AN: Thank you for the reviews. The first 3000 words of this chapter were born in two hours because of you. (wry look) I really didn't expect to continue this, you see. I'm in better form in this one.

The Raiment of Lean Winter: Chapter 1

"Mr. Raleigh. We haven't seen you for a while."

The tone wasn't accusing, merely curious- Brenda had far too many patients under her care to keep any serious track of their visitors. Leigh shrugged, thinking of the hectic last two weeks- after Malfoy's trial, he'd been busy milking all his contacts for details on the latest inflow of illegal magical materials, which took a while- he had a lot of contacts, most of which even his colleagues didn't know about.

"Work, you know." he said, taking a thick dark blue file from the stack on the table. Brenda didn't give him a single look, her eyes still scanning her paperwork. Leigh flipped it open, scanning the last two weeks- medication, sleep cycles, physical therapy, dream monitoring- the thing was that the healers were run to the ground as it was, and no one really bothered to take a look at the files after they were compiled. No one gave a damn. Wasn't their fault, but Leigh felt resentment building up with every page he turned that was white-crisp without a single note in the margins, a thumbprint, or a bent corner.

Healer's note (2003, February 5th): Nil

Healer's note (2003, February 8th) Nil

Healer's note (2003, February 12th) Nil

.

...All the way to Healer's note (2003, February 16th), today, nil. If one flipped back all the way to 1998, August, date of admittance, reports filled the pages to the brim- everyone on their best behavior, all that shite. And then Harry Potter had disappeared after 'vanquishing You-Know-Who' (they never phrased it any other way) in one cold swift bloody month, the reports had slowed, then stopped..

Leigh wanted to burst out about the indignity, but doing so would draw far more attention. He'd done the best he could by bribing some of the Healers here for preferential treatment- that was why the file was thick, it held records beyond the norm, including dream monitors and sleep cycles, which permanent-ward patients usually didn't get.

"I'll go in and see him, shall I?" he said, trying to keep his voice flat, closing the file after perusing it thoroughly. Brenda nodded without looking up, and said "Silicosis.".

The week's password. Leigh strode ahead.

He was wearing Muggle wear again, but had a robe slung over his shoulder- a school robe, one of his three that weren't damaged beyond repair. It was too small for him, and when he wore it he felt uncomfortably like a small child role-playing, but it always seemed to help. He liked to... well, perhaps it was just pathetic...

He stopped in front of the door, feeling a little ragged and out of sorts. He examined himself in a mirror down the hallway- it was too far to see himself, but he seemed the same, in a gray sweater and jeans, his hair swept back behind his ears and shoulders. He imagined what he would look like a friend who forgot who he was each time, a tall, tanned stranger with a too-deep voice, too-long hair, wrong face...

He donned the robe, shaking his head and entered the ward, nonverbally casting a glamour on himself as he did so.

He preferred not to, but after a few painful months he had come to learn that starting with the glamour was better than not, as he was often not recognized.

"Hallo, Ron." he said through a dry throat and with a thick tongue.

The ward was large- it was the same one he'd started off with, when he was Harry Potter's Institutionalized Friend, and everyone had felt the need to impress. When they'd tried to move him, an anonymous benefactor had insisted that he stay.

There was a four-posted bed in red and gold, and the whole room was tastefully decorated in shades of calming blue and beige. The furniture had rounded corners, and there were no sharp objects in the room. There were books, ranging from children's stories to Quidditch books to novels or volumes on magical theory, depending on what age Ron was acting at the moment- there were stuffed animals, too, although he had ached when he'd given permission to let Ron have them. Ron had been at a five or so when he'd asked, and he knew Ron at a fifteen would be dreadfully embarrassed when he realized, but...

Ron wore plain blue pyjamas- his mother had bought him to match his eyes, but sometimes he wished Molly hadn't- they did match, very well, and they shared the same blankness. It was with this same sightless intensity Ron subjected him to now, and he squirmed.

"Harry." Ron said, at last, and Harry- of course he was Harry, he was Harry in this room, the only place in the world left where he was Harry anymore, here with his last best friend- smiled in relief. Ron recognized him, and had called him 'Harry', not 'Harry Potter', so this was after-eleven Ron. "I..."

Ron looked at his sleeves, frowning a little as he plucked imaginary lint from them.

"You look older." he said, after a pause.

I'm older, of course I'm older, with or without the glamour, before or after the surgery, I was always older, I am always older. Harry closed his eyes. "How are you, Ron?"

"Fine." Ron said automatically, the response inbred in him by countless sickening Healers.

