Somewhere Only We Know

by Kris RL

Summer of 6th year? The wizarding world is at war with itself, and secrets, hidden pasts, biological fathers, staged deaths, broomstick rescues, band T-shirts, funerals, stifled laughter, new truths, and an old rivalry's new best friendship come into play

17. Heart Shaped Cheek Clues

Disclaimer: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K., and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes.

Spoilers: I'll say the first 5 books, just to be on the safe side!

Note: I know how hard I fail; what, this update only took me, oh, two years?! I'm so sorry. D'oh! It will be updated much more quickly for the next chapter! I can only hope some of you have not completely lost interest! Anyhow, this chapter mostly covers Draco, as, in the likely case you do not remember, after these two years, Harry last disappeared into thin air without warning and no one knows where he went. So, on with it!

Somewhere Only We Know

Chapter 17

Heart-Shaped Cheek Clues

Draco sat down on the end of his four-poster bed, awkwardly taking in the room that surrounded him. It wasn't the same room that he had spent the previous six years of his academic life in. It had the same colors, the same walls, and the same furniture, but it felt different. No longer were many of his dorm-mates there to accompany him, and it wasn't, necessarily, that any of them had died in the war, but they were likely to be in hiding or out fighting the war and torturing innocent people. He had returned to Hogwarts not knowing what to expect, as had pretty much ever single other student who had shown up. There were even students he had never seen before, and then his father—well, Cornwell—had told him that Dumbledore had allowed some of the families and students from smaller, more independent magic schools to come stay at Hogwarts for protection. Draco hadn't questioned the specifics of how this was possible, but figured that, hey, it was Dumbledore, and he couldn't pretend to know all of the man's secrets anymore. When things needed to be done, Draco had come to find out, Dumbledore was the man to talk to, get advice from, or hear out. Plus, Draco had been far too busy to think about those kind of things, because he'd basically packed up all of the small belongings he had come into being fond of, at Grimmauld Place, his clothing, and his books the couple of days before the start of the term. He'd put it off until he'd absolutely needed to get it done, hoping every night that, when he woke, Harry would be back to be there to pack with him and make stupid little remarks that would piss Draco off anyway. He missed that, now, as much as he missed their former camaraderie.

Arriving at Hogwarts, this seventh year of his—theirs—everyone's—had been an entirely different experience than the last six years. He had arrived with his family before most anyone else had, because they had first set up the Order in a part of the castle that was nearly impossible to find with the naked eye or the everyday man's logic. It was set up in one of the many wings of the castle that no one had ever had time to venture in except for on Holiday. The area it was set up in had been blocked off to students for hundreds of years, Dumbledore had told him, conversationally, when Draco had been pulling out folders and folders of files from one of many boxes. After the Order had been established within the grounds, and the wards had gone up, he had returned home—well, to the only home he'd ever really known to have with Cornwell—and they had gathered the rest of their things and Floo-ed to the new residence where Cornwell would be staying, along with Draco's mother and Dickie. Draco had been offered the chance to stay there, but he had opted to leave them for his old dormitories, as most students, whose families had taken refuge in the castle, had as well. It had been a hard decision, though, when he had looked around the rooms, in awe. It wasn't like the rooms that other families had—a couple of small bedrooms, a main room, and a kitchen—but it was grand. It had hundred-foot-high ceilings, in some places, and fifty foot high fireplaces, stone ones, and there were turn-of-the-century paintings on the ceilings of angels and celestial bodies. The bedroom chambers had been just as nice—a smaller one for his mother, and then the huge one for Cornwell, one for Dickie, and two others—one for Draco, Cornwell had told him, when he wanted to come visit.

There was even an astounding and solidly packed two-story study, books from ceiling to floor, with elaborately engraved dark wooden shelves and beautiful, rich, dark—nearly black—maroon furniture with the same dark wooden frame. The place even had its own kitchens, which were quite old but not unusable. It had finally dawned on Draco, when he'd walked into a very long hallway, between Cornwell's chambers and everyone else's, that the reason Cornwell was granted access to the beautiful wing was because he was entitled to it. It had been Godric Gryffindor's personal wing, he'd discovered after some exploring, and Cornwell being his heir... was the sole proprietor of the rooms, of the whole wing and its unused, unexplored rooms. He hadn't had much of a chance to look after that initial tour, though, given to him by Cornwell, because he'd had to return, with his belongings, to the castle, which Cornwell had helped him with. It had felt good, lugging his trunk across the grounds to get from their side of the castle to the main part, because Cornwell had been with him, escorting him. He'd had one of Draco's bags around his shoulders, carrying a suitcase of books in one hand and a bag of Draco's little belongings in the other. He had smiled, and Draco had smiled. He had laughed, and Draco had laughed. He had joked, and Draco had beamed. He still didn't know if Cornwell could ever be able to understand what that moment had been like for him, or even if Cornwell knew how much it had meant to Draco, but Draco hoped to be able to tell him one day.

He had even helped Draco take his things up to his dorm, which had been extremely awkward, because rumors about Draco had been swirling all summer, and he had pretty much disappeared off of the face of the earth, so suddenly he was walking into the Slytherin common room in his trousers and light yellow Nirvana T-shirt with a man that looked nearly exactly like him right with him, wearing red flannel, with well-kept hair and a beard, a toothpick sticking out of the corner of his mouth. He was the son of the missing Minister of Magic, and Draco couldn't imagine what they thought of him, or his life, or all of the questions they had for him or about him. He didn't really care, either. He knew he could have just stayed back with his family, and it would have been so much easier for him to live there and only attend classes. However, he knew familiarity was essential to his sanity, and being that he no longer lived at the home he had grown up in, his father—Lucius—had disappeared, again, when even the Order didn't know where he was, he had a new sibling, was back to being able to spend time with his papa—er, father—Cornwell—God, that was confusing—and his best friend was a missing Harry Potter, any normal thing that would give him a bit of stability was much needed. The Slytherin dungeons brought this comfort.

As soon as he had stepped in, he had breathed in a huge sigh of relief, especially in his dorm. The smell of the cold and the limestone had brought such a sense of home to him, and when he had walked to his bed, in his dorm, the carved "Draco Malfoy" on the inner part of the bottom left post had still been there, just waiting for him. He had made up his bed, with Cornwell's help, at once.

Draco watched as his father unfolded his cuff and maneuvered the material so he could rub it over Draco's window. He kind of smiled, silently, watching as Cornwell tried to get the grime off of the window. Draco had tried many times, but he had never been successful. He had even tried to clean it from the outside, but it always remained foggy and slightly dirty. He had even tried to use spells to clean it up, but nothing had ever worked. Watching his father try to clean it, then, amused him.

"It's no use," he finally said, and he pushed himself up off of his high bed and landed fully on his feet. He walked around the bed to get to his desk, which was set back behind his dark green curtains, under his window, where his father had already placed a snow globe of Draco's. He took a seat on the side of the bed, again, and rested his heels on the wooden frame of the bed, his hands folded between his knees, slightly bent as he tried to ignore the prying eyes of curious strangers he'd never met. He had new roommates, the ones from other schools, being that most of the room left in the towers were beds left in the Slytherin house.

"No?" Cornwell asked, with a frown, as he withdrew his sleeve, looking at it very closely to see if he had actually gotten any dirt off, but Draco really doubted it. Cornwell seemed perplexed when his eyes next met Draco's. "Has it always been like this?"

"It gets a little worse every year." He pointed upwards with his index fingertip, then let it fall back between his legs. "It's because one of the Charms classrooms is above us, and when they use fire or the stove, the exhaust pipe lets out right above my window," Draco offered with what he had learned only the year before when he'd actually realized one of the Charms classrooms had pipes that lead over the dungeons. It was unfortunate, really, but he had never REALLY complained, because it was only his dorm that had windows that were even high enough to see anything other than the stone outside of them, and that was hardly a reason to complain, even if the windows were a little mucky. Plus, he had always had the same dorm, because the Slytherin sleeping situations were different from those of the other houses, and the thought of being moved elsewhere distressed him. "I've tried to clean it from the outside, but it's like the color is ingrained in the glass."

"That's unfortunate," the man said, then, thoughtfully, and he reached out and stroked his long fingertips down the window, leaving streak marks Draco knew he'd clean right after Cornwell left, because he couldn't fucking stand streak marks. "Oh—right, then. Sorry about that, let me...." Cornwell put his sleeve back to the window and rubbed in a circular motion, to rid of the streaks, so Draco's attention and affections immediately perked up, and he tilted his head, almost excitedly. "I know how you hate those."

