Chapter Two

The Ghosts of Gryffindor House

"Can you get a day off work this week?" Harry asked his wife, who was cleaning up the dinner dishes while Harry swept the kitchen floor. "I want us both to take Matt to Diagon Alley for his school supplies."

"Sure, I think so. I've got that case to argue this week, you know, that underage magic situation, but I should be done by Wednesday. We could go Thursday or Friday."

"What's your case, again?"

"Muggleborn boy, twelve years old, never manifested magic before. The neighbor's dog jumped on him, and he took off its legs. In front of his mother and the neighbor. They had to put the legs back on the dog and Obliviate the neighbor. It's an easy case, I just have to explain that he didn't even know he was a wizard. I've spoken to McGonagall, and she's spoken to his mother. He'll be starting at Hogwarts this year."

Harry put the broom away, and picked up Matt's Hogwarts letter. "I wonder if they'll be friends?"

Ginny dried her hands, and slipped an arm behind him to rub his back. "Don't worry so much, babe. Matt will be fine."

"He's a good kid, and he's going to be a decent wizard. I just worry that he won't make friends, that they'll set him apart just because he's ours." He groaned. "That feels good, move up a little."

Ginny guided him over to a chair and sat him down, kneading his shoulders with both hands. "I worry about him, too. He's so quiet. But really, he'll be fine."

"I hope so."

"You could have been there with him," Ginny said quietly. "You could be teaching there, and—"

"Ginny. We've already talked about this. We have a family and a home here. Your work is here in the city. And I'm still needed at my job."

Ginny sighed. "It's been five years, Harry. Nobody's seen Malfoy since . . . since Neville. Why don't you let it go? Why won't the Aurors just leave off and find something else to do?"

"It's not all of us," Harry answered quietly. "Just me. I'm the only one trying to find him. As to why . . . I don't know, Sunshine. I think it's just pity."

"Pity?" she repeated, and squeezed too hard, making him wince. "For Malfoy? You?"

"Yes, me," he sighed, relaxing again as she resumed a less painful rhythm. "It's been ten years since we were rivals at school, you know. A lot of that has faded away. And yes, I suppose it's pity. When I think of what the war did to him . . ."

"What about what the war did to us?" she asked angrily.

"I know what it did to us. But I also know what it's like to want to make your father proud. What it's like to need to protect your family. That's what Malfoy wanted, when he was a teenager. And then when we won, and his family was killed, he lost everything. Everything, Ginny. The war's over, and he has nothing. He didn't even attack Neville, Neville sought him out, and I don't think I can blame him entirely for that. He's friendless, leaderless, homeless, drifting. Wherever he is, he's alone."

"I guess . . . I never wanted to think about what would happen to the other side."

"I don't want to hurt him, Ginny. I don't even want to see him in jail anymore. He hasn't done anything for years, now. Honestly, I think I just want to give him an opportunity to get out of hiding and start over. The rest of us got to move on and make lives for ourselves. If I find him, and I can prove he hasn't been up to anything recently, I could probably get the Ministry to allow him to just quietly leave the country."

Ginny had stopped massaging, and just stood with her hands on his neck. "It's hard to think about," she began slowly, and he recognized the signs that she was going to think through something aloud to him.

Then the patter of bare feet interrupted them, and they looked over to see their son standing in the kitchen doorway.

"Sirius, what are you doing out of bed?" Ginny admonished the four-year-old.

He scrubbed a small fist against his eye, pushing away a lock of dark hair. "Matt's having a bad dream. He's making noises."

Harry stood up. "I'll deal with it," he said to Ginny, who was picking up Sirius. "You go back to sleep, Daddy will take care of Matt," he addressed the toddler, ruffling his hair and making it even more unruly than it already was. As always, the sight of his son, looking so like himself and his own father, lightened something in his heart.

When he came into Matt's room, he saw that his older son was already awake, with the dampness of sweat and tears on his face. When he saw Harry, he buried his face in his pillow.

