Chapter 4
"I've got soul but I'm not a soldier"
The Killers – All These Things that I have Done

The light filtered through bright, cut glass pictures dangling before the windows advertising different countrysides, depicting quaint villages and mountainscapes. Hovering over the tables like a flock of pigeons hung sets of equipment for archaic sports such as ancient snow shoes and old wooden water skis. It was a menagerie of useless, outdated junk that someone collected and thought looked trendy, creating an atmosphere of who knew what. Like most things Muggle, Draco didn't care for it. However, it was off the beaten path from his normal life and nobody would recognize him here.

He waited for fifteen minutes, stewing with indignation, before he finally saw the far too amused face of his lunch appointment. He had arrived late himself and was terribly annoyed that Harry had kept him waiting even longer.

"About time, Potter," Draco spat. The waitress had already asked him for his order three times and he didn't want to remain in the terribly Muggle restaurant any longer, touching Muggle things, breathing Muggle air.

"Draco, thank you for meeting me," Harry said, smiling. He offered his hand to Draco, who looked at it, frowning slightly. Finally, Harry pulled his hand back, unshaken, and sat down across from Draco at their little table surrounded by mismatching chairs, a completely plebeian touch. "Kingsley said you could help me out."

Rolling his eyes, Draco let out a bitter laugh. Oh certainly Draco would help Harry out. Only after giving into Shacklebolt's veiled threats and urgent pleas. Draco felt that Harry made him sound practically philanthropic. It was sadly amusing.

The waitress came by one more time, keeping her eyes on Draco like someone would keep an eye on an unknown dog sitting on the street corner. Harry smiled up at her and ordered some coffee concoction that Draco didn't quite follow. When the waitress returned to Draco for his order, he grudgingly asked for the same. Harry had the audacity to laugh.

"Well, what is it you want, Potter? I do not have all day to accede to your petty needs."

All pretense dropped from Harry's demeanor and he quickly lifted a very subtle silencing shield around them. If Draco hadn't been looking for it, waiting for this semblance of secrecy to shroud them, he might have missed it. The rumors about Harry were apparently true. His eyes drifted to the crossing, double scars on his forehead. Harry's hand automatically smoothed down his crazy, black fringe.

"Good. Let's get down to business, shall we Malfoy. I know you were Snape's second; that you were working for the Order. I know you received coded messages from our side. Algebraic equations? I need to know how to decipher them. It's important–" He paused, looking earnestly at Draco as he handed him a tightly rolled parchment, "it might save Hermione."

There was a slight plea to Harry's words that almost caused Draco to tell him that yes, he could help with the code. As he took the parchment, he almost wanted to toss the pitiful man a bone, just to get him off his back, but Draco was not the kind of man to give away the upper hand.

"A code? The same thing you demanded to know about when you barged into my office, destroying my wall? Hmm… A code? I might know something about a code." The waitress arrived and set down their drinks, watching the two men curiously before she walked away. Draco picked up his cup and took a sip, startled that he enjoyed the flavor, bitter and sweet all at once. "What do I get out of it?" His cold gray eyes turned flat, even harder to read than normal as he stared down the man across from him.

"Damn it, Malfoy! I'll fix your damn wall if that is what this is about. Hell, what do you want? I just want to help Hermione; I can't believe you'd hold out on me when it could possibly save her."

"You can't, can you?" He had always enjoyed pushing the easily excitable Gryffindor's buttons.

"This has nothing to do with us. What did Hermione ever do to you?"

Draco could think of plenty of things that Mudblood had done to him, namely shaming him before his family. His father never forgave him for getting worse marks than that witch.

He took another calm sip of his mocha and asked again, "What is in it for me, Potter? Perhaps I am aware of this code, maybe I know exactly what is wrong with your little friend," he spat, leaning forward in the chair, "but you will have to make it worth my while."