Draco was either too emotional or too prideful to say anything, so he just smiled when Cornwell looked back at him. He looked over and saw that no one else's parents stayed to talk, and Cornwell seemed to notice, too. He started to move away from Draco's desk, but not before he placed down a wrapped parcel, producing it from one of Draco's bags. The five year old in Draco got the best of him, because he sat up even more straight, trying to maintain an air of dignity, "What's that!" He'd failed.

Cornwell smiled as he stopped in front of Draco, "A few things I thought you might like to make up for some of the things you couldn't bring this year." It was true that most of the things Draco brought to school, usually, had been destroyed. The Malfoy Manor had been demolished, and he hated to even imagine what had become of his own study and his important gadgets and gizmos. It broke his heart to think about, so he tried to not think about it at all. He was really excited about what Cornwell might have packed for him, though, based on the gesture alone—new things, old things? He didn't know, but he would soon find out. He smiled, in response, still silent and still awkwardly confused as to the surroundings and the situations.

Cornwell knew.

Draco finally looked down at his wrists, between his legs, "Thanks," he quietly offered.

Cornwell leaned in, with his hand on Draco's elbow, and kissed his temple softly, "Remember what I said," he said, then, and pulled back, leaving Draco's heart aching, because he kind of wanted to latch onto Cornwell and tell him not to go far. Draco had been with him, or at least seen him, every single day over the last handful of months. To be away from Cornwell, again, hurt, even if it was just for a few days and he was not too far away. He was used to his family, used to the dynamic he'd never had before, of an openly affectionate father and a talkative mother who never had to keep her place, anymore, and a little brother who blurted out random gibberish when he was both happy with Draco and pissed at him. He already missed that, and it hurt. "I want to see you two times a week. If I don't see you at least twice a week, you're in enormous trouble."

Draco kind of laughed, then, eyes finally coming up to his father's warm brown ones, "What kind of trouble is enormous trouble, exactly?"

"It entails… well—I—well, you just think about it," replied the roughly affectionate laugh, after a pause of thoughtful consideration, and then Draco got another soft kiss on the forehead. "Would you walk me out?"

Draco obliged, closing his curtains off around his bed and desk, with his belongings on them, and casting a quick spell around them, because he was paranoid about anyone getting in his things. He led his father out of the dorm and down the cold gray stone stairs, taking his time. He felt at home, now, being back in the Slytherin cove his body felt accustomed to. He did spend nine months of the year in it, in the castle, after all. He felt a real sense of seniority, but it was almost phony to him; he had changed so much. Even with the familiar faces that surrounded him, he still felt like he was in the wrong place, even though he knew he wasn't. He would probably be treated like royalty, as it was his last year, and he was Draco Malfoy, but even that was a lie to a certain extent. He didn't know how he was going to function, really. He was going to have to figure it out, and he reminded himself so, suddenly, as he came to a direct and abrupt halt, right there on the stairs, when another body almost collided with his.

Draco stiffened and somehow felt the urge to grab his wand from his pocket.

"Draco!"

Blaise? Draco perked up, at once, "What are you doing here? Dumbledore has your number."

"Apparently he has yours. The better question is what you're doing here; no one has heard about your whereabouts for months!"

Draco couldn't believe what he was hearing, even though he did realize that Blaise's reaction to seeing him had come from a childhood place, knowing that his friend was still alive. It was true that word of Draco Malfoy had been kept very quiet from anyone and everyone, and whenever it had been questioned in the papers, the Order spies who worked for the Daily Prophet saw to it that articles featuring his disappearance somehow didn't make it to the printers the hour before they went to press. Seeing Blaise felt good for the child in Draco, too, but he found himself infuriated that Dumbledore had let Blaise return. He was an outright Death Eater, and there were half-bloods and mudbloods running around everywhere, and not just them but their entire families were there. Granted, Dumbledore seemed to have a soft spot for taking in apparent death-eaters, but this seemed like a more risky stretch from where Draco stood, knowing Blaise had helped kill one of Draco's childhood best friend's brothers. It was Blaise, still, but... but it was different. Everything was different, including him.

Draco shook his head, then, and turned and looked back at Cornwell, as if asking him and searching him for what he could even say, who he noticed Blaise suddenly take notice of, with a double-take and confused widened eyes. Before he could even let Blaise ask, Draco said, "This is my father, Blaise." Blaise was the only person Draco had ever DARED to tell about Cornwell, but Blaise had never seen a picture or heard his proper name, as Draco had never trusted anyone with that information, had never trusted anyone to not throw it back in his face somehow. For some reason it felt good for Draco to tell Blaise that THIS was his father, the one who standing there, silently, behind him. When Draco turned to look back at him, he saw that Cornwell was staring straight through Blaise, and maybe that was what had caught Blaise off-guard or startled him, too, because the dark eyes were practically burning through him, though not in an intimidating way, just perhaps a protective, inquisitive way. Draco could have grimaced, but he held back in favor of introducing them properly. "This is Blaise Zabini."

"Blaise Zabini," Cornwell seemed to suddenly remember, but his tone did not match the intense stare he was still directing at the young man opposite Draco. Instead, his tone was light, almost airy and friendly, but hardly disinterested. "You're Draco's best friend, I remember."

"Yes," Draco told him, and then fixed his eyes on Blaise, intensely, too, "once upon a time."

"The one that killed the Cliffdale boy," Cornwell said, conversationally. "Were you well-rewarded for that, son?"

Even Draco looked down, flushing, at Cornwell's question to Blaise, right there in the middle of the stairwell.

"I... I couldn't... tell you the nightmares..." Blaise barely managed to say, eyes so lowered that Draco was sure he was searching the steps for their molecular structure. "You couldn't imagine... you... couldn't... wouldn't want to. I'm only he here because Dumbledore found me and convinced me not to off myself. I'm not here for anymore trouble. I'm barely here at all." He paused. "I'm barely anywhere," he whispered, mostly to himself, like he was returning to deep thoughts that the less-than-exciting reunion with Draco had interrupted.

Cornwell wrapped his hand around Draco's shoulder and gave him a small push to go ahead and keep walking, so Draco did, slowly, pointedly walking around Blaise, who was, notably, by himself, with no family to accompany him, as, last Draco had heard, his mother and siblings had gone into hiding to get away from Blaise and his father. He almost felt bad for Blaise, but he just reminded himself that Blaise had killed someone for no good reason, and that set Draco's mind straight. He turned, then, on the stairs, still with Cornwell's hand wrapped around his shoulder, almost supportively, and watched as his father leaned in to Blaise's face and said, quietly, "It's not safe here for you. Keep your eyes open."

"I know, sir."

"You'll be dead by morning if you're not careful. Be alert, keep your wand close."

"I know."

"Everyone here knows."

"The dorms are locked closed at night, at least."

Cornwell tilted his head, then, at Blaise, "That won't protect you from your roommates," he whispered.

Blaise blinked. He looked at Draco, and Draco turned his head and looked away.

"Draco?" Blaise asked, quietly.

Draco finally looked back at him, "No one will take mercy on you," he admitted, but he didn't want to, not really. "I would not take mercy on you."

"You'd wish me dead just like I wish myself dead, then."

A small explosion erupted right from the center of Draco's chest, and then it burned right up his throat, "No, what I wish is thatyou'd never done what you did, but that's just wishful thinking, Blaise. You chose your side, and I chose mine!"

"Do you think I'd come back here if I wanted to be on that side! Do you think I'd risk this!"

"Sometimes redemption attempts come too late, don't they?" Draco bit, infuriated, and he knew he was the last person who could even attempt to say such a thing to Blaise. It was almost irrational in how angry he was with Blaise, but part of him needed to get it off of his chest, because he quite knew Blaise being there was brave, and of course Draco would try to protect him. They were of the Slytherin breed, and that was what they did. He shifted his weight onto his left foot and crossed his arms over his chest, looking straight into Blaise's face. "In either case, you turned your back on me—on us—on our friendship in general, on all of us who agreed we wouldn't turn into our fathers. You damn near turned your back on yourself, Blaise. I don't know the Blaise that you've been—or… or who could… just… so you're going to have to explain that to me at some point."

