Fire burned. It seethed and hissed, chimeras and serpents shattering windows, sending bursts of parchment and splintered wood flying. The house, a narrow two-story with whitewashed walls, was collapsing in on itself.

A young woman in brown-and-red robes aimed her wand at the house, a roar of flame streaming steadily from it. "Bastards!" She screamed, her voice magnified, and the Fiendfyre beasts she had created responded with their roars.

Ron ran forward, fabric folding and changing over him to reveal his uniform. There were people behind him on the street, none of them Aurors, all hanging back, watchful, at a safe distance. "Auror Weasley requesting backup on Sunrise-Weatherling code red," he spoke into his wand. "As many as can be spared- oh, shit."

Figures were struggling out of the upper story. An old man, gripping the hand of a small girl, her ashy face streaked with tears. Miraculously, they remained unharmed by the fire; a fine silver mist streamed from the man's wand, covering them both. "Hold on, Orla! Hold on!"

Ron cursed under his breath as he approached, Fiendfyre licking at his cloak and boots. His clothes were charmed against such things, of course, but he didn't know how long it would hold. "It's okay!" he shouted up to the man, whose terror did not abate at the sight of an Auror. "I'll catch her!"

The man nodded. "I'm going to let go, Orla. You'll be safe."

"No!" The girl cried, but her hand was already slipping. Merlin. "No, I'm not going!"

"You first, little one," Ron called, "And we'll save him too, I promise. I'll use a Cushioning Charm to catch you, all right? Trust me." He raised his wand and nodded encouragingly, gritting his teeth as heat flared across his legs.

"Hurry, Orla," the old man urged.

The girl shut her eyes tight. The tangled hands released. She screamed, and Ron waved his wand, causing her to float gently. He caught her before she hit the ground and pushed her away from the house. Ron returned her attention to the old man.

"You jump, too!"

With difficulty, the old man clambered over the sill and leapt. Ron used the same charm before dragging himself and the man away from the house. The silver mist - apparently a powerful protection spell, which Ron made a mental note to ask about later - dissipated.

"Thank you, sir," the man panted, "Thank you-"

"Is there anyone else in the house?" Ron asked.

"No, just us. Please," The man's gnarled hands gripped Ron's shoulders, "You have to stop her. She's gone mad."

"Who? Her?" Ron side-eyed the woman who had casted the spell, still screaming and cursing at the house, though her wand hung at her side. A couple more Aurors had arrived on the scene to battle the Fiendfyre. "You know her?"

"My youngest." Tears began to well in the man's eyes. Orla buried her tear-streaked face in the fabric of his trousers. "Aisling. She's never done anything like this before."

"Aisling," Ron repeated. "Stay out of the way, all right? Get out of her range."

He turned to go. The old man grabbed his sleeve. "I was an Auror, once," he whispered, nodding hard, his mouth trembling. "I know what can be done in the heat of battle. Don't kill her. She doesn't know what she's doing."

Ron swallowed. "My job is to keep everyone safe, sir. And I'll keep a clear head while I do it."

The man let him go, apprehension pooling in his gaze. "Good lad."

Smoke billowed across the sky in an angry, black cloud. Ron kept a wary eye on the Fiendfyre, its beasts strangely keeping well away from neighboring houses. The woman was sobbing now, her eyes streaming and wide open. The hand that gripped her wand was white, turning gray.

Ron tightened his grip on his own wand. Gray? No - it was the veins in her hands that were darkening, as if her very blood was spoiling.

"Took them from me," the woman cried, her voice hoarse. "Took everything, everything…"

Ron's boot crunched on glass. The woman's head turned.

"Expelliarmus!"

Her wand zipped from her hand, flying through the air. Out of the corner of Ron's eye, it rolled away, towards the fire. "Aisling?"

At the sound of her name, the woman's demeanor changed. She smiled, a real smile, in Ron's direction, as if he were a polite stranger, not an Auror who had just disarmed her as Fiendfyre roared before them.

