He stared at the wall with a scowl on his sharp face. More specifically, he stared at the poster of himself on the wall, its corners curling and the red of the border fading. Digging his hands onto his suit trouser pockets, he wondered how long it had been there? Certainly the location was way out – he'd only ever been in Avignon once, years ago, the last time –

At this he frowned, looking down the street – it was curfew hours, and although he no longer relied on disillusionment spells or invisibility cloaks to keep himself hidden, he didn't want to be caught daydreaming. He didn't want to be caught at all. One last look at the poster, and a brief smirk at the reward on offer, and he turned, walking briskly down the street in the opposite direction from where he'd come, pulling his scarf up as he disappeared down a narrow close. His poster continued to stare out, hands in pockets, a withering glare at anyone who happened to pass by. There were few left to do even that, now.

Although Edinburgh had managed to escape with worst of the war, it was a shadow of its former self. Its castle, once proudly sat overlooking the New Town, was now a prison, with the gardens surrounding it returned to the treacherous moat they had once been. Whispers of monsters and mutants swimming beneath its murky surface were not the only things causing the inhabitants to give it a wide berth – bodies were pulled out on a regular basis; some thought to have chosen to end their own suffering, stones in their pockets; others were… well, there was no natural cause for injuries like that. Although he had seen some of the worst years earlier, the sight of one mangled corpse, missing its eyes, an arm and branded with a crooked 'M' on its back, was almost enough to make him gag. Almost, mind.

People did not return from the castle - he had been witness, from his place in the shadows, to enough poor souls being dragged there under the cover of darkness, their screams interrupted by a barrage of curses and cackles from their detainees, then shut out forever once the huge wooden door close heavily behind them. On it a pair of painted red eyes stared out, with the words below:

One Nation. One Lord.

He was hardened to the horror, there was no doubt – at times, when it the city was silent enough, he would lie in his single bed, the thin blanket round his hips, and stare out of the small skylight window. If it was a very, very clear night, he could occasionally make out a star or two, through the haze of smoke constantly rising from the depths of the city. It was only at these times when he allowed himself to wonder what he would become once this was over, if it ever was. What kind of man he would be. He never allowed himself to answer.

The night of the poster, he returned to the flat, walking quietly up the stairs, up and up, and opening the door slowly, always checking around him for shadows that perhaps seemed too deep or too dark. He had been there a few months now, but it never paid to become careless; to relax, even for a moment.

Even now, the tiny proportions of the flat seemed claustrophobic, like living in the back corner of a cupboard. Two rooms, and what passed for living space, no bigger than an elevator at the Ministry. The old Ministry, that is. From the door he saw an orange glow; the small fire in the kitchenette was already burning – his companion was awake, it would seem.

"Did anyone see you?" the voice croaked, huddled in front of the little glow.

"Of course not, I'm not an imbecile," he snapped, though without much feeling.

"Have you sent them yet?"

At this he paused. Looked down at the huddled lump, once so full of energy and spirit.

"Do you really think that's wise?" he asked finally, not unkindly. "You're not exactly what you were."

The huddle looked up, eyes keen as ever.

"I know that. But this can't wait forever. It's time. You know it is."

He sighed, folding his tall, once-gangly shape into a wicker chair, the broken rattan digging sharply into his thighs.

"Who do you want me to call?"

The huddle smiled for the first time, an unusual sight on a face usually so contorted with pain; so used to discomfort.

"You know who," he said, still smiling.

He looked into the fire, lost for a moment, remembering small hands with soft palms and callused fingertips. He closed his eyes. Opened them again.

"She… she might not come. If she knows it's me," he said quietly, looking at the huddle with more caution than usual.

The huddle met his gaze evenly.

"Yes she will." There was not a trace of doubt or hesitancy in that voice or gaze, and it reminded him, keenly, of the boy that had once stood before him in the hall that smelled of spices, and roast meat, and cinnamon. He nodded, and stood, retreating to his room across the stripped and squeaking wooden floor. The huddle remained in front of the tiny fire, rubbing his hands together, and grimacing slightly when he tried to shift closer.

As he closed the door, once white and smooth, now dull with grime and scuffs, he stood, looking up to the skylight. There were no stars tonight. No wondering for the future – and with chances like this, the future would be a short one. He kneeled down, the floor cold and hard beneath his knees, and reached a long hand under his mattress, fingertips searching amongst the odd book; the cool glass of a half empty bottle; the still soft cashmere of a scarf; ah. The sharp corner of a bundle of thick card, which he pulled out carefully. The pile was not huge, only the size of a deck of playing cards, and bound together with a frail-looking rubber band, but the corners were as sharp as the day he had cut them, and as he ran his thumb across he could feel the embossed shape of the flower. Muttering a few spells under his breath, he charmed messages into three of them, before turning, opening the window a crack and whistling two notes softly. The dark shape of the war owl approached with stealth he almost envied. It took the cards quickly, then flew off, as though it had never been there.

He left his room, and walked back to the fire and the God-awful wicker chair, which still dug into him, no matter which way he shifted.

"Done."

"Good."

Harry Potter kept his gaze on the fire.

"You miss her."

It wasn't a question, and at this point there seemed little point in replying. So Draco Malfoy simply sighed, and if that sigh sounded like a small "yes", then so be it. There was no room for secrets in such a small flat, anyway.