Harry made sure to move lightly and calmly as he sat down next to Ron- Ron, who was still taller, even after Harry had gained four extra years with a Time Turner, who looked at him like he was a child, a planet, and Harry was a star. It hurt. "Any nightmares?" he asked gently.

Ron stared sightlessly at the opposite wall, his mouth moving a little. Harry fought the urge to wrap his arms around him, the wasted torso and skinny arms. Years in a sunless ward- besides for the mandatory walks, Ron never went out, he didn't like the wide open spaces- had bleached his skin, until he had lost all his tan and his freckles stood out like dots of dried blood. Hospital food had killed his once-voracious appetite, and left his cheeks and eyes hollow- his hair seemed to be the only living thing about him sometimes, when Ron stared like this, a waxen statue of a saint.

"What's..." Ron licked his dry lips. "What's a nightmare?"

His eyes flickered nervously from corner to corner, or from point to point of a pentacle, a technique Harry himself had taught him when it had become clear that his Healers would do nothing useful for his anxiety except forcing potion after potion down his throat. His eyes would hurt like hell afterward, but it was a physical routine that didn't involve his limbs.

"It's a bad dream, Ron." Harry said, because he had to answer. "The kind you forget when you wake up, right? When the sun streams in through the window and you're pillow's cool from the draft and it's all calm and quiet."

"Don't treat me like a baby." Ron spat, suddenly rising. Harry sat like a chastened schoolboy, his hands clasped between his knees, his gaze trained on the carpet. He'd ordered it himself, on his travels, he'd liked the look of it, dreamy swirls of blue and white in the center, magenta and violet on one side, pitch black on another, dotted with white, misty there, sharp dark blue here... it clearly had something to do with the sky, but when you looked at it you could find no pattern, no meaning, and in the attempt to find one you lost your thoughts.

"I'm sorry, Ron." Harry said.

"Damn right you should be." Ron said, his features contorting viciously. It was a mockery to look at him, look at what should have been incandescent redheaded rage, but was only a scarecrow, pale and pulled out of proportions. "Why didn't you bring Hermione?" he said, his voice rising. "You're keeping her to yourself, aren't you? She never comes to see me! Doesn't even make excuses, even when she's being put into the ground."

Harry's insides filled with frost. "What?" he whispered.

Ron waved an irritable hand. "In my dreams, I mean." he said, and paused a little, his forehead wrinkling. "It must have been a dream, of course." he said, nodding.

Dream Monitoring (2003, February 14th- Valentine's Day, Harry's chest had ached so bad for his friend)- dreamt of Hermione Granger's funeral, 2:03 am. "I'm sorry, Ron." he repeated, his voice shriveling in the air like some dessicated dying thing. "She's- she's awfully busy, you know, alone in her lab, she's been making some wonderful breakthroughs... she asked after you..."

He made sure to emphasize the word 'alone'.

It seemed to work- Ron's breath grew more even, and after a minute he cautiously came back to sit on the bed. This time he knelt, his entire body angled towards Harry, his face wearing an expression that was too eager and hopeful for a face that large. "What did she say?" he said eagerly. "What's she doing? Are people paying attention? I bet they are, she's so smart, they probably run articles about her every day."

"Not every day," Harry felt himself lying, and resigned himself to one of those days where he wouldn't even get near to reintroducing the truth to Ron. He couldn't. He couldn't bear it, not today, and nor could Ron. There were some truly wonderful days when it worked out from both ends and it was a lucid, understanding Ron clutching at his shoulders and fiercely whispering in his ear that it's okay, it wasn't your fault, we're both okay, I'm sorry, I'm thankful... through his own tears. But it was only understanding, not memory, that Hermione was dead and he was insane most of the time, and the world had turned and had left him behind. And Harry didn't think Ron truly believed it, even after he had convinced him.

He never remembered when Harry visited again, either.

He told Ron about an imaginary Hermione's exploits, how hard she worked, the recognition she received, and how she missed him. "But she can't, you know, it's against the rules to leave the lab," Harry invented on the spot, and Ron nodded, that blank confused intensity surging up in his eyes- Harry thought about the grave in Chelmsford, the grave that held the bones of the woman he was making up stories about. It seemed like a sin.

"I- I had a dream, you know." Ron burst out when Harry had completed his tale about Hermione's latest discoveries and successes. Hermione wasn't a person to him anymore- Harry thought this the most unfair of all, that Hermione Granger lived on as a living breathing person in Ron Weasley's mind and imagination, and she had become a stagnant distant story in Harry's own head, because of the lies he always told Ron. And she was a goddess to both of them. "Hermione, she- she was-"

Confusion swept over his face, and Harry put a comforting hand on his friend's arm, hating himself both for his next words and the hard bone he could feel under the layers of thin cloth and flesh. "Well, whatever it was, remember it wasn't real, Ron. Nightmares never are."