"I'm sure you know, Draco, that it's really never too late for redemption," Cornwell said, before Blaise could respond to Draco, and then Cornwell just looked from Draco to Blaise, after giving Draco a rather hardened, disappointed look that Draco understood to mean he was being unfair and he needed to try to see Blaise's point-of-view. It was amusing that Draco was supposed to feel sympathy for Blaise, in Cornwell's mind, but Cornwell was no Dumbledore, which became more and more clear by the day. "You're either very brave and openly suicidal to return here, or you're all alone and this is the only place you're safe from your father and crew. I hope Dumbledore would know, because he did allow you to come back. It's not up for discussion from us. In any case, you're safe, now, to an extent, and I think that means a lot to Draco." He stepped down on the step behind Draco's, thoughtfully, and then below it. Draco watched the expressions on his face change a few times, into ones he hadn't yet fully understood meaning of. That didn't seem to matter, though, because Cornwell almost smiled at him. "I hope to see you again, Blaise, without suspicions." His eyes moved to Draco. "Why don't you stay and talk? I trust you'd never let a friend suffer." Blackmail—emotional, the worst kind... but the best kind. Cornwell knew there was no way Draco could hate Blaise. They all knew Draco was still just beyond angry at Blaise, but it ended at that. "I'll see you later. Come for dinner, if you get the chance."

Draco gave a nod, slightly confused on what to do. "Dinner," he quietly agreed. "Uh, and—and… be careful."

"You be careful, Draco," Cornwell softly said and squeezed his arm. He glanced at Blaise. "Don't touch my son unless you first ask me to."

Draco refrained from letting his eyebrows shoot up with a mix of surprise and joy.

"I don't trust myself to touch anyone."

"Good boy."

"Papa?" Draco asked of him, remembering something off of the top of his head; he had finally started to call Cornwell his Papa again, as, well, Lucius was still Draco's father and Draco loved him dearly. The first time had been sort of strange, because Draco had just strolled into The Order's kitchen, with a newspaper in hand, the first one he'd dared to read in months, outraged at the headlines, and he'd demanded, "Papa!" in a way that said, "come look at this and make me feel better." Cornwell had taken the newspaper from him, once he'd gotten over the shock of being barked at as, "Papa," again, because that was the way Draco had always addressed him, growing up, when he had been upset about something. It was just sort of habit, Draco supposed; a habit that had come back full force. After having seen the way Cornwell reacted to being called Papa, Draco had decided that maybe it wasn't so bad to let himself be attached to Cornwell, openly, and begin to at least TRY to make the effort to call him Papa, as he was Draco's father. The issues he had once had, the bitterness, or even the grudge, against Cornwell, had been put to a restful death after a peaceful burial.

After that first day, he had called Cornwell "Papa" at least ten times a day, because it always just blurted out of his mouth. It made him feel good to say it, even though he usually said it very quietly and with utmost love and devotion. He found himself massively attached to Cornwell, because Cornwell had become the father to him, now, that he had never been able to full be, growing up. Sure, he had used to give Draco kisses on the top of his head and tell him that he loved him—albeit rarely, always when he was sure Lucius and Narcissa wouldn't hear—but it was different when Draco could sit with him, in a study, and pull his ankles up onto the couch, wrap his arms around his knees and discuss... what he wanted to be when the war was over, when Voldemort was gone, and how Cornwell listened, so intently, and humored him. To Cornwell, Voldemort was just an obstacle that was not all-encompassing, or at least that was how he appeared to see him, so he could talk about those things with Draco, about options when school was over, but Lucius had never been like that, because Voldemort had been his way of life, and his "utopia" had been something Lucius had dreamed about. What he wanted for Draco's future was to be an heir, a well-read man, with a wife and children, to take up the family cause. Well, once upon a time he had wanted that, but Draco wasn't sure, now. He just knew that the more Lucius saw him with Cornwell, and laughing, or not laughing and arguing, instead, the more attentive his eye-contact had become when he'd talk to Draco. That wasn't much for some people, but it was a lot of Lucius Malfoy. The closer he got to Cornwell, the closer he got to Lucius.

"Tell Dickie I love him." Dickie had been asleep when they had left to walk Draco up to school, so he hadn't been able to say a proper goodbye. Not that it would really matter, because Draco would see them at dinner, if all worked out, but it was just the principle. He didn't care if Blaise saw him being vulnerable, and neither did Blaise, it seemed.

"Of course," Cornwell softly murmured up at him, eyes glistening happily in a way that erased his usually intense eye-contact and brooding, hooded eyelids behind his dark eyelashes. It was nice to see him look like that without a joke having been told. "Dinner?"

"Dinner," Draco said, even again, like a promise.

When Cornwell left, and they were alone, both stiff and tense, Blaise quietly said, "I can't believe he actually left you alone with me. I could hex you dead right here."

Draco smirked, then, a smirk he hadn't felt in ages, and he turned fully into Blaise's direction and tilted his head. He found himself bragging instead of threatening, and that was when he knew that the world was still the same in some ways, "You wouldn't believe all of the spells I now know that could kill you dead before you could so much as even begin to blink an eyelash."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes," Draco quietly said, trying not to laugh, "oh really." And then he kind of smiled. "Tell me everything you know, and maybe I'll reciprocate—if you're lucky... and if you give me one of those chocolate frogs!"

Blaise looked like he was going to cry, as he lunged forward and latched himself onto Draco in a hug they had never even attempted to share before. He was pale, very skinny, and Draco could feel his ribs through his sweater, which scared him for so many reasons he didn't even know where to begin. He had known Blaise all of his life, and he had known that look in his eyes, of utmost honesty and distress, and that had done all of the convincing Draco had needed. The hug that Blaise needed from him said the rest of all that needed to be said, because it was like he had never been hugged in his life. He had, of course, but was desperate for someone to give him love and familiarity. Draco needed the same things, but not like he had once upon a time. Draco gave the hug back, once it lingered for longer than five seconds, and he clutched Blaise back for Blaise's sake, when he understood what was needed of him. He clutched Blaise like a brother home from war, because he was.

"Can we get something to eat, first? I haven't had anything to eat in days," cried the voice in his shoulder, and Draco was just amazed, wide-eyed. All he felt himself do was nod, and he sort of rubbed Blaise's back with a hand, like Harry had done to him, to make him feel better, and found that Blaise seemed to melt into it, like it was the most loving of hand-rubs. This just made Draco's heart hurt for them both. "I'd never hurt you, Draco, or anyone you love. I'm so sorry."

"I know."

"I should have listened to you—they're awful—I ran away—they have Cliffdale, did you know? He—he—You-Know-Who threw this—bash, and it was awful. He made him kill—Judas, I mean. He didn't even blink. He's evil, Draco—or—I can't tell—we were roommates, sort of—you can't trust him. And they were going to... it's... they torture until you can't hold on any longer, and then they kill you just when you think you have nothing to lose, even if you've been so shamed and degraded and beaten and—and taken... they tried, but he helped me—Cliffdale, I mean. He's good—a good man—but so... so evil, Draco."

Draco felt sick for what Blaise had seen, for the pain their fathers had inflicted on people. He needed to be sitting down when Blaise told him about Harry's current well-being, about anything, really, having to do with Harry or "Judas," but from what he heard of it, he could not force himself to believe. Had Harry really killed someone in cold blood? Then again, Harry wouldn't have left, suddenly, to join up with Voldemort, if he hadn't been prepared to partake in actions that would prove his loyalty and service to Voldemort. With a bitten lip, Draco noticed Blaise was waiting for him to say something—anything, so he said, softly, "Let's get you settled," and took Blaise's upper arms in his hands, searching for his eyes, which he got in return. They were so bloodshot and miserable, so guilty and sad. "You're safe now."

"I'd like to believe that."

"I'll keep you safe."

"Neither of us are safe, not even here. Not anywhere. They can get me anywhere, even when I sleep."

"I know," Draco assured, so quietly, gazing deeply at Blaise, so he knew Draco understood. "I know."

When Blaise pulled away, Draco leaned down and took two of the bags off of his arms and the one hanging from his elbows, because Blaise looked exhausted, worn, and like one more step with all of his bags would make him tumble over backwards and fall down the stairs. He pulled the bags up over his shoulders and found himself giving Blaise a hand on his shoulder, in support, and saying, so very quietly, "We'll make your bed, put your things in, and then… we'll head down to the kitchens, yeah?" And though Blaise simply nodded, Draco could still see the remnants of his tears sliding down his cheeks, his shoulders slouched heavily, his face dirtier than Draco had first realized. Draco couldn't imagine what Blaise had been through, but all he knew was that he suddenly just wanted to make sure Blaise could take a nap. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks, and Draco was nervous for him. He watched Blaise start up the steps, and then he followed him right up, both taking their time.