"Good morning. Who's asking?" She gasped, her eyes rolling back in her head, her voice rasping. "Where has he gone? What have you done with him?"
A shiver of familiarity ran through Ron. These mannerisms were ones he'd seen before - Estelle MacInnes had been showing these symptoms around the time of her children's murder. "This is your house, isn't it, Aisling?"

"The Dark One," she wheezed, and Ron's heart squeezed with a fear he could not control. "Killed him in the snow."

"Who?" Ron inched forward, slowly lowering his wand, trying to stay diplomatic. Where was Darla Wimbledon when you needed her? "Who did he kill?"

Aisling twitched, then her expression once again turned pleasantly vacant. "Estelle, is that you? It's nice to have you back. Thought you'd run off with that rascal again."

"Estelle?" Ron yelped. "How do you know her?"

"She's my sister, of course. Estelle the elder." Aisling laughed, then her face went slack. "I can't fend it off," she whispered. "I've been fighting it for so long…" She slowly sunk to her knees, beginning to cry in earnest, her hands trembling as they rested on her thighs.

Slowly, Ron knelt with her. "Fighting what? Did someone curse you?"

Black blood surged thickly through Aisling's veins. Her hands shot forward before Ron could raise his wand, clamping around his neck so tightly that he couldn't breathe, let alone form an incantation.

"Bastard!" She screamed.

Ron spluttered, trying to twist out of her grip, just like he'd been taught, but the inhuman vise threatened to crush his windpipe. Black spots danced in his eyes. He grabbed her forearm with his wandless hand, nails digging into her skin. He raised his wand, trying to think through the fog of a spell that would get her off him without hurting her.

Someone shouted. The vise was lifted off. Ron gasped, his vision refocusing. Aisling slumped to the ground in front of him, her eyes closed. She looked almost peaceful.

"Just because your opponent's not armed doesn't mean they're harmless," Hermione chided. "I remember that much from the Academy. Are you hurt?"

"No," Ron rasped, getting to his feet. "'M fine." He looked again to Aisling.

"Only stunned," Hermione reassured him. "Looks like your comrades have everything under control."

The two Aurors at the house had turned the Fiendfyre to a few dying flames that sputtered, feeding on nothing but charred grass. A safe distance away, the old man and Orla huddled, gazing at Aisling with worry, but too afraid to approach.

"You followed me," Ron said incredulously, reaching over to grip Hermione's hand, though he was careful not to turn his back on Aisling.

"Not right away." Hermione's mouth pressed into a thin line, but she looked none the worse for wear. "I had a bad feeling."

"You know Defense isn't authorized to take on code reds," Ron said wryly.

Hermione raised her wand to her lips. "I won't tell if you won't."

Ron's relief at her appearance was undercut by the smoldering wreckage, at a family torn apart. And for what? "Aisling is Estelle's younger sister."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "Estelle MacInnes?"

"I don't know many people who would back me up on this, but… I don't think Estelle meant to murder her children." Ron's heart was heavy with the admittance that there were mothers who would do such a thing. He'd seen it in his four years as a senior Auror. "Nor did Aisling mean to set her house alight. I mean, Merlin, Fiendfyre? How many people are capable of that?"

"There's someone else behind this," Hermione concluded. Wind blew loose curls into her face, and she brushed them back, looking at the few neighbors that had come to watch the commotion. This was a mixed Muggle and magical neighborhood- the Defense Bureau would have their hands full, charming away the memories of serpent heads rearing from what would be spun as a freak house fire. "Any number of these witnesses could condemn that theory. It was her, right? You saw it?"

"Yes," Ron said reluctantly. "But she seemed… controlled."

"Imperiused?"

"Maybe." Ron nodded to the old man and Orla. The girl's tear tracks were visible through soot. "I'll need to talk to her family." Hermione nodded. This job, Ron thought bitterly, never gets fucking easier.