"Of course." Ron nodded thrice, looking like a marionette. His face was earnest, and his eyes never left Harry's as he talked. "In my dream, Hermione- she was- asleep- they put her in the ground. She was in a coffin."

Ron breathed this like it was an obscene secret, breathed it like he was confessing his first wet dream to a friend. Harry shut his mind against the thought. "Was she?" he said.

"Yeah." Ron said, scooting closer, shivering. "She was all pale, and her hair was wet, you know how it clings to her cheek when it's wet- and they shut the coffin-"

Harry bowed his head.

"It was raining, and they shut the coffin- and then they put it in the ground." Ron said, his voice one long horrified sigh. "They put her in the ground- and then everyone raised their wands and the dirt covered it."

A beat.

"I think you were one of them, Harry." Ron said, slowly, his eyebrows meeting in a fierce scarlet slash across his face. "I think- you were behind me, I heard your voice- you said the spell, too, and you buried her-"

And then Ron had leapt out of his wheelchair, still recovering from the attack that had killed his girlfriend, screaming, and he had dug at the ground, dug like a madman, and McGonagall had stunned him. Harry knew she hated herself for it, too, he'd seen it in every line on her face at dinner, her eyes frozen like pebbles in a pale face. It should have been him.

Harry's fingers pushed up against his nose, and he realized that the gesture he had buried years ago had come back, because this was the room, and he was Harry here, the Harry who had failed Ron and Hermione in every way that mattered. "It was just a dream, Ron." he said, his voice still not quavering. "You know. It wasn't real."

The sudden smile Ron turned on him was so beautiful and happy that Harry's breath caught in his throat with pain. "Of course it was just a dream, Harry." Ron said. "I knew it was a dream as soon as I woke up. I always know when something's a dream. I have this good way of telling."

"Oh?" Harry said, covering Ron's lifeless white hand with his own, trying to smile in return.

"Yeah." Ron said, nodding. "When it's not in this room, it's not real."

The expression on Ron's face was so confident and happy and relieved that Harry had to keep his smile, even as everything behind his face seemed to fall apart into pieces.

Leigh Grimson, known as Cory Raleigh to the hospital staff, stumbled out of the room several hours later, and headed straight out towards a nearby park. There he sat on a bench- two little girls he sat next to ran away, giggling- and put his face in his hands, and found that he could not cry.

Instead, he whispered to himself, his breath tickling his palms- "Leigh. Leigh. Leigh. Leigh Grimson. Grimson. Leigh, Leigh Grimson..."

It was disturbing, how much harder it was to make the transition from Harry to Leigh than it was for Leigh to become Harry. Sometimes he went through a whole day ignoring it when people called him Leigh, and he'd jump when someone called for another Harry- there were a lot of them, too, the name had been very popular in the wizarding world after 1981, and it had seen a renewal in 1999. Sickening. Get your own names, you prats.

He concentrated on simply breathing, and it was in this state that an owl found him.

The whispers alert him first, several children and a woman off at the side of the park staring up at the sky as a black shadow blotted it, growing larger and gaining outlines as it circled down. It landed gracefully next to Leigh, who stared at it, his eyes dull and red-rimmed (although he had not cried) and took a minute to sever the letter from its messenger. It stayed, its intelligent amber eyes studying him, and Leigh raised his exhausted face to the curious onlookers. "My friend, you know." he said, making no real attempt to sound jovial about it. "He's been training his owl. Like homing pigeons. I think it's finally the the hang of it."

It seemed to work- the whispers subsides, and Leigh pried the envelope apart.

The handwriting, neat and curly in silver ink, made him raise his eyebrows. He looked at the signature first, and his eyebrows climbed even higher. He'd forgotten all about that, to be honest, and he hadn't expected Malfoy to remember, either. Not that he'd really thought about it. Tomorrow. Sunday. His Sundays depended on his mood, really, there were times when he went mad and hooked up with five different people in bars, and some days he stayed home and read novels or journals and got steadily, quietly drunk.

Pureblood parties weren't really his thing- there were immediate and dangerous repercussions if you hooked up with someone, for instance- but- his career? Oh, that. Well, Payne would kill him if he missed this chance, although he didn't need to know.