Blaise turned his cheek over his left shoulder, slightly, and when he did, Draco gave him a warm smile, "Thanks."

Without saying a word in return, because he knew Blaise was sure of Draco's friendship without a word needing to be returned, because he was helping him with his things back up the stairs, they turned into their dorm-room, finally, and walked Blaise's things to the bed directly to the right of Draco's. It was the only bed that had yet to be made, and with Blaise's arrival, the room was full of its occupants—three strangers and two friends who had yet to meet.

Draco set Blaise's things down at the foot of his bed, noticing that Blaise didn't have his trunk with him. He didn't think he had to ask where it was, though, because he saw the way Blaise eyed all of their trunks and then his bags. It must have still been with his family when they had gone into hiding. Maybe they had taken it with them, or maybe left it back at the Zabini home, but either way... there was no way Blaise could go back and return to find it if he was in hiding from his father and the Death Eaters. They would have spells set, and would, most likely, show up as soon as Blaise stepped a foot in the house or on the estate, Draco was sure. He sort of looked at the trunks, too, and when he did, he caught a pair of blue eyes from on of the other beds, and he knew he could not just turn away and say nothing, so he sucked up his nerves and worries—after all, these would be his dorm-mates, and from what he could see so far, no one had really been introduced and everyone was quietly doing their own thing with putting away their belongings, and one had even disappeared, already, behind his curtains, but Draco could see he was sitting at his desk and staring out the window. Yes, this was nothing like the other beginning terms. These were very different times, and they were all very subdued and nervous.

Draco let a light smile come to his lips, and he sort of took a step from Blaise's things and walked to the center space heater in the middle of the room. He put his hands on the wooden barrier, "Hi," he said, to the boy, who smiled back at him without wary apprehension, "I'm Draco." He looked over his shoulder at Blaise, who was looking at the two other boys, too. Draco looked from the blue eyes and blonde hair to the brown eyes and blonde hair, then back to Blaise, and from Blaise back to the other two, "and this is Blaise."

"Cory," said the blonde with blue eyes, and he climbed off of his bed, and, in the process, the kid behind the curtain came forward, too, after hearing the start of the conversation. They almost knocked into each other, but then awkwardly laughed and stepped out towards Draco and Blaise. "This is Will."

"I'm Eli," said the other stranger, and they all sort of met around the space heater.

Draco nodded at their names, and they all began to shake hands. It was kind of nice, the unspoken bond they all had. Draco worried what would happen if they found out that their two roommates had been questionable for most of their lives at Hogwarts, and that Blaise was a Death Eater with the dark-mark and all. He supposed that they would cross that bridge when they got to it, though, and that it would probably just be better to concentrate on developing trust. He had never really trusted anyone, not even fully Blaise, up until that summer, but he was glad he had learned his lessons from Harry, from Cornwell, from the Order, because trust was really important, now. They all needed to trust each other, and it was obvious by their handshakes that they all knew it. They were dorm-mates and dorm-mates stuck together.

Will was the first to start conversation, leaning against the barrier, "You two are Hogwarts students, right?" He asked, of Draco and Blaise.

"Yeah, how could you tell?" Blaise asked, most suspiciously, and Draco elbowed him, openly, for them all to see. Blaise growled at Draco, who smirked, before looking back at the three others."Sorry, natural reaction—uh—rough summer, I guess."

"That's an understatement," laughed Eli, quietly, shyly perking up. Cory agreed with a nod.

"It's just that your names are already engraved outside on the door, so you must have been here for awhile," Will offered.

"Oh," Blaise laughed, sheepishly, and Draco laughed, too, amused by his playful shyness. "That would explain it, then—how about you, where are you all from?"

"We went to Eastwyck," said Cory, of he and Will, who obviously already knew each other. "Eli?"

"Carmichael Academy," said the brown-eyed boy, still very softly. "Lost most of my mates."

Draco frowned, sadly, and sat on the foot of his bed, "Sorry," he was the first to offer, quietly, "that's terrible."

"Yeah, we're real sorry," Will added, with a really genuine frown. "That must be rough—we lost some mates, too. July, big attack on a witch's seventh year congratulatory party—bodies everywhere."

"Haven't really stopped having nightmares about it, honestly," Cory countered, then looked at Draco. "There wasn't much left of Eastwyck, got destroyed when You-Know-Who found out some muggle-born families were taking refuge there. Same of Carmichael, last I heard," and he looked at Eli for agreement, and he got a very solemn nod of assurance. "I'd always heard about Hogwarts. Thank Merlin Dumbledore's around to make sure this place has stayed up."

"Pretty amazing, really," Will offered, too, and looked at Eli. "I think both of our families are staying here, too, right? I thought I saw you and your mum checking out your schedule earlier?"

Eli nodded, and he finally stood up, "My house was destroyed—my family was involved back in the Order of the Phoenix days—my uncles were Death Eaters. My dad stayed away from it, but once one of your family members is in it, it infects all of your family. Mum, dad, my sister and brother are here, now, though—lost a brother in August fighting against a wicked lady."

"That's awful," "Oh, mate, I'm sorry," were all quietly murmured from the four others, softly.

Eli shrugged, "Mum says there's nothing we can do about it but keep the rest of us safe, yeah?"

"Same here," said Cory. "Too many of our lot are mixed in with the wrong crowd. Dad packed us up, we left most everything behind, and then I wake up on some train on the way here this morning—said all he's got left are his sons, and so here we are—me and my littlest, he's a first year," he elaborated. "Your siblings here?"

Draco almost said no, but then he remembered Dickie, and he kind of smiled when he had the opportunity to nod. It was the first time in his life that he got to answer a question about siblings. He could just picture Dickie, now, as fresh as any picture in his mind, bright-eyed and bright-headed and full of love and made of pink cheeks and white cotton t-shirts and pants. He was a summer being, Draco thought to himself, "My little brother, but he's too young to start schooling."

"Same," said Eli, "my little sister is only two, and my brother is nine—what about you, Blaise?"

Blaise only sighed and tears started leaking out of his eyes.

Grimacing, Draco bit into his bottom lip, because he knew why Blaise was crying. He did have a little brother who was supposed to attend, that year, but he did not know of his whereabouts or if he was even alive, Draco was sure. He looked, awkwardly, back at the three other boys who seemed perplexed but hardly vexing. There were no rude stares at Blaise, just questioning concern. Eli was the first to look at Draco for some sort of reassurance that Blaise was okay, and then Draco eyed Blaise, too, and explained, "Blaise hasn't heard from his mother and brothers in months."

"Oh," Will replied, and it seemed like a deep burn to him, "I'm sorry, Blaise. No word or anything?"

"No," Blaise sniffed, and he didn't seem ashamed. "Sorry, I just—I'm tired, and... hungry, and... haven't been to sleep in... in I don't even know how long... and there's so much to work out—God, Draco, I don't even have my bedding," he realized, all in one breath, turning to look at his bed. His shoulders slouched, and then he covered his eyes with the palms of his hands. "It's so weird being back here, and I shouldn't be—I really shouldn't be—and I just want to sleep, and I don't even know if I can go get bedding—I can't—Draco, I can't go down to Hogsmeade and get anything and..."

Draco hopped off from the end of his bed. He walked to Blaise, took his shoulders, managing what he felt to be a soft smile, and led him over to his own made bed, cutting him off, "Why don't you lay down and get some sleep? We'll go get something to eat and see what's going on with everything." He looked over at the other three, hopeful that they wouldn't be opposed to the idea, and they seemed anything but. He even saw Will rub his stomach as if to signal that he was starving. Good. He could not help but feel a real sense of brotherly understanding between all of them, already. They were not obnoxious or rude or crude. Eli was very shy, down to the blonde hair in his face, and he seemed very sweet, even in the way he spoke. Cory seemed studious and very laid-back, and Will seemed to be really empathetic and caring. It wasn't like it used to be, with all of their personalities. Once upon a time, Draco had been a jackass who never would have introduced himself as just, "Draco," because he would have been, "Draco Malfoy," always talking about stupid things and scowling at everyone, Blaise would have been constantly talking about who he'd banged all summer, Crabbe would pick fights with everyone for everything, Goyle would ignore them all until he needed something, and Eric Wilson would antagonize everyone for no reason—it had been fun, then, but this was different. More was needed out of them as people, more was needed out of them for each other's sakes, even if they'd just barely been introduced.

Blaise turned around, sighing, "No—no. I just—it's okay, I can make it down to dinner."