-.-.-.-

"This job never gets easier, and it never will," Harry mumbled, his head resting with a thud on the well-polished bar. He couldn't stop replaying it in his mind, Dolohov's widening eyes as his suicidal blood magic went off like a bomb, cutting his flesh to ribbons and the ceiling to smithereens. Harry's ears hadn't stopped ringing for nearly an hour.

"You're completely right." His companion leaned on one elbow and beckoned the bartender. "Another shot for this one."

"All right, but that's the last," Harry said, closing his eyes, but the Dolohov's shredded afterimage was burned against the lids. "I need to get some food in me."

"Haven't I been saying that, dear?" said Alessandra Jain, her bracelets jangling over her denim jacket as she smacked his cheek, gently, grandmother-like. "Can't have the Head Auror turning into an alcoholic. Imagine the scandal."

Harry snorted. "As if the last five haven't."

"Ooh, that's right, I forgot," Jain chuckled. "So, am I going to get the story out of you? Or are you going to treat me like that poor Prophet reporter?"

Harry groaned, pushing himself upright. "Not with the grisly details. And don't remind me."

"Dear boy, it wasn't that bad. Everyone will forget in the next week, I promise." Jain thanked the bartender as she topped off Potter's whiskey. "You are absolutely allowed to be the strong, silent type. No need to blunder around reporters. Ah-" She raised a finger as Harry opened his mouth. "Emphasis on silent."

Harry shook his head at her, grinning as he downed his shot in one go. If Jain could throw them back, then he, young grasshopper he was, should be able to. Harry exhaled as the whiskey, the oaken-aged Muggle sort, burned his throat. "Thank you for taking me up on this, Jain."

"Alessandra, please. And it's my pleasure. I should thank you; I've never had an invitation for drinks stand so long before. Nearly three years, hm?"

"We've gone out with Ron and Hermione a couple of times," Harry pointed out.

"Never just with you, dearie." Alessandra's smile was wide, creasing the wrinkles around her eyes. She had the white teeth of someone Harry's age. "Have you noticed where I've taken you to drown your sorrows?"

"I'm not so blind," Harry said, peering over Alessandra's shoulder. "Can't miss that whacking great flag." Displayed on either side of the Union Jack was a faded rainbow-striped flag and a newer one, with pink, white, and blue stripes that Harry didn't know the meaning of. "Thought it was just for your benefit."

"Oh, it's for my benefit," Alessandra agreed. "Mostly. I'm just trying to introduce you to the crowd, Harry, dear. Can I call you Harry?" He nodded. "It's a weeknight, after all. Let's go slow."

Skeptical as he was, Harry decided to be agreeable. He was fairly certain he wasn't gay, but like any young wizard living in London, he'd dipped his toes into the scene a couple of times, mostly tagging along with Luna to her aboveground, well-lit, lesbian book clubs, or with George to the underground, very dimly lit nightclubs. The bar-slash-restaurant-slash-Harry wasn't sure what it was that Alessandra had brought him to, was somewhere in between, with gleaming wooden floors, music that pounded along at a reasonable volume, and patrons that filled the chamber with their chatter.

"You're not trying to set me up with someone, are you?" Harry asked, wincing.

"Not necessarily. I hear you manage that yourself very well," Alessandra said with a wink.

Harry blushed. "So, it's no secret to the Ministry that my weakness is a well-spoken, long-haired woman with commitment issues in a mini skirt?" He mumbled. Jesus, he must already be tipsy.

Alessandra threw her head back and laughed. "I thought you said you weren't going to give me the grisly details? Potter, you naughty lad."

"Who's naughty?" A smooth voice chimed in, and two people came up behind Alessandra. The speaker, a pale woman in astonishingly high, bubble-gum pink platform boots, was accompanied by a dark-skinned person of indeterminate gender, whose shaved hair was dyed a shocking teal. "Ooh, him?" The woman smiled like a fox. "Do tell me it's him."