"Did I wake up Crash again?"

Harry sat down on the edge of the bed and laid his hand on Matt's back, trying not to laugh at Matt's nickname for his little brother. "It's okay, Mum's putting him back to bed."

"I'm sorry."

"You know Sirius isn't mad at you. He just gets upset when you're crying."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Harry rubbed Matt's back and closed his eyes against the wash of pain he felt for his adopted son. "There's nothing to be sorry about. You can't help having nightmares. You've seen some really ugly things, and nobody blames you for still grieving over what happened."

Matt wriggled a bit and pulled himself into Harry's lap, pressing his face against Harry's chest. "Dad, will you stay here for a few minutes?"

"Of course."

He put his arms around Matt and felt grateful that he was here. That someone could be here with Matt when he had nightmares, when he cried for his parents. Harry was happy to provide what he himself had so badly needed as a child. He and Ginny hadn't regretted taking Matt in, and they'd officially adopted him three years ago. He stayed until Matt fell asleep again, then went to join Ginny in bed.

She wasn't sleeping, though, she was sitting with Charlotte in the rocking chair. Charlotte was awake but calm—at least until Harry came in. When she saw her father, she stirred and tried to get away from Ginny. Ginny smiled wearily and held the baby out to him.

"Come to Daddy," he said, feeling a goofy grin on his face that he couldn't help at the sight of her ridiculous pouf of red hair waving about as she wriggled in her mother's arms. "Hi, Charley," he crooned, cuddling her into his chest.

"Da!" she exclaimed. "Hi, Da!"

He still wasn't sure when she said that whether she was greeting him or requesting that he toss her up into the air and catch her (that was, "High, Da!") but it was late, so he settled for assuming it was a greeting. She was far too precocious and energetic for a one-year-old. He kissed her cheeks and she subsided, laying still enough that he could hope she'd go back to sleep.

Ginny offered the rocking chair, but he just paced slowly around the room, bending his head once in a while to drop a kiss on Charlotte's head.

"Matt's okay," he said after a minute. "Did Sirius get back to sleep?"

Ginny nodded, and slid into bed. "Yeah, he's fine. He's got such a tender heart, though. He hates to think of Matt being afraid. And," she made a face, "he bumped into his door in the dark. I swear, Harry, that boy is going to kill himself."

"He's a klutz, that's all. Don't worry." He put his sleeping daughter up on his shoulder. "I'll be right back," he said, going into the next room and laying Charlotte back in her crib. He paused to kiss her once more and whisper, "Goodnight, Charley," before he strode back into his bedroom and threw himself on top of Ginny. "I love our kids," he said firmly, his eyes bright. "Thank you for my kids."

Ginny smiled tremulously in answer.

"I love you," he said, and gave her a kiss as gentle and careful as those he'd given his sleeping daughter. "I love you," he said again feverishly, and his kiss was suddenly a great deal more powerful. Ginny decided she wasn't all that tired.

---Break---

Drew looked around the Gryffindor common room to be sure it was ready for the students who would be arriving tomorrow. He was supposed to meet the prefects for his house and the school's Head Boy and Girl, both Hufflepuffs, during the feast tomorrow night. The rest of the students, he would get to know in their lessons. He'd spent the last two weeks going through old textbooks and a great deal of the books in the library and quickly putting together lesson plans based on what he remembered of his own classes in school and what knowledge he'd gained since then. He was uncomfortable in this room, with its red-and-gold and its quiet condemnation of him. He didn't belong here. He knew he didn't. This wasn't his place, this room, this house, and he shivered abruptly at the silent disapproval it seemed to hold for him. He thought about the war heroes who'd lived and laughed in these rooms, and it was like they were still there, asking him what he thought he was doing.

The silence was absolute throughout the school, and he couldn't wait for the students to arrive and lessons to begin and the general hubbub of many people all in one place. He'd gotten used to being alone, but he was tired of this silence. He wanted some life around him again. New York was exciting and lively, but at the end of the day, his studio apartment held just him and his memories. They weren't good memories. They were memories of battle and bloodshed and pain and torture—things he was more than ready to put behind him. This school was altogether stuffy, but it had some order and above all, some peace.