A crackle filled the air and Draco worried that he might have pushed a little too hard. He didn't know exactly what Harry was capable of, didn't know how much patience the man had compared to the boy. The hairs on the back of his forearms rose, just like they had when he stood out in the thunder and lightening at his family's summer home in France, and he had to consciously stop himself from crossing his arms before him in a defensive gesture. Finally, with a look of utter hatred Harry growled, "What do you want, Malfoy?"

What did he want? He had run for so long, done what he was told even longer, that he hadn't considered what it was he really wanted anymore. He wanted his place in wizarding society back. He wanted his family whole again, not dead and scattered. He wanted to forget some of his mistakes, or at least be forgiven of them. But Draco would let none of this sentimental drivel materialize. "A life for a life, Potter. I help you with Granger and you owe me a Life Debt."

"That's not how it works, Malfoy," Harry growled.

"It is now."

After his closed trial and acquittal of all crimes, Draco had to make himself scarce. Walking through Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade was an act of compete idiocy, as the people who recognized him from his fine features and pale hair threw insults at him, and sometimes rotting fruit, pretending in their upraised voices to be righteous. Righteous with their clean hands and ignorance of the true cost of war. He smiled at them in return, a grim smile holding no warmth. None of them realised the true price of their unspoiled conscience.

Then he remembered; he did what he did for himself, not these ingrates. He was no martyr. And his trademark sneer replaced the sadness hidden on his lips.

He'd often reminisced over those first few months following the war before he escaped to France; maudlin thoughts always seemed to grace his doorstep these days. After his discussion with Harry—or argument depending on how one looked at it—Draco returned to his club to reflect on his life: past, present and future. Some might call it wallowing in self-pity—but a Malfoy never wallowed.

Sitting at his heavy, antique desk, rolling a Muggle pen back and forth across a piece of clean, white parchment, Draco reflected on Harry's question. What did he want? Acceptance? Approval? Acknowledgement? It wasn't that he was ashamed—a pureblood, pedigreed aristocrat like himself had nothing to be ashamed of—it was that he wished to be known for something other than his breeding, other than his childhood actions. That people couldn't recognize his shrewd mind for business or his grace on the dance floor frustrated him. Even without his father's inheritance—all holdings seized by the courts after Lucius' post-mortem trial—Draco had worked his way up with only his cleverness and noble name, now tarnished by the Dark Mark. Like father, like son.

But unlike his father, Draco recognized a losing battle when he saw one. Knew that while purebloods were superior, indiscriminate slaughter wasn't the way to prove it, and being led by a half-blood only made it all the more ludicrous.

So, behind Lord Voldemort's lines, wrapped tight in his father's iron fist, Draco finally started to view the world with his own set of scales and realised not only were they deficient on common sense, but also sanity. The purebloods, feeling abandoned by the wizarding world, were blindly following this half-blood, insane megalomaniac to their own destruction.

By then, there really was no way out, at least not that he was cognizant of, so he kept his mind sharp and his eyes even sharper, searching for that crack, the tiny bit of wiggle room he needed. So he bided his time until Severus Snape took him under his wing. Finally, he truly became Draco Malfoy.

Initially, it was nigh impossible to remove himself from under this father's watchful gaze, but he hadn't objected since being the son of an inner circle member had its perks. Like a pretty showpiece, Draco kept himself clean, in more ways than one. Lucius appreciated his son not volunteering for any of the more gruesome projects the Dark Lord condoned and Draco was never forced into such tasks. Draco never tortured, never killed, and never sold himself for favours or information that might aid their cause. Perhaps he still harbored some dignity. His independence within the Dark Lord's army happened slowly, gaining small victory by small victory. Earning trust, but never trusting: lulling the others into complacence, always keeping aware of the inner struggles and power structure. In Draco's opinion it played out just like a popularity contest and in those games he always came out on top.

But here he ran with the wolves, and keeping ahead hadn't come as easy as it did in his childhood.