He sighed, and scrawled a yes anyway. He hadn't expected to become so- good at this, this whole reporting business, he'd truly joined on a whim, and he could probably honestly say he didn't really give a damn about his job. There were other jobs, and some of them were more fun, paid better, and were better suited for his talents- the one he'd left behind, for instance. He didn't feel any real passion for what he did, he felt some days that he was just whimsically pushing at it, seeing how far he could go before he crashed.

The owl flew away. Leigh watched it go. He'd met all his deadlines for the week, it was Saturday noon, the celebration started at five in the afternoon tomorrow. He could buy some decent wizarding clothes for tomorrow right now, and finish some leisurely shopping before finding a bar and getting royally sloshed. He'd probably find his mind again in late morning, and he'd kill time by getting over his hangover the hard way. By the time five o clock rolled around, he'd probably be sober enough to have taken a shower, shaved, and dressed himself.

His weekend all settled in his head, Leigh Grimson stood up and walked away to find a secluded place where he could Apparate to Diagon Alley.

He deliberately forewent the hangover potion that day. When he arrived at Malfoy Manor at 5:08 pm that day, Apparation left his head pounding like a gong. He could swear he felt his temples pulse as he strode towards the gates, joined by a slender blonde woman who arrived a few seconds after he did.

My. For a pureblood gathering, this was rather decadently stylish.

Leigh made a beeline for the drinks- after all, everyone knew the true cure for a hangover was excellent champagne.

And it was excellent. Malfoy hadn't skimped. Where was the little bastard, anyway? Leigh looked around, in marginally higher spirits. This is what the hero has come to, he thought, surprised by the lack of bitterness in his own thoughts, a drunkard and a hound. At least I'm not a jostler. Never will be.

"Mr. Grimson."

Speak of the devil. Leigh swung around, and saw Malfoy's mild surprise when he noted the bags under Leigh's eyes. He wasn't exactly in top form. "Busy week?"

"Very." Leigh said, and it wasn't really a lie. "Congratulations on your acquittal."

Malfoy inclined his head, not quite hiding the slow satisfied smile that curled his lips. "The Abernathy family, of course, is now- bankrupt."

The ones who had dragged out the war crime charges again. Leigh thought them fools, and let it show on his face, but not his pity. A measure of schadenfreude, small congratulations, and commiseration. He'd become rather good at this.

"This-" Leigh gestured at the decorations- "is not just a celebration of your acquittal, is it?"

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. Leigh flicked his eyes upwards, but did not roll them, a feat of powerful self control he congratulated himself on. Just because I'm a halfblood doesn't mean I'm _clueless. "This shade of-" 'orange' would not gain him any points here- "burnt sienna's only used in full Naming celebrations. So your young SM is to have fifteen different middle names now, and you want everyone to know it."

He did not say 'you want everyone to know that despite this tamed Eater impression, you're still adhering to the old traditions. This is your defiance, naming your child Scorpius Galba Domitian Septimius Niger Antoninus Aemilian Trebonianus Decius Malfoy, instead of Peter or Jack or Harry. Or something.'

Malfoy raised his other eyebrow. "It's a pleasure to meet someone who still recognizes such things. To recognize the shade and immediately connect it with the ritual." His tone made it clear that Malfoy was not commending him for the other part.

Leigh smiled. "I am interested in culture."

"Draco!"

A pleasant-faced brunet strode towards them. Leigh eyed him shrewdly, and then raised an eyebrow of his own when the newcomer looped an arm around Malfoy's neck, in an almost-friendly fashion. "Congratulations on your son, old boy, never thought you'd have it in you to bang a girl."

And then he gave a lascivious wink. Leigh pursed his lips together in a futile attempt to not smile. Nearby, a black-haired woman's face turned vaguely poisonous, and a group of well-dressed females around her went silent. Astoria, then. He'd seen the pictures.

"Nax." Malfoy hissed. "Get. Off."

Leigh watched thoughtfully. Oddly, the thought that he should watch as carefully as possible so he could write a coherent article about this was his third one. The first was dark amusement at Malfoy's plight. The second, however, was that the little red jewel flashing in the man's- 'Nax's'- ear gave off a powerful stench of dark magic. Not Dark magic, which was simply what the Ministry defined as magic too dangerous and harmful for wizards, but the old definition, the real thing that didn't need any capital letters- dark- sentient, with a motive of its own, not just a tool to wield. Someone's been dabbling.