Drew retreated to his own room, limping along and cursing that he couldn't move faster. He was twenty-five years old, and should be in his prime. He was strong and slender, but his lame leg made him slow and ungainly, unless he was in the air. On a broomstick, he could still be quick, still feel like a young man. He would have no trouble instilling a love for flying in the first-years. He sat down in a chair in front of the fire in his room, his stiff leg poking straight out in that awkward way he hated. They was a bottle of potion for the pain sitting on the table beside it, and a house elf had come by to build up the fire for the night. He downed the potion and tried to relax. He was safe here. The reference he'd cultivated in New York City had come through for him and convinced McGonagall that he was a trustworthy, hardworking fellow. He had a place at this school, for as long as he wanted it.

And he did want it, he found. It wasn't just the only place he could think of to come, he really wanted to be here. He wanted to be a teacher. He wanted to do something useful. What the hat had spoken to him, privately in his mind, had shocked him so badly that he'd almost given everything away. But he'd pondered it more and more, and he'd come to realize that the man he was now had little to no resemblance to the boy he had been. It had mentioned Slytherin, yes, but also Ravenclaw, with the boldness of a Gryffindor. Drew didn't feel bold. He felt old. Old and tired. But above all, changed. Change was what the hat had spoke of to him, and him only. And maybe, just maybe, there wasn't anything wrong with change.

He took off his eyepatch and rubbed his fingers at the red mark the band left in his skin. He grimaced at the lumpy feeling of the bones in his face. Merlin, he was ugly. Of all the differences between boy and man, this was the one he couldn't get used to. He was ugly. He closed his eye, and the battle was right there. The memory of what he'd done, what had been done to him.

They'd come there to fight. An abandoned warehouse. The round-faced boy and the boy with the pale, pointed face, both of them barely becoming men despite both having achieved recognized adulthood. He'd been so confident that he would win. The other boy was no match for him. Clumsiness and incompetence against skill and power. Indeed, he'd disarmed his opponent in a matter of moments. But he hadn't counted on the strength of the other's Shield Charm. It was impenetrable. And the boy . . . so determined, so brave, and so doomed. He wouldn't give up. His friends were counting on him, and he just wouldn't give up. It was shocking enough to leave the more skilled man frozen and watching as his opponent muttered that he wouldn't lose like this. Wandless and bleeding, his opponent had picked up a metal pipe from the dirty ground and knocked his leg out from under him when he was turning to go, to let the boy live. While he screamed, feeling his knee shatter into a million pieces, the pipe had come down on his face, even as he'd thrown out a vicious Avada Kedavra with the force of all his fear behind it.

Neville Longbottom had stolen the grace, the confidence, and the arrogance from Draco Malfoy in the moments before he'd died.

Killing Neville had allowed him to live, and had also ensured that no one would know what he'd done to Draco. He'd dragged himself into a Muggle hospital and lain there for weeks, enduring facial reconstruction and traction. Physical therapy. A fused joint and a leg brace and a cane. Nightmares and screaming. Pain. He'd emerged from the hospital as Drew Stevens and fled the country. He was done, he'd decided. Finished with life as who he'd been and wanting only to be Drew Stevens. But Drew Stevens, he'd found out, was no one. Drew Stevens had few friends, no followers, and no need for revenge. He had no goals or plans. Nothing to fill his days. Drew had tried the New York City nightlife, but it wasn't enough, it only brought to him more keenly that every ounce of pride he'd had was now unjustifiable. He'd met a sexy English girl who'd told him to look her up if ever he was in London, and so he had. He'd stayed with her for two days before seeking out his own kind and hearing of the job at Hogwarts. He'd seen it for what it was. The only opportunity he had to come to a place that was as close to a home as he would ever find.

So he'd come back.