During his first few weeks, before he regained the trust of some of the minions of Voldemort, he would watch them. Out of sight, under cover of dark corners and the exhaustion weighing on the other Death Eaters, Draco overheard people whispering, spiteful words that rarely spread beyond those first lips. They dared say that it was Draco who should have done the deed and he should not have been welcomed back because of his failure. He was surprised Voldemort hadn't killed him and wondered about the price his father had paid for his life. Lucius never mentioned anything, but the stiff look of disappointment could not be ignored, so prominent when he looked at his son. The solemn 'thank you's from Narcissa, that Severus kindly dismissed, repeated over and over so Draco felt sickened every time his mother forced out those words.

But over time, he did gain standing and independence. He became the prince of the Death Eaters, a title he bore with ease. Cold and calculating, the young Slytherin worked his way into the cliques and under the gaze of the salient members. But his past transgressions would never truly be forgotten, not where it really counted. The Dark Lord never trusted him again and Draco knew this with every ounce of acumen he possessed. At night it gave him a deep sense of relief.

When he was finally allowed to take on tasks for Voldemort's army, his duties began with small projects, usually researching or piecing together reconnaissance. Nothing sensitive. Most just a test of his skills, a waste of his time. Eventually, they allowed him to aid other wizards and witches in brewing potions or creating what they called 'curse bombs', but he was never allowed in any planning sessions or given any access to the deeper, secret knowledge the trusted inner circle was privy to.

At first, Draco wanted nothing to do with Severus, lionized for his defeat of Dumbledore, praised for duping the wizened old mage for all those years. Draco's ex Potions Professor stole his prize, claimed his glory. It was Draco who snuck the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. It was Draco who had his wand trained on the barmy, old coot. He was going to cast the curse, the deadly words poised on his lips ready to take form and bathe Dumbledore in the putrid, green light.

Fortunately, it hadn't taken Draco long to admit the words of the old wizard had been impelling, nesting in his mind, sleeping like a viper just waiting to strike once Draco's mind finally cleared.

Lucidity hit him one stormy evening, locked away in his quarters struggling to break an infuriating message intercepted by Julius Rookwood. It all finally clicked. He had been working at a manor house in northern England for five months, mindlessly going through the motions of being a good little Death Eater before he realised it all. That he couldn't follow Lord Voldemort, he never would have spoken those killing words, and Severus Snape had saved him from being a murderer at the green age of seventeen.

Perhaps he never would have grown into the man he was now if it hadn't been for the Dark Lord, but Draco didn't like to dwell on that. He liked to offer that prestigious acclaim to Severus.

"Mreow?" "MEOW!" The call was persistent and questioning and Harry was at a loss as to what to do. Coming by daily to feed Crookshanks wasn't necessarily a hardship, but the poor feline was lonely and Harry really didn't have the time to play with him like a proper pet sitter.

"Mrrup?"

"You miss her, dontcha?" Crookshanks butted Harry's hand with his flat face and rubbed on him, seeking contact. "I know, 'Shanks, I do too."

The furry cat, cultivating a few mats without his daily brushings, jumped off of Harry's lap and then ran across the room to the hearth, sat down and yowled.

"MREEOWW!" he cried, almost exasperated. The tone closely reminded Harry of Professor Snape when Harry took too long to catch onto some subtle trick to stirring a particularly touchy potion. The cat sat, swishing his tail sharply, staring into the cold fireplace.

"What? Do you want to go see Hermione at St. Mungo's?" Harry laughed.

Crookshanks jumped to his feet and started walking in circles before the hearth, purring loud enough for Harry to hear across the room.

He stood and walked towards the distressed cat. He understood that Crooshanks missed Hermione, but they didn't allow animals in the hospital, did they? Thinking it over, he couldn't imagine they would welcome the large cat, but he also didn't expect it would cause any worsening of Hermione's condition. It would probably even help her in some unconscious way.

"Well, we shall see, now won't we kitty." He leaned over and picked up Crookshanks. The cat wiggled in disdain at being handled by anyone other than Hermione, but seeming to understand that Harry was helping, soon stilled.

Harry slowly petted him. The fur started to glisten, then shimmer and eventually faded away, leaving behind only a toothy grin, which soon followed, glittering into nonexistence. Nobody who wasn't searching for the cat would notice anything amiss, other than Harry holding his arm in an odd way, but he figured nobody would notice his arm when he had those stupid crossed scars to fawn over. He picked up some Floo Powder, tossed it into the fireplace and stepped through to the hospital.

Too many people stood in the lobby for such a late hour. They all murmured amongst themselves, concern gracing some faces, all of them looking tired. Harry simply ignored those who looked up at him as he walked to Hermione's room. Inside Mediwitch Periwinkle was looking over Hermione's statistics. A table of potions stood beside the bed and curled up on the chair, sleeping soundly, was Ron.

"Hello, Mr. Potter," the healer greeted. She had decidedly calmed down in his presence and Harry no longer had the urge to flee every time she talked to him.

Casually he leaned down, presumably to tie his shoe, and dropped Crookshanks to the ground. The cat, sly as ever, quickly ran beneath the bed and waited.

"Hello, Mediwitch Periwinkle, how is Hermione doing today?"

Plastered on the woman's face was the same mask, not offering too much hope, but not taking any away, either. "No change."

"How long's he been here," he gestured to Ron.

"He arrived about five hours ago. Been napping most the time, I'm afraid."

"Yeah, he looks dead to the world. What's going on out there? Seems more people than normal in the Floo Centre."

"Oh, some form of influenza we think. Over the last few days we've had quite a few people complaining about lack of energy and unstable magical levels. We're still looking into it," she said as she busied herself with Hermione's diagnostics.

She eventually left after administering some potions and tucking her patient in. With her exit, Crookshanks jumped up on the bed and began kneading Hermione's motionless form. Harry walked over and placed his hand upon her brow, reaching in and feeling for Hermione's magic and was surprised to feel it swelling, undulating almost, behind the closed barrier within her. Harry gasped at the slight connection.

It had been years since Harry really bonded with anyone. It wasn't that he didn't trust people; it was more like he no longer bothered. Catching the dark wizard had been his job. He wasn't there to make friends, toss a snitch around after work or meet guys in bars. He had no time for that. And he couldn't afford the weakness. He was out to catch dark wizards and nothing would get in his way.

Now he was no longer an Auror. The capture of dark wizards was no longer his duty, though his thoughts often returned to his piles of evidence on the recent Death Eater activity, so easily taking second place to Hermione's condition. Without his job and only a handful of friends who really mattered, Harry almost drowned in his cosmic loneliness. His friends were a valuable commodity; he couldn't lose any of them.

"Harry?" mumbled Ron, quite groggy form his nap. "When'dya get here?"

"Just now," Harry said, dragged out of the gloom he seemed to consistently find himself in. "Ron, I can feel Hermione. She's stronger; I can sense her more now."

Ron practically leapt out of his chair and grabbed for his girlfriend's hand. "Really, Harry? You sure?" He clutched at her like a lifeline.

"Yes. I am," Harry said softly, watching the emotions flutter across his friend's face, his eyes almost watery at the hope sitting there. "I'm gunna go call Remus, he'll wanna know. And watch out for Crookshanks." He chuckled as he left, hearing Ron exclaim as he finally noticed the cat.

The hallways remained busier than usual as Harry mindlessly walked the familiar pathway to the Floo Centre of the hospital. He didn't notice Mediwitch Periwinkle until she finally spoke to him, which was either a testament to her quiet walk or to Harry's distraction.

"Mr. Potter, I would like to speak with you for a moment, if you will."

"Yes, what is it?"

"About the cat –"

Harry's jaw dropped. How in Merlin's name did she notice Crookshanks? His impression of the mediwitch ratcheted up a few notches. "Yes?" he drawled.

"I don't mind the animal being present, perhaps it will help Miss Granger recover, but you must keep it a secret and not allow it outside of room 421. Is that understood?" She was smiling at him, no longer in any adoring way, but with true warmth.

