 28-February-2005
Chapter Length: 40,345 words.

---

Review Thank You's!

Wintermoon's Notes: Wow – I never in my wildest dreams thought we would have a single chapter that was this incredibly long! We honestly had every intention of finishing it up during Azhure's visit to the States, but we just couldn't get it all done that soon. I will say that we had a fabulous visit, and she got to see an honest-to-goodness redneck, as well as a stereotypical annoying Yankee! (Az: Only one?) It was great, it was fun, it was over far too soon. But as we sat at the airport waiting for her departing plane, we worked out a great many details for the rest of this fic, and there are a lot of things planned! I think you'll all be pleased, surprised, annoyed, frustrated and satisfied by the time it's over. I know you've already been reading for ages with this nearly 40,000 word chapter, so I'll get right to the replies!

Azhure's Notes: If the net effect of two Trans Pacific authors meeting up and writing together is 40,000 word chapters, then wow, we'll outstrip War and Peace before they actually get to snog. No, only joking. Oh, did I say snog, I wasn't supposed to say anything. Bugger, looks like the cat is out of the bag. Yep, ditto to everything Wintermoon said.

We've decided to catch up on review replies, now that we aren't going to be alternating chapters any longer. However, with nearly 100 reviews for chapters 9 & 10, we absolutely can't reply individually to very many at all. So, many thanks to:

Venenatus.venustas, DarkMagicianPrincess, chi7890, chico, tomboy101, Ashley, Emerald Dragon08, AsheslovesHarry, Sunset Shadows, It'sJustMe, NiaSphinx, TheSilverLady, Jen Red Robe, CelestialDrgn, thedarkside45, Menecarkawan, futago akuma-tenshi02, Yaoifestive, Kellie Mclean, Dragenphly, lalauu, dragonrose, Raven Deathstar, trivium, Angel-Wings6, darkest demon child, Immortal Tears of, Kaaera, HpDevotee, Imp17, SilverDragon161, draconias, yaoi-is-gay-13, Crimson Colored Cloaked Figure, kt, Beth Weasley, Emerald Icicle, NayNymic, Silvia-Silver, CuriousDreamWeaver, Infinite13, XXRogueHeartXX, Asitha, Lily Evans Potter Black Lupin, Rowenna, TTF, firedragonluver, Dragenphly, E-san, Hitomi-des, Jenica, M'Lady, floramorada, Nocens Calamus, N.U.Washa, the royal bitch, AnnieT, EdenMalfoy017, Benjis VIP, Obscurus Imber, fayee, Emily22, driven to insanity, Loria Amnekia

As well as the following special comments that just couldn't be ignored:

MJLuvsPolar: I just have to say thank you for recognising why our boys behave the way they do. Trauma changes people, but they are still 22 year old boys which is why they still do stupid things sometimes. As for your ideas of what would happen, you are one of a few who seem to have been conversing with our muse. I'm not sure I like that, but the silly little bint doesn't seem to know when to keep to herself.

Louise4: Yes, as you can see, someone has had a moment of "ah hah! I know who I'm writing to!" Probably not quite what you expected, though, was it? WEG And a quick note about Lupin, in case it helps any, I believe Azhure and I finally settled on David Wenham in our personal casting for Remus Lupin in this fic. Azhure has found the perfect picture and uploaded it to the Yahoo group's photos section so you can put a new image in your head! ;)

Lizliterarius: I had a few things I had to reply to – 1) you're right, letting Flash and Luc discover each other now is not wicked enough to pass muster with us. We've derived great joy from discovering all the little events that have happened/will happen throughout the course of this fic. Bits and bobs have changed over time, but the basics of the timeline have remained fairly constant. We just hope you're all along for the whole ride, no matter how long it takes. 2)in reference to our president and his lot, I agree with you whole-heartedly and have to say it's always nice to know when there are other supporters out there. Gives me hope for November. I just hope you're old enough to vote. Please tell me you're old enough to vote, and that you plan to vote, and that it will be for Kerry so we can get rid of the village idiot. Okay, enuff about that. 3) what separates me from a Wiccan…long story, would love to talk about it. Send me a personal email or IM me (yahoo – wintermoon30, msn – wintermoon) and we'll chat.

Hitomi-des: So here you go, just a couple days early – Happy, Happy Birthday! And it's twice the length just for you! (not really, but I can say that to make you feel more special than you already are.)

SilverDragon161: I hope it was cleared up in this chapter, but no – Draco is not the shorter one. He was just looking down at the time. Sorry to disappoint. Azhure and I actually debated on that one, but realised that the pics we have to accompany the fic clearly show that 'Draco' is just a smidge taller than 'Harry.'

Thedarkside45: Harry accidentally apparating to Luc's house. Now that's a very interesting idea. So interesting that I would be tempted to try and work it in, but it just doesn't fit anywhere. Thanks for all your reviews, though. Keep reading!

Brennend: Now where would you get the notion that two incredibly clever and knowledgable witches know anything about those journals that our boys don't know? WEG

Lupine9: Just to clear up the confusion – there have been two authors on this fic from the word go. In fact, it was the idea of this fic that got us talking through email last June, despite the fact it took a while for us to even start it. So here's how it works. Chapters 1,3,5,7,and 9 were primarily written by Azhure and beta-read by Wintermoon. Chapters 2,4,6,and 8 were primarily written by Wintermoon and beta-read by Azhure. Chapters 10, 11 and beyond are/will be written by both authors and beta-read by both authors. Azhure writes almost all of the Draco stuff and Wintermoon writes almost all of the Harry stuff. Clear as Mud?

Sailor Grape: "No doubt it's going to draw the attention of the entire establishment." I have one word for you – understatement! Az says – Well if that wasn't the longest review ever! Thanks for every word!

Charlie Heath: Unless I'm mistaken, 'merde' means, basically, 'shit.'

CelestialDrgn: Just to clear this up for you and anyone else who reads through these replies…Yes. Harry did rent Draco's chateau when he went on holiday.

Mary: Sorry Mary, but a link to the pictures won't work unless you are a member of the Yahoo group. The link is listed in my author profile, so you should be able to click on it from there. All you have to do is join the Yahoo group, and then you can see the photos section, as well as the files section which contains the censored bits of this fic and all our other work!

Silver-Sunn101: Yes, that bit you mentioned that shouldn't have been bold, you were absolutely right. I've requested that Azhure make that correction when she gets a chance (she's the brilliant mastermind behind all our formatting). Thank you for pointing that out for us!

Cheer4life-2005: No, Arianna's father did not replace Fudge. Arthur Weasley replaced Fudge as the UK Minister of Magic. Arianna's father is the French Minister of Magic. Azhure – care to clarify any further? Az: Nope, you got it in one!

Michael Serpent: Glad we could cheer you up. Hope this chapter lived up to your high expectations!

Roguemessenger: Congrats on the wedding, I know what it's like to have pc and internet withdrawal, (but my honeymoon was back in the pre computer days, well, at least my pre computer days). Hope you enjoyed this chapter!