"You're tired," Draco said, gently, then, and he latched his eyes, without apprehension, right into Blaise's. Blaise seemed surprised, for merely a second, but then it washed away into relief again. "Lay down in my bed, it's okay. I'll try to find you some extra bedding. Dumbledore has all of those shop keepers open in the back part of the castle, remember? Where we went that time to play Quidditch on Holiday break? I'm sure someone is selling bedding there, okay? No big deal. We'll get everything taken care of, but you already have too much going on in there," and he tapped Blaise's temple with his fingertip. "Lay down, rest."

"Okay," was Blaise's only argument, and he climbed onto Draco's bed. "Draco."

"Yeah?" Draco asked, with a laugh, softly, amused and kind of adoring how pathetic Blaise was right at that moment. He wouldn't say so, though. He understood, on so many levels, how rough the summer had been for Blaise, not at all arguably better than Draco's summer, and Draco recognized that for one of his oldest friends.

Blaise fell right down into Draco's pillows, yawning, already, into his fist, "Bring me some pudding, if you can."

"Oy, he's awfully demanding," Will laughed. "Give him an inch, and he'll take a mile."

Draco laughed, so hard, all of the sudden, and turned and looked at their laughing roommates. He looked back at Blaise, again, through happily squinted eyes, to see that Blaise was laughing, too. It was amazing that Will had just picked up on something that Draco had been teasing Blaise about for years. "I think he just pegged you within five minutes of knowing you." And then he gave Blaise a playful squeeze on the forearm, because he knew of Blaise's love for pudding, and it was tradition that they indulged on the first day of the term, and they had started every year off that way for the last six years, so this seventh one... well, Draco wanted to find some way to maintain a little more familiarity for the both of them. "I'll see what I can find."

A lot of things had not changed at all, but there were some parts of the castle, on the walk up to the Great Hall, that were different. The school hadn't really been touched in battle, as Dumbledore, and many other men, Draco had assumed, had made sure that wasn't possible, but it seemed really dull. The huge windows seemed to let in less sunlight, even if it was very bright outside, and the dark stones seemed even darker. Dirtier, somehow, even if they were not. In a way, returning to Hogwarts without Harry—Judas—whoever he was—was a lot easier, and he wondered how things were going to turn out, because, from where he stood, on the bottom step of the main staircase outside of the Great Hall, he could barely see Harry returning at all, not as Judas, and not as himself. He figured maybe it was bad to think that way, thought it was a bad idea to not envision things happening in the best possible way, in the best possible light. A nagging part of him, that he tried to usually ignore in the back of his mind, wasn't so convinced, however.

Walking into the Great Hall was even more depressing, if that was possible, and it was. It was almost as if all of the new faces far outnumbered all of the old ones, and that opened his eyes, further, to the reality of where he was, with whom, and why. He shook his head to himself, trailing his new roommates, even though they seemed to have no idea where they were going. He slid his hands into his pockets and tucked his chin down, then, as he cleared his throat for them to follow him, so they did. He kept his head down, because he knew he would gain attention at once, though by no intention of his own, as it might once have been. For a second, he thought he finally understood what it was like to have a bit of Harry Potter's life, because his name was on the whispered lips of kids as he passed, leading his three, quiet, reserved, completely awed Slytherins toward the Slytherin table. He motioned them to go ahead and sit, and so they did, looking at him for more guidance, somehow, because, after all, they knew no one, and there were others at the table who seemed just as lost.

"Draco! Oh, Draco."

Draco turned his head, and then he rushed forward, before he could even help it, and returned the hug being offered out to him by Pansy Parkinson. They hadn't spoken at all since the middle of the last year, when Draco had renounced the Old Ways to her. It hadn't been her decision, she'd said, to stop speaking with him, but rather it had been her father's wishes, because he hadn't wanted her getting tied up in the stipulations that the Dark Lord was going to be considering where Draco was concerned, as, Draco had come to find out, it had never been a secret to the Dark Lord that Draco's resistance was solid and he wouldn't waver, which Draco thought of as brave. The only thing he had ever really taken a strong, admirable stand against was the one thing that, in many former friends' eyes, he should not have.

Draco felt his wrists clench into hard fists, as he held her close, holding tightly but not too tightly. They had never shared a hug like this, but it suddenly felt like the most natural thing in the world. He had spent nights worrying about her state-of-being, worrying about her family, about how she was and if she had stayed out of trouble. To see her at Hogwarts, right then, was perhaps the biggest surprise he figured he'd be getting that day, maybe that week or that month. He never would have thought she would have come to find refuge at Hogwarts, and he wondered if she had run away, because, that he knew, her mother was no angel and was in ranks with the Dark Lord as much as her father was.

Thinking of this, Draco gently let go, but his hands slid down from her elbows, until his hands found hers, and he just squeezed them with no intention of letting go too soon, staring at her and looking her over like he had done to Blaise, but with friendly, worried eyes versus defensive, bitter eyes. She looked ill, very thin, and her cheeks were sunken in. She had always had an olive tone to her skin, but now it was almost as if she had dirt smears as cheekbones and dark purple warpaint under her eyes, but no... she was just tired. He sighed, overwhelmed, and then said the only thing that would come out of his mouth, "I'm so glad to see you."

Her eyes were filled with tears, and she made him let go of her hands, so she could hug him again. He hugged her back, but his hands stayed open and relaxed against the soft cloth of her black robes. They were not new ones, as she usually wore on the first day, but ones that looked as if they had seen rough days, and he thought they smelled a little like dirt and limestone instead of the expensive perfume she'd once worn. He let her release him when she was ready, and when she did, he took her left hand in his own hands, like maybe a worried brother would do, looking her over. Draco almost felt guilty for the fact that he'd been having pretty wonderful sleep for the past week, but prior to that week, he'd barely slept a blink, in truth, "You look about as well-rested as Blaise."

"I've not had sleep in days," she tried to excuse her tears, her free hand's fingertips waving around her eyes. After a moment, she dropped her hand and stared strangely at him, with chapped and parted dry lips. "Did you say Blaise? Blaise? He's here?" She asked, and she had the exact same look in her eyes as she had when they had first hugged and she had seen Draco, even if Blaise wasn't standing there in the flesh.

Draco nodded, helping her sit down, because, for some reason, she did seem very delicate. He was almost scared to let go of her, for fear she'd fall. She had always been a lean creature, with a long neck—she'd called it a sign of her aristocratic blood, but behind her back, the boys in his dorm had just figured she'd had a giraffe somewhere in her ancestry, and, one time, Blaise had produced a rather sick and detailed account of just how that neck got passed down to Pansy—but this was a very fragile Pansy, with unkempt hair, whereas it was usually always perfectly trimmed. She had split ends, and Draco found himself really despising that he had noticed, "He's up in our dorm, trying to get some rest—you need to eat."

"Draco," she said, and then she looked at him, again, as if for the first time, "where have you been?"

Draco grimaced at the question, but he wasn't surprised by it, "In hiding, too."

"You look," she said, and then paused, once she looked him over, "fatter, but I guess by normal standards, you look fine."

Draco deadpanned at her, and she started to smile. He scowled, "Yet another thing that hasn't changed, Parkinson," he found himself then sort of chuckling with relief. First with Blaise's "take-advantage" attitude, and now Pansy's blatant obsessions about Draco's weight; it was rather uplifting on some level. "Your hair looks fucking awful. Jesus Christ, could you not find yourself an hour to get to a salon?" A joke, clearly, that she did not catch.

"Oh, yes, Draco," she said, "when Death Eater's are on the look-out for you, you naturally put that aside to go out and make sure your hair is looking posh enough for the kind of standards Draco Malfoy usually holds," she shot at him, in good humor, and they both immediately lifted up the goblets that appeared in front of them and began to drink, thoughtfully, almost comically, until they both put their goblets down and studied each other with slight interest. "You look healthy, albeit a little more like a man and less like a pampered girl than I last saw you. I take it back, you don't look more plump—it's just your face. You seem bloated."

"Yes, thank-you, Pansy, for pointing out that my face is puffy, and the vampire look does wonders for your manly features."

"No need to get touchy; I didn't say you looked bad, did I? I rather thought I was being complimentary."

"Yes, well," Draco decided, "I've come to learn what actual compliments are over the summer—would you like an example of one? They were very foreign to me, at first, but I eventually adjusted."

"I guess it wouldn't hurt to hear this," she said, casually, and took another sip from her goblet, her long dark eyelashes fluttering over the top of the rim. "Although, do be warned that I might laugh. Quite loudly and gratuitously."