He returned her smile, relieved. "Of course, and thank you." She simply nodded and walked away.

The cold air caused perpetual goose bumps all over his arms. Or perhaps it was the filling moon, only a few days away from its full orb. He couldn't sleep. He could never sleep well before the full moon and as he grew older, it only got worse. Everything was getting worse.

He took another long sip from his glass, hoping the brandy would warm him up from the inside out.

"Remus?"

It was well past midnight and the late call startled him; the goose bumps stiffened causing his arm hairs to rise. It seemed everything startled Remus this close to his transformation.

He took in a deep breath. Let it out. Took in another and got up.

"Harry? Is anything wrong?" Remus waved Harry through and shook his friend's hand.

"No, not wrong," Harry said excitedly. "Hermione seems to be doing a little better, actually. I can feel her – you know, like how I told you – feel her magic. It's stronger. I brought in Crookshanks, not sure if he had anything to do with it or not, but I figure it couldn't hurt. And now I can feel her magic even more!"

Remus followed Harry back to Hermione's room at St. Mungo's, eager to be out of his miserable apartment, eager to be doing something, anything.

As they entered the room Ron looked up and smiled at them, slowly petting Hermione's hair. Remus sniffed, smelling the cat who slowly materialized out of thin air as Remus actively looked for him. If the smell hadn't given him away, the purr certainly would have. The cat buzzed like a small Muggle hedge trimmer as he steadily kneaded Hermione's left leg.

Conjuring up a spare chair, he sat down next to Harry across the bed from Ron. They all remained in silence as they shared in Hermione's small victory. Slowly, he started to relax and eventually drifted off, dreaming of full moons and long gone memories of running free beneath them.

It was the smell that initially pulled him out of sweet dreams of Padfoot, Prongs and that retched Wormtail. Remus hated thinking kindly of that little bastard, and scolded his subconscious for bringing up pleasant memories of him. He would not let go of that hatred; it kept him even warmer some nights than the brandy.

Remus looked up just as the most unexpected visitor entered room 421. As the blond aristocrat strutted in, Remus wondered just how long he had stood outside the hospital room before he found the balls to enter. The scent of nervous apprehension seeped off the young man, causing the wolf within to rise in feral delight.

"Potter. I want to talk to you." Draco looked around the room, the institutional white now slightly coated in a layer of long cat fur. He seemed shocked at the minor gathering of his old foes.

"So, Malfoy. Talk." Harry sat in a chair next to Hermione's bed, holding the witch's hand gently in his own. Ron scooted his own chair around to face the door, shooting the most scathing glare in Draco's direction.

Remus remained leaning back in his conjured seat, holding himself in check, nostrils flaring.

Tension poised in the silence that followed, Draco saying nothing, the others watching. The only thing he received in return for his reticence was a glower through Harry's dark, messy hair.

They were all startled out of their glaring match when Crookshanks jumped down from the bed and ran up to Draco, rubbing between his legs, purring all the while.

This definitely broke the strain.

Staring dumbly at the cat, Draco looked shocked. Remus waited for the intruder to say something. It tested his patience since all he wanted to do was rush over and rip Draco's throat out with his blunt, human teeth. Things had definitely got harder in these later years.

But the shock didn't last long and Draco quickly veiled his features, looking up condescendingly at Harry as he tried to step away from the persistent feline.

"Have you thought about the Debt, Potter?"

"Yes," Harry ground out.

"Well?"

"Why you here, Malfoy? It's," Harry looked up at the timepiece on the wall, "2 a.m. I'm sure this could have waited till morning."

Draco threw a scroll at Harry, who deftly grabbed it out of the air. "That is what I deciphered for you. I don't know where the exact Key is, Potter, but if you do, that will help if you need anymore deciphered. If you want any more help, remember the Debt." With a glower, he turned and walked out.

The mix of smells within the room overpowered Remus' sensitive nose as the emotions ran high and he gave up trying to make sense of it all. He scanned the rolled up parchment in Harry's hand, wondering what that little exchange was all about