Leigh was a reporter foremost, but just over seven months ago he'd been a freelancer- a freelancing what, people asked, but there was no easy answer- investigator? Dark wizard catcher? Neither were correct, but what he did was help people who needed it and were willing to pay for it. Or unable to. He'd tried to outrun his hero complex, but when he figured out he couldn't do it he had given up in disgust to become a reporter instead, and indulge all his vices since his reputation didn't matter anymore.

But still- dark magic. That wasn't the sort of thing you could leave alone. That stuff was...

Nax waggled his eyebrows at him, and gave him a conspiratorial grin, unwinding his arm from Malfoy's skinny neck. "Anaximander Telfair. Lovely to meet you, I loved your book."

Likely Telfair had never even read it. Leigh gave him a broad grin to match, which Telfair seemed to be slightly taken aback by. "Thanks."

He said nothing more, watching Telfair, whose faltering smile picked up again as he left Malfoy's side and stalked up to him. Telfair was taller and broader, but Leigh... well, Leigh had his magic, coiled and ready to go at the slightest movement of his wand. He didn't move when Telfair held out his hand, feeling an odd deja vu- only, he wasn't eleven anymore, and the handshake could really be dangerous.

He took the hand.

The dark crooned in his ear from beside Telfair's temple, the red gem twinkling ominously. With a sudden conviction, Leigh knew it was a potion, congealed and sliced off into small pieces and attached to a person's body. A skilled Potions Master could probably make it look like a gem when it consolidated if he so wished. Leigh had gotten to know his potions.

My god, I think I have a lead.

He turned his focus outwards again as Telfair let go of his limp hand. The man was staring at his face, a little to hard for comfort. Had he noticed that Leigh had noticed? Noticed what? Normal people weren't supposed to be able to sense stuff like this- Telfair had no reason to suspect that Leigh Grimson, a hapless, mediocre wizard and reporter for some obscure newspaper, would have that sort of power. So the scrutiny was?...

He looked back, and let his eyes widen just a little bit. In the background, he heard Malfoy give a heartfelt sigh and stride off, leaving them to suffer. He heard him approach Astoria and try to appease- not her, Leigh was certain that Astoria was well aware of her husband's true proclivities- her entourage, the true audience. He must be succeeding, Leigh heard an unfeigned laugh.

"So. How do you know Draco?" Telfair said, very casually. His eyes were practically smoldering. Good god. Leigh backed off several inches, for decency's sake.

"I interviewed him two weeks ago." Leigh replied. If Leigh got him naked, he could probably plant some tracers that wouldn't come off- particularly if- this was very bizarre to contemplate, he thought, shutting down his brain for a moment. But he'd do it if he needed to- the wizarding underground was growing, and there were rumors of werewolves up for slavery- the Dark Lord's passing had left behind a huge power vacuum, and all sorts of idiots had come rushing in to fill it. The underground, the black market and such, had always existed, but when it started bartering people it really was serious. Telfair wasn't disgusting, he was quite okay, and- no Hermione, this is not a martyr complex, I do think he's hot- it would be worth it if he could do something about it.

The gem would be problematic, of course, Leigh didn't think he could possibly enjoy sex with something like that nearby. If he made it quick-

From respectable reporter and guest to femme fatale- or something- in a few microseconds, Leigh thought with some bemusement. Oh well.

He managed to keep up his end of the conversation while extending his senses to find out everything possible about this man- if he was in disguise (probably not) to his clothes (he had three wands- when the time came when Leigh had to fight him, he'd taunt him about overcompensation- Leigh stored away a few choice phrases to use) his magic (oily gray, miasmic).

"Quite the lovebirds, aren't you?" Malfoy muttered to him later, when Leigh tore himself away to fetch them drinks. "I should warn you, Grimson, Anaximander isn't- well, you shouldn't. He'll destroy your life."

Malfoy sounded morose, and Leigh saw his eyes flicker towards Astoria. Maybe he'd been wrong. Malfoy, an aspiring family man?

"It'll just be a fling." Leigh said carelessly, wondering if 'fling' was too Muggle for Malfoy. It seemed to be, but Malfoy got his meaning, of course. "One night of drunken fumbling, and snap."

"It's never one night." Malfoy said darkly. "I swear- that man-"

But then he realized (too late) that he'd said too much, and his mouth closed, lips pinching together. Very prim. Leigh quirked his lips and sauntered across the hall towards-

Telfair was gone.

But no, he'd be so lucky, when he relaxed and felt about the hall, he sensed that thick miasmic gray fog Telfair wore around him and called his magic. He turned his head- when had Telfair moved there? and received the shock of his life. Or not, but pretty close.

That's never Severus Snape.

But it was.