Draco ignored her, "A compliment," he began, "would be something like… telling you that I think your necklace is rather fetching, but I wouldn't add in the part about how I think I'd seen it on a homeless guy in front of The Three Broomsticks in fourth year. You just keep the not-so-pleasant parts to yourself, see. It's about as good as it can get from us, I think."

"Oh," she smiled, "I think I understand. Draco, I think your hair looks really nice like that."

"Exactly," he smiled at her, really smirking, now, at their light and playful conversation.

When Draco went to look at Eli, across from him, Pansy said, under her breath, "But when was the last time you washed it?"

Draco frowned at her, "Yes, and your hair looks like it was painted in oil."

"I've been in hiding for the last week. You, however, have obviously been living a lot more comfortably than most of us have," and she grabbed at the collar of his shirt that stuck out from under his robes, as if to make him see that his shirt was a stark and very clean white. He clasped his hand around his neck, then, defensively, but decided not to say anything. She sounded bitter, like she wanted to provoke him, but he didn't want to play along anymore. "But I suppose, being a Malfoy and all, it would be expected that the Golden Boy wouldn't have to fight in war like the rest of us."

Draco warily stared at her face, but then looked away, because he knew she meant it. She had no idea what he'd been through, just like he'd had no idea what she'd been through, but he didn't want to sit there and take her stares and comments, because, as he looked around the table, he realized that many of those familiar faces, from earlier, were staring at him with something of loathing, with anger, with things he couldn't really understand, so he slowly pushed himself up, with his palms on the table, and stepped back over the bench, uninterested in sitting there and feeling picked on. It would be easy for everyone to dislike him, because everyone needed someone to blame, and, after all, he was both the son of the Minister of Magic and the son of the Dark Lord's right-hand-man, so it was a lose-lose situation, and he despised it. He shook his head and then turned and looked at his former friends' faces, their blank and distant stares, their mouths in lines and frowns, and quietly said, "Why would I fight in a war I never believed in, never wanted a part of? I was not responsible for the choices you made, Pansy, nor Blaise's. I asked each of you, at some point, to see reason, but you didn't. I'm not going to be this for you, a whipping-post. I made my decision, and it was the right one. You made your choices, and the only people to blame for that are yourselves, and you can't say I had an easier out than any of you, because I had the hardest one. Furthermore," and his tone raised, "I was never responsible for any of you, and even though I did try to help you—may you remember that—I was rejected every single time, until I was made the black-sheep, as if none of your remember, and ostracized like I had cholera for a year. Don't talk down to me because I chose the right thing, for once; I've fought my fair share of wars, too, and you'd likely all still be in hiding if that weren't the case, but you'll never understand that, because, frankly, I led, and I got away, and I tried to get you to do the same, but you followed, and followers don't get truth, and they don't get the answers until it's too late; they get told fibs, they believe them, and then they place blame, because they refuse to blame themselves. It's no different, now, than it was last year."

"It's totally different, Draco," Pansy said, coldly. "We've all had losses; what have you lost?"

"Not any friends, that's for damn sure," Draco answered, just as icily, and then turned and walked away.

In truth, Draco had gained. He had gained a best friend, Cornwell back, and a brother. He wouldn't feel guilty for that, and he just wanted to go back to how things were, two months ago—fuck that, maybe seven years ago. It wasn't right to feel this way, to feel guilty for not having lost anyone that close to him, as some of his classmates had. He was grateful that he hadn't lost anyone he loved, but they weren't out of the woods, yet, or even in the thick of them, and he kept that in mind as he walked right out of the Great Hall and in the opposite direction of the Great Hall steps. He walked for what seemed to be a mile, collecting his thoughts, across the lawns and around buildings, until he opened a door and walked into a large, magnificent room. It was empty, but it smelled good, like something was cooking nearby. He sighed. Where was everyone? Anyone?

"Hi, love," came a soft voice. "Draco, are you okay?"

Draco saw his mother coming in from a hallway, and he walked right for her, lowering his head, miserably. He didn't even say anything, just walked into a hug that was waiting for him. She had obviously seen that he was in need of some comfort, by the way he had just walked for her, silently. It felt good to be babied, sometimes, by his mother, but he'd never admit it to anyone. He sighed, though, as he pulled away from the hug, again, and she took one of his hands, cupping the other hand over his cheek with real concern in her eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"They still hate me, despise me, wish me dead. I'm just a fool to them, just like before. I can't win, though this is hardly even a game."

"Don't listen to them, Draco. Don't let it get to you, not today of all days, when you're lucky to be back here." He just sighed, like he knew, and he hated that he was so bothered by this. "Who was giving you trouble?"

"Slytherins!—mostly Pansy, but I could tell she wasn't alone. They think I'm just a joke, like I've been up in the Manor this whole time, unaffected. They blame me for their decisions, when it was them, last year, who told me I was a fool for my decisions."

This was nothing new to her. The year before, when they had turned on him, she'd known every detail and been there for every letter he had sent back home to her. He'd rarely include anything about them in letters to his father, but to his mother? She always knew what was going on if he didn't mind breaking her heart enough to tell her.

Narcissa sighed only so very heavily, quietly, in a way that showed great remorse for what had become of his friendships, and though she kept her eyes on him, he could tell her mind was more on why he would still care what they thought after the way things had transpired the prior year. Still, she encouraged him, "What happened?"

"I don't even want to talk about it," Draco scowled, pulling away from her affection, because he'd already said enough to make himself feel better. His mother's sympathy was the source of his comfort in times of trouble like these. "Where's Cornwell?"

"In the Order's Wing. He's been there for bit, working hard I'm sure."

Draco collapsed down onto a couch, lazily, unimpressed with Cornwell's absence, "Figures."

Narcissa cocked a very curved eyebrow at him, "What figures?"

"That he's gone when I actually need him." After a few seconds, Draco eyed his mother, slowly, slightly offended that she was chortling. He knew he was being ridiculous and was acting like a fool, but he was still offended that she would laugh at him. He would have even rather had a small lecture on how his priorities were not straight. "What?"

Narcissa smiled at him, then, her lips closing together, and she said, through her amusement, "You're just really cute sometimes," and tucked a lock of his hair behind his ear. "It's sweet to think that you can be nearing eighteen and still have moments when I still see you as an eight year old being huffy about something or another. Instead of being moody, though, why don't you go see him? Nothing would make him more happy, I know."

"No, he's busy," Draco answered her, resting his arms and face down on the side of the couch, though he did feel embarrassed that she had added on that last part.

"Okay, love. Well, Dickie's taking a nap, but he should be up soon, if you want to wait, and maybe you can take him for a walk and show him around the grounds, or at least the halls."

"I want to die."

There was some silence, for a few seconds, before his mother snickered. Draco didn't even take offense, this time, because he knew he was being dramatic. He didn't want to go back to his usual home during the school year, and the longer he could stall himself, here, the better, "Go find Cornwell, would you? He was always much better at loathing self-pity than I was."

Draco sighed, lifting his head, miserably, "This is not funny. I'd forgotten how badly I felt when I left this place last year. I went right from everyone avoiding me to being the center of Harry's attention, and now I'm right back where I started."

"You miss Harry so much, love, don't you?" And there was her sympathy, again, in the form of empathy.

"He liked me," Draco defended himself, at once, and he didn't care how it sounded. "Well, he was forced to like me, and he only started to like me after he began to tolerate me." Again, she snickered. "But, even then, he thought my choices made me a good person."

"You are a good person, Draco, with or without what Harry thinks about you," she whispered, rubbing his back. "You are a very good person, and I don't want you to truly be this upset about the things your classmates have said, because you didn't do anything to them. You were brave to stand up to your father, and you were brave to go against what was expected of you. Don't let them make you feel bad about making the right choice, Draco. Don't let them take all of the good that you've done, and said, and all of the things you've accomplished by taking a responsibility on yourself to see good things." He just sighed, again, because, yes, he knew that, but still. "Once upon a time, I knew a sixteen year old who would be standing in front of us, scoffing at you right now, for letting them affect you like this."

Draco scoffed, again, but then realized he was only making this more amusing for his mother, so he frowned, genuinely, instead. He pictured a slightly younger version of himself standing not to far from the front of the couch, with crossed arms and kept hair, looking down his nose at Draco, and he came to a conclusion. "It was easier being him. He was a better person than I am, now, is that it?"