Harry blinked.

"Yes, you. Janice, pleasure." She stuck out a delicate hand, and Harry gripped it firmly.

"Harry Potter."

"Oh, of course," Janice said breathily. "With those eyes, who else could it be? You're even more of a looker than what shows up in the papers."

"You're…" Harry leaned forward, keeping his voice low. "You're one of us?"

"Mhm. Me and Saffron both are."

The teal-haired person smiled shyly. "Saffron and they pronouns out of drag, Sirene and she in drag."

"Sure." Harry had never met a drag queen before, but it was by far the least shocking new thing he'd experienced today.

"You know Mother from work?" Janice asked, and it took Harry a moment to realize that she was referring to Alessandra.

"Oh- yes. We don't get to cross paths too often, unfortunately."

"I'm in the same boat!" Janice frowned, squeezing Alessandra's shoulder. "Busy, this woman. But she shows up when it counts. You coming to the show on Saturday?"

Alessandra nodded. "You bet."

Janice squealed, clapping her hands together. "Glorious! We've got a recital at Andy's now, but it was lovely to see you! And lovely to meet you," she purred, winking at Harry as she and Saffron left the bar, the latter departing with a friendly wave.

Harry rubbed at his temples. He could only take so much combined flirting and alcohol on a weekday. "'Mother?'" He echoed. "She's not-"

"Not my real daughter, no," Alessandra replied. "But I used to sort of be the head honcho around here, and all the performers here were my girls. I knew Janice when she was fifteen. Set on a warpath to juvenile prevention camp before she met me." Alessandra's expression darkened, and Harry didn't have to imagine why. Juvenile prevention camp was just a polite term for Azkaban's prerequisite, the Silver House, a desolate prison-slash-castle on the Isle of Skye meant to rehabilitate troubled youth through extreme methods, with mixed results. Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt currently had a team revamping the program.

"The wizarding world can accept Polyjuice and dragons, but can't break out of their binary, rigid-as-hell ideas of gender," Alessandra muttered. "Not enough to take care of kids who don't fit their agenda. But anyway," she mustered a smile, "I don't need to lecture you. You're a good egg, Harry. Not one of the many bastards I've seen the Ministry take in."

"Any of those, uh, bastards currently employed?"

Alessandra wagged a finger. "If I had names, I couldn't drop them just like that, Harry. You know better. Can't topple the Jenga tower."

Harry laughed, and known only to himself, there was bitterness in it. "I remember Dudley playing that game."

"Who's Dudley?" When Harry hesitated, Alessandra leaned forward, her dark eyes luminous, bearing the weight of the years she'd lived. "I'm sensing tension."

"He's just my cousin."

"Not just, Harry, surely. You can't fool me. Let the whiskey speak!" Alessandra lifted her arms theatrically. "Speak! And if that doesn't work, this place's fish and chips will loosen you up." She called over the bartender.

Harry decided to walk home, wandering into the night, considering taking the next day off. He and Alessandra had talked for hours, and it was nearly two when he finally left the bar. She had slipped him a bit of her hangover-preventing potion before he went, but with the several shots of whiskey in his veins, and a pint for good measure, Harry was still pleasantly buzzed.

As always, a haze hung over London. Scattering clouds hid and revealed the moon as they pleased, its crescent spilling droplets of silver upon the pavement; coupled with the streetlamps, they were more than enough to light Harry's way. It was a mild night, the breeze ruffling Harry's cloak but not tearing it away, and it was warm enough that he was considering taking it off. Harry didn't trust himself to Apparate, and after a while, when his feet started to hurt, he abandoned walking for one of the few Muggle cabs that cruised the streets at this hour and gave the address for his flat in Covent Garden.

Leaning his head against the window, Harry watched London's lights glitter along the Thames like a million fairy lights - perhaps some of them were fairies, twirling and giggling above the water. The cool glass soothed his temples. He closed his eyes, warm and comfortable in the back of the cab, content from his lengthy and personal conversation with Alessandra Jain. He hadn't been able to confide in an older adult like that, not since…

Harry groaned, shifting himself upright. Not since Dumbledore. He thought of the old wizard's recurring appearance in his nightmares, the absence of his lengthy speeches. In Harry's dreams, Albus Dumbledore simply stood by him at the sea, watching him count stars. Even in death, he encouraged him to look upwards, forwards, to stay hopeful.

How could Harry do that when the past was trying to chase him down?

"Excuse me, sir," Harry said, trying to get the attention of the driver and praying he wasn't slurring his words, "I'd like to go a little farther, please. If you don't mind."

The cabbie grunted. "Long as you don't mind payin'."

The streets void of traffic, it took just over twenty minutes for the cab to pull into the roundabout in front of Harry's destination. He paid the cabbie and got out, ignoring the curious looks the driver gave his cloak as it tumbled to its full length. When the taxi pulled away, all was silent.

At least, as silent as this city could be. Camilla Thistleton's apartment was positioned just far from central London that the general nighttime hullabaloo was absent. Harry could even hear the chirping of crickets, hidden in the shrubbery and grass crowded against the buildings. The center of the roundabout was just as empty and unremarkable as it had been four nights ago. Harry stared at the grass as hard as he could, his sodden mind determined to glean something, anything from it.

A rustle in the bushes.

Harry spun around, wand in hand. He didn't come face to face with a Dark wizard; he looked down, glasses sliding slightly on the bridge of his nose, and saw a small brown rabbit. Startled, it hopped back into the bush from whence it came.

Harry let out a long sigh. "Go home, Harry." He muttered.

But he couldn't quite do it. He looked up at the sky. No odd clouds, only the slender shape of the moon that peeked through the ones that were supposed to be there. Harry walked slowly around the sidewalk lining the roundabout, wondering how many people slumbered inside the buildings surrounding it. Wondering how many were awake. Harry peered down the same alley that Ron had emerged from when they had first come. "Hello?" Harry called, but of course, nothing happened. He briefly considered sending his best mate a Patronus message. But for what?

Perhaps it was the alcohol that made him call out again. "Anyone there?" Harry said, and he winced as his voice echoed around the space. He closed his eyes, trying to focus. Hermione had mentioned there was something odd about the energy, or lack of it, in Bath. Would this place have the same dead spot?

Harry resolved to return when he wasn't so addled by sleep deprivation and whiskey; both dulled his inner senses. He did feel something tugging him to this spot, something deeper even than magic. Instinct, his evolved ability to tell when a place or person was more important than the others. Whether it was something to fear or cling to.

The creak of wood made Harry's eyes snap open. A light had gone on in one of the windows. French doors opened onto a balcony.

"Thought that was you making a ruckus, Potter."

Harry had to crane his neck to look up at Draco. Bet that makes him feel superior. "Did I wake you?" He asked flatly, only out of concern for the others in the area.

"I don't often sleep in long stretches," Draco said candidly. "Not since…" He trailed off, then shook his head and hissed, "Come up. I don't want to shout."

Harry cast about for a broom, which he did not have. He aimed his wand beneath him. "Merlin help me," he muttered. "Ventus." A powerful gust of wind lifted him off his feet, and he was catapulted towards Draco's balcony. He overshot, and Draco yelped as Harry cast the spell again, nudging himself back on path, and before he could cast a Cushioning Charm, he fell the rest of the way onto the stone balcony.

It wasn't a bad fall, less than eight feet, but Harry did not land gracefully, and he tumbled into Draco, his cloak getting them in a tangle. Draco pushed himself away from him, muttering curses. Harry struggled to his feet.

"Not bad," he proclaimed.

Draco snorted, covering his mouth with his hand. "That was…" By Merlin, he was really laughing, not just snickering, but full on laughing, much as he tried to muffle it. "Oh, that was brilliant. Awful, Potter, just awful. I've never seen someone so inelegant. Oh…" Draco was holding his sides, his face bent away from Harry.

"Shut it, will you?" Harry muttered, but he started to smile.

"I thought… I thought," Draco's words were slightly garbled as he bit his fist to keep from chortling too loudly, "I heard someone, and I thought it was a drunkard, for Merlin's sake. But no, it's you, calling up to me like I'm bloody Juliette…"

"You read Shakespeare?" Harry said incredulously, beginning to giggle.

"Shove off, Potter, I've read Shakespeare, I'm not illiterate." Draco's laughter was dying down, but he was still smiling, folding his arms. Harry realized that he'd never seen him smile like this, not with all his teeth, his pale cheeks flushed. Draco's hair fell in silver threads from a messily done plait, and he reached up to brush them behind his ear. Joy looks good on you. The thought came from deep within Harry's chest, and he banished it.

Soon enough, Draco's smile faded, and he cleared his throat. "So. What are you doing here, then? Surely not bidding me goodnight? Or do you forget to give me more Auror-y tips?"

Any animosity that had begun melting between them suddenly hardened again. Harry swallowed, remembering their training from earlier that day. He had pushed Draco, and Draco had pushed himself, managing a couple of halfway decent spells with his gloves on. It was admirable, and perhaps Harry would have admitted that aloud if it was any other wizard. "I didn't come here for you."

Draco's pale eyes were indifferent. "You're thinking about your case."

"It's not strictly my case-"

"Yet here you are, trying to solve it." Harry couldn't put a name to the emotion sharpening the edges of Draco's voice. "At - what is it, three in the morning?" Draco frowned, stepping forward. Harry leaned back, unsure of what he was doing. "Merlin, you are drunk."

"Not very," Harry said honestly, "Jain spilled a bit on me, that's probably why-"

"I don't know who that is, and I don't really care," Draco said icily. "I shouldn't have let you come up."

"She's a coworker- why am I explaining this to you?" Harry said. The lines of Draco's face, twisted in that familiar glare, were becoming clearer. The potion must have finally been doing its work. "You're right. I shouldn't have come up."

Harry's heart, for some inexplicable reason, was pounding. He braced himself for a parting shot, for Draco to say something spiteful that would get his blood boiling again. And they'd be at each other's throats, like always, for real this time, not the half-assed, structured sparring in the Ministry's training room. Come on, Malfoy. Harry silently goaded. Haven't you got anything witty to say?

Draco shrugged. "So go."

And that was it. Any fight that Harry had been bracing himself for was suddenly gone, dissolved in the sloped lines of Draco's shoulders, in the softness of his jumper and how he held himself in it, like a ghost on the brink of disappearing. "I think we should institute Wednesdays as training days from now on." Harry's words felt like they were flowing through him instead of from him. "And Mondays, while we're at it. I'll let Hermione know."

"Okay. Fine."

Harry inched towards the railing. "Goodnight, Malfoy."

"Goodnight, Potter."

-.-.-.-

As soon as Potter landed back on the pavement, aided by another Cushioning Charm, Draco whirled back into his room, closing the French doors behind him. A single candle burned on his nightstand; it was a stub now, its glow reaching out across the wallpaper, the embroidered, rumpled quilt.

"Fuck." Draco paced, bare feet on carpet, balling up the ends of his sleeves in his fists. He stared at the candle, but all he could see were Potter's eyes, green and sparkling in the moonlight, creased at the edges with laughter. No one has made me laugh like that. Not in a long, long time. "Fuck," Draco whimpered, burying his face into his hands.

He couldn't do this again. It did him no good last time, at sixteen, and it sure as hell wouldn't do him any good now, almost ten years later.

Draco laid face-up on the unmade bed, pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and trying to wish it all away.

He couldn't. He had to face it, just like he had all those years ago. And he would beat it, Merlin help him.

Draco was falling for Harry Potter. For the second blasted time.