Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, and the licensed copyright holders including Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Warner Bros., Inc. No money has been exchanged and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

A/N: Hiya! It's still slash, still mpreg and still fluffy, even though this is not a fluffy chapter. If I did it right, this is definitely not a fluffy chapter. In other words, into each fanfic a little angst must fall...we've come to the why...I hope it's been worth the wait! Oh and 'cause this has been a question in the minds of a few I'll say again, this story is on slow burn, it's going to take a while for all the elements to fall into place. The boys will meet and hash it all out but it's going to be a few more chapters until that happens...sorry...maybe next week folks. Thank you all for the reviews and sticking with me through this story!

7.

Harry yanked the elastic from his ponytail raked his fingers through his hair and stared at the mirror. Back? Loose? Back? Loose? Maybe he should go have it cut…He paced around his bedroom like a caged lion.

"HARRY STOP PACING! THE CEILING FIXTURES ARE SHAKING!"

Harry snarled something rude and pointless since Hermione wasn't around to hear it. She didn't understand, no one did, how could they when he barely understood himself—but seeing Draco again…after all this time—it was…it was like finding that one puzzle piece that made the picture complete, without it you could pretend, but no matter how hard you tried to ignore it your eyes were drawn to that one blank space that marred the whole.

It was obvious that Draco had moved on—he'd married and had a son. Or maybe he'd married and divorced. The article didn't mention a wife or girlfriend, but the boy obviously wasn't that old so his mother was probably a member of Bad Faith, or maybe a groupie, or just some random woman he'd met somewhere, or…

You're running in circles Harry and it's not helping! Let's just assume that Draco's a single father, we like that idea best. And since when do we talk about ourselves in the 3rd person?

The identity of the boy's mother really didn't matter; Draco had gone and done what Harry admonished that July evening, the night before the final battle. Harry'd done what he had to, said what was needed, no matter that it had shattered his own heart past mending. The price, the pain, was worth it to save his lover. Better that Draco leave him heart-broken than be left grieving. He'd done what was necessary to keep his lover from suffering grief and the pain of his loss.

But he hadn't been lost—against all odds, wounded and weary he'd managed to survive, and then to delve deep within himself to a core of inner strength, strength that wore his lover's face. And with that strength he pushed. He pushed all his anguish, all his rage, all his love, all his desperate hope for that beloved face to wake the next morning in a world untainted by Voldemort's evil. That strength sustained him through the complicated and draining incantation that broke his nemesis, rendered his soul and cast it into the abyss, food for the daemons that resided there. It was that strength that sustained him as he cast the final curse that left a maggoty corpse withered on the ground.

Three months later when he'd woken from the needed healing coma he discovered just how much he'd cast away that late July evening. No one he asked had answers and the only one who might said not to bother him with such trifles ever again. He'd been crushed by Snape's tirade. Even now he could recall every word:

"I was told you asked for me Potter. Well what is it?"

He was still weak from the coma and his voice was raspy, "Draco. Have you seen him? Do you know where he is? How I can reach him?"

Snape's eyes glinted like obsidian and were just as hard. "Why should you wish to know my godson's whereabouts Potter? You made it quite clear what you felt for him and that you wanted nothing more to do with him. What was it you said after he'd given his body to you freely, with all the love he was capable of?"

He tapped a stained finger against his pointy chin, "Ah yes. 'You were a good fuck Malfoy and we had some fun, but the time for games is over. I don't need you. I sure as hell don't want you. Do yourself a favour and sod off before someone around here remembers that once a Death Eater always a Death Eater. Go get a life and stay the bloody hell out of mine.'"

Harry closed his eyes and lay heavily against his pillows, "I-I didn't mean it. I wanted to make him angry. Angry enough to leave. I-I didn't want him anywhere near the battle."

He opened teary pleading eyes to his former teacher, "I wanted him safe and if…if anything happened to me it'd be easier for him to move on…I never meant…Oh gods Snape, I love him!"

The former spy snorted, "Yours is a lovely way of expressing affection Potter." He sniffed, "Regardless, my godson left shortly after the battle's end and has not been seen or heard from since."

Harry's eyes popped open, "He was there!"

"Of course he was there you idiot. Like all loyal members of the Order he was given instructions to follow and he completed his duties as best as he was able." A shade of sadness flickered through Snape's eyes but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. "My own injuries were being tended when he was brought into the infirmary, but I'm told aside from a brief healing of his most severe wounds he refused treatment directing available healers to those more gravely wounded."

Harry shook his head, "How the blazes did he walk out of here still sporting injuries?"

Snape glared, "My godson was reared with pain Potter, if it wasn't broken and protruding through his skin it didn't count as anything significant enough to require healing. I can only assume he brushed aside whatever pain he felt as secondary and left."

Harry twisted the bed sheets in his wringing hands, "There must be something," he whispered. "Did he withdraw anything from Gringotts? Has anyone checked Malfoy Manor?"

Snape rolled his eyes, "Not all of us are simpletons Potter. Once I realised my godson was missing I initiated a search. Not that it's any of your concern, but he did make a modest withdrawal from his Gringotts account that was exchanged for Muggle money. There is no way to trace him through those funds from that point on.

I hope Potter that you are satisfied. When I last saw him, the morning of the Final Battle, he looked as one of the living dead. He'd survived years of abuse at Lucius' hands, disregard and contemptuous neglect from his mother, his so-called friends were nothing more than spies and potential political allies that came to naught in the end, but he was never broken, he had his pride and he had belief in himself. Through it all he persevered, yet that morning I saw in his eyes what I never thought to see…I saw my godson broken. Damn you to all hells Potter. If there is any justice in this world or those that come after, you will rot for what you've done." Snarling, the Potions master turned on his heel and in a swirl of billowing robes left a sobbing hero to his regrets.

Tbc...