"Not in the slightest," his mother assured, firmly, but with a bit of irritation at him for even suggesting something he knew wasn't true like that. "Because you're my son, I love you, and I always have, always will, but I've thanked God, Draco, since the day you first started showing signs of defiance and started quirking an eyebrow with… displeasure, I think it was… when your father was talking about You-Know-Who, openly, that you were coming into your own, and you wouldn't choose the life that your father and I have had. I have never wished that life of you or for you, Draco. I never wanted that for myself, either, believe it or not. Do you know, one of the reasons your father never forced you into it was because he promised me, when you were born, that he'd raise you to be the man his father hadn't raised him as—of course he wanted you to join him, but he knew better than to actually think he could ever feel pride knowing you were part of that world. For Lucius, it was only a thought, an ideal, an unrealistic one, at that, that made him ever think he could have a son join him. Once he actually had you, and when I was... let's see, maybe a week from having you, he knew that, realistically, he couldn't ask, of you, at this age, what had been assumed of him. That was why he let you do things his father and grandfather hadn't. He let you listen to Muggle music and see Muggle movies once in awhile—he treasured you, and he still does. And so do I."

"I was part of that world, mother, and I still am to a degree—I was raised in it, and everyone—they, I mean—my—whoever they are—Pansy and—just because I don't have a mark on my arm doesn't mean anything. It doesn't matter at all. They just disregard me as if I haven't grown up with them."

"I know."

"I've come closer to the Dark Lord than any of them have, and have had more expected of me, tenfold, than they have, and have suffered at their expenses, too. They'd pee their fitted pants if they knew, and that's another thing—I've changed, and I know that I should be proud of myself for that, to an extent, and I don't mean to be a mindless ass about it, but I'm not in designer clothes, still, like she was—my robe is too big, my pants are Harry's, and last I heard, everything about her life has remained the same—her house wasn't attacked and ploughed into the ground —I know I shouldn't make something out of who has suffered the most, but what she said really grates at my nerves, as if I've been totally unaffected." He looked to her for agreement, or maybe a pity nod, and she gave them both to him. "That's not my life anymore—I wish... I wish I could have said that to her without her laughing in my face. I'm not the same person I was two, three years ago. I just wish they saw that as a good thing, but they still just think I betrayed them. But mother, I did try to get them to listen to me."

Draco saw his mother smile in the reflection of the nearby window, and he thought she seemed more beautiful and happy than he had ever seen her. She had gained weight, now that he could realize it, and her skin glowed with a radiance that only good eating brought, that only a lack of stress could let prevail. To think that their world was in chaos and that his mother happened to be the happiest he'd ever seen her, and appeared ten years younger, somehow amused him. His mother had rarely ever been so openly affectionate with him, growing up, unless it was when she had come to his room to say goodnight, but it was different now. Now, in the grand living room they were in, she could stroke his hair and humor his outbursts and laugh at things that were not proper. Draco couldn't help but wonder if his mother had been waiting for these moments for a long time, had been waiting for the day she could breathe easily, again, like she had when she had been his age, before it had all really started.

"They'll come around, eventually, darling, if they're meant to," she replied, then, simply, and squeezed the back of his neck, lovingly, with a warm and motherly hand. "I promise they will. If not now, in five years, when everyone, including you, has gained perspective."

Draco pulled himself up, then, heavily, turned to her, and hugged her, "Thank-you, mother," he said, then, afterwards. He saw that she seemed surprised, so he just sighed—at everything, at life. "Our lives have been turned upside down, and only in the matter of a few months. I can't help but think you seem happier than I've ever seen you," he said, thoughtfully, and she did smile, like she was glad he had noticed. "Things will be okay—loyalties will settle, father will... come back to us, hopefully, and—I don't know, everything will be set the way it's supposed to be, right?"

"Absolutely, Draco," she said, then, contentedly and so sincerely, taking his hands in hers, even though hers were much smaller, but their elegance had been handed down to Draco's own. He could tell she wasn't entirely convinced that everything was going to be set right, and they both knew that was impossible, but for his sake, she gave him the falsity of hope he needed and then blatantly changed the subject. "I'm making cookies. Interested?"

Cookies? He cocked an eyebrow at her, at once, with great skepticism, "You're… baking? Cookies?"

"All by myself," she assured, then, proudly, and stood up. She turned to him and offered out her very elegant hands that had once been very skeletal, nearly, and thin, but were now more full, and, somehow, more maternal. He looked up at her, with great interest, awed by her, and he nodded, like to say he would come and sit with her, while she baked, so he let her help him up, like he was a little boy, and then he followed her down the hallways and into the kitchens. All of the windows were open, and the trees right outside of them were blowing in the most refreshing breeze, possibly, that had ever existed. The breeze also let swirl, under his nose, a scent of baked things and chocolate.

"Smells good!" He tried not to sound surprised. "Chocolate Chip cookies?"

"And Butter cookies," she told him, with a pointed smile at him that he appreciated, because Butter cookies were his favorite cookies in the entire world. "The Chocolate Chip are Dickie's favorite, I think, but I couldn't make those without making you some Butter cookies. I was going to give them to you, tonight, in this nice little tin I picked up for you in the shops—wore a brown wig, actually, and some glasses, and no one recognized me. I think I rather like not being recognized. Avoids a lot of questions, yes?"

"Yes," Draco agreed, sitting down at one of the stools by the kitchen island, as his mother handed off to him a cookie tin that had colorful little dragons on it. He couldn't help but laugh. He wasn't offended by the tin. She had always sent him rather cute tins full of things, but never had she sent him homemade cookies on his first day back at Hogwarts. This was another new change, and he thought he would decide if he liked it or not after he tried the cookies... and survived the night, hopefully far away from the bathroom. He did mentally take note that his tin collection had been ruined, he was sure, with the destruction of the manor, and so this would be his very first tin, the start of a new beginning, of sorts. "I would imagine so, but where did you get a wig?"

"There was an old furry rug in one of the guest rooms, so I cut off a piece and transfigured it."

"Crafty," Draco noted, too, pretty impressed, and then sat back more contentedly. His mother had lived a life where most of her spells and wand-work had been more centered around useful things, when she even used her wand, like her makeup compact coming to her from her bathroom suite or something, but now she had the chance to transfigure, and he wasn't used to hearing that. At the manor, her every whim had been tended to by house-elves. She'd barely had to lift a finger for anything, much less a wand. Perhaps one of the reasons she'd seemed so lost, over the years, was her lack of use of her magic. "Has Cornwell been around at all?"

"He came back after he walked you up to your dorms, put Dickie to sleep, and then left."

"Oh—do you think he'd mind if I went and visited him?" No, that wasn't the right question, because he knew the answer. He fidgeted, at first, and then shifted. "Do you think that would be too needy?"

Narcissa looked up at him, at once, with a spatula in hand, and just gave him a long, nearly incredulous stare.

"What?" He finally asked, uncomfortably, insecure about that look.

"Too needy? Draco, come on," she said, giving him a very frank look he wasn't entirely used to in this setting, from her of all people. "He loves every moment you're within ten feet of him, and you know so. Being needy is something you shouldn't even... that shouldn't even be in your mind! Don't you think he'd be happy to see you? He's the one who thinks he bothers you too much, so if you want a better relationship, one that's not this ridiculous, where you're both afraid of being too needy to the other, then you're going to have to work on your communication. Don't be so daft, darling. He adores you. He'd be delighted to see you a hundred times a day for the rest of his life, I'm sure."

"Well, he just took me up to school, and suddenly I'd be around, again, and looking for attention when we both know he's extremely busy..."

"If there's one thing I still know about Cornwell, Draco, it's that he loves giving you attention. Too much of it, if you ask me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that he spoils you with all of his attention. You'll be here everyday, looking for him, and we'll have no break from you."

"Mother!" Draco protested, seriously offended, and he leaned up over the kitchen island.

She laughed, then, turning around to him, and she pushed a tin of cookies to him, with warm eyes, "I'm just teasing, love. I would only be so lucky to have you around everyday, like I have the last couple of months. Draco," she softly hummed, and reached out and gave his hand a tiny squeeze, before pulling her fingertips away to grab a cookie, too, "I don't want to get too motherly on you and embarrass you when you're already emotional, but you do know that I've never felt more close to you than these last couple of months, don't you? I feel as if I really know my son, now. I love you very much, and I hope you know that I'm so proud of the decisions that you have made, regardless of what anyone says, and I'm so proud of the man—young man, but you're still by baby in some ways—you've let yourself become. It would hurt me for you to question the maturing you've done since this time last year. I hope you'd know better than to let them steal power away from you with their comments. Many things may have changed for all of us, but regardless, you are still a Malfoy, and a Malfoy wouldn't let them get away with that."

"Mother," Draco groaned, quietly, feeling honestly embarrassed, but then he grabbed a cookie, got to his feet, again, and walked around to her. He gave her a kiss on the cheek, quickly, flushing, and then slurred, as he walked out of the kitchen, in a hurry, "I actually feel like I have a real mother now," in reference to the last couple of months, as well. It was true that he felt like he knew his mother better, as a person, than he had ever. He saw her smile, now, and laugh, happily, and drink from plastic cups versus goblets, and she didn't always wear proper dresses everywhere, even at breakfast. Now, at breakfast, she would come to the table in a pair of trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, and that was amazing in itself. He could see his mother as human, now, whereas before she had been more of a piece of art that could not be talked to without formalities. They had had wonderful moments, in the past, and there had been times when he had snuggled up to his mother, when he was a child, and she had held him, stroked his hair, kissed his forehead, and told him stories, and she had been there to stroke his cheek and kiss his forehead when he was sixteen, but only on special occasions. She had been a mother of her environment, then. The summer had changed her life in ways, Draco could now understand, she had been waiting for since maybe before he'd been born.

Fuck, the woman had actually baked cookies, by herself, and they were really, really good.

Draco went to Cornwell's study, opened the door to the secret tunnel that Cornwell had only shared with him, and he walked for at least a half a mile, until he came to a round opening in the tunnel. He peaked through a tiny hole in the wall, saw that there was no one in the room he was planning on entering, and then he pulled the lever to the right. The entire bottom portion of the wall slid open, without so much as a scrape of the stones to the stone floor, and then it closed right behind him. It lead to the wing of the actual Hogwarts castle that the Order had set up in, and it was a wing that was hidden by hidden doors, anyway. He walked to the door and opened it, which opened into a huge room full of people at desks, leaning over stacks of paper. Ah, the Order—the location had changed, but the environment hadn't. It even smelled like coffee—he was growing to hate that smell, but he treasured it all the same. It smelled like his entire summer, and that was nice.

"Good afternoon, Draco."

Draco looked over to Remus, and then smiled and walked over, "Hello, Remus."

"I thought Cornwell had left you up at the school."

Hiding his embarrassment, Draco tried to shrug coolly, and he thought he pulled it off rather well, "I got bored."

"Mmm," the man said, marking a cross on what seemed to be a map, before he looked back up at Draco, "I'm sure."

Draco glared at him, openly, but then kind of chuckled, "Where is he, anyway?"

"I believe he said something about heading up to the school to see how you were."

"Lies."

With a chuckle, too, Remus motioned his head to a hallway, "He's in the library, meeting with someone. You can't interrupt, but he should be done in about a half-an-hour if you're willing to wait."

"Figures," Draco sighed, then, again, and crossed his arms over his chest as he eyed the map, and he knew that, beneath it, were at least a couple dozen other maps. Remus did this a lot. "What is that, anyway?"

"A map."

"Yes, I can see that—I mean, what's it for? What are the different color cross-marks for? We don't usually use colors when we do those."

"Plotting possible escape-routes for the battle tonight."

Yes, yes; Draco knew that, as well. Was there anything new? News on Harry, perhaps, "Can I come?"

"No, just like you haven't been able to come the last few times."

"That figures, too."

"Do you continue to ask because you actually want to come, or do you ask because you know you'll be told you're not allowed to, but you still end up looking noble and brave for having asked in the first place?"

"Oh, I see you thinking you know me all too well, Professor," Draco dripped at him with a little more venom than he usually would have, considering the former similar issue with Pansy, but he tried to cover it with a tilted head and a cocked eyebrow.

The man chuckled, clearly having noted Draco's mood, "There's always fresh tea and sugar in the kitchen. Why don't you go and have yourself a cup of tea, far away from me, and take a few deep breaths?"

"I'm quite calm where I am, thanks."

"Do your ears always get this red when you're calm?" He glanced back up at Draco who they both knew was trying not to touch his ears. He was lingering. "If you want to ask about Harry, just ask."

"Whatever—tell Cornwell, when he gets out of this meeting that's so important, that keeps him from his oldest son, whom he abandoned for four years," and he saw Remus roll his eyes, but Draco had intended for that, so he inwardly laughed, "that I stopped by, and that I'm not being needy—make sure you add that part, about me not being needy—but that I had a question about something, from—uh, my classmates—so, okay? Can you relay that message for me?"

"Sure, but why not just wait for him since you're already here?"

"No, he'd just think I'm pathetic for coming to see him."

"Oh, so you're not here to ask him a question, that only he knows the answer to, for your classmates?"

Draco dully stared at him, with arms crossed over his chest, and then drawled, "Why do you pick on me so much, Lupin?"

"Sorry, it's just very easy. You're very transparent when it comes to Cornwell, and I find it highly enjoyable to exploit."

"And you were a Gryffindor? You do seem to get some sick pleasure out of torturing me, but... transparent? Meaning what, exactly? Tell me, so I can better my non-emotional ways, as, apparently, I've so far failed in doing so."

"Meaning that you obviously act like a five year old child, and you want his undivided attention whenever you say so, and when he's not around to give it to you, you try pretend you're not really that desperate to see him, but I know you are; everyone knows you are. He knows best. Chuckles whenever you leave, you know, and someone makes a comment about how much you're around. He likes your undivided attention probably as much as you like his, if not more; no need to pretend you don't need him. How could you not, right now, anyway? There's nothing wrong with that, Draco."

"You know nothing of the truth, but you can continue to have your delusions."

Remus laughed, again, and motioned Draco away with his hand, "Go play with your toys."

Draco dropped his arms, but he couldn't help his laughter, "You're such a bastard to me."

"Ah, you love it," the man said, then, and then pointed to the kitchen hallway. "Draco, I am rather busy, though."

"No one has time for me."

"Go steal things, then, and be rebellious."

"You won't even play with me. Surely tonight's maps are mostly done, anyway?"

"I told you: I'm busy. Yes, they're almost done, meaning not yet."

"But you just started a verbal war, and you expect me not to play into it."

"You're distracting me from my work."

"You're very much a proper bastard sometimes."

"Toys, now."

"Mean. Pure, unadulterated mean."

"Sometimes you act just like a baby would, you know."

"Go to hell, would you? Please."

"Fine, a whiny toddler."

"Where's Cornwell?"

"Still in his meeting, like he was two minutes ago."

"What are you doing?"

"Same thing as two minutes ago!"

"Am I annoying you?"

"Yes."

"Oh, good," Draco smiled, finally. "That's all I was hoping for. Do relay the message to him, though."

"I think it'd be best if you just wait for him to finish his meeting, because I easily happen to accidentally forget your messages, so if you want him to get your message, stop making everyone else do the relaying of messages for you."

"Why do you hate me so much?"

"Why do you insist on annoying me so much!"

"You, calling me a whiny toddler? The mirror is rather reflective today, is it not? Take a look in it. Now who's acting like a child!"

"You, in five seconds, if you don't get the hell away from me."

"I was kidding, before, but... you're rather mean, Remus."

"For God's sake," the man sighed, and then he moved from Draco and down into the library hall.

Draco smirked, pleased with himself, and he quickly followed after Remus. Remus was easy to break.

Remus knocked on a dark wooden, heavy door, as he was one of the only who could do so and get an answer.

"What is it?" Came a voice, and it was Cornwell's.

"There's a whiny toddler, here, who is being needy and wants to see you," Remus said into the door.

Draco sighed, silently, and then shoved the Professor, angrily, just for effect.

Remus shoved him back, as if to say, "You got what you deserved."

Draco turned to the door and spoke into it, "He's lying. I'm not being needy. I have a question—a genuine question—posed by one of my classmates, therefore very legitimate!" He did need to come up with that question, though, his brain suddenly suggested, and quickly.

The door opened, and Cornwell appeared, distracted, no less, but there, and he looked between them, strangely, "Everything all right?"

Draco stood up perfectly straight, but Remus glared at him as he turned and walked away.

Cornwell smiled at Draco, then, from looking after Remus, "Oh, I see. He might bite you, one of these full-moons, if you don't ease up."

"Whatever," Draco replied, "I could deal with it—so..."

Cornwell laughed, reached out to Draco's elbow, took it in his hand, and led him out of the library, so they were following the professor who had, obviously, enjoyed his break from working to pretend to be annoyed with Draco. Draco was comic relief to many Order members, and he knew it. He took the role on with fair importance. Sometimes they needed him to be around to be ridiculous and annoying, although many times he was actually serious and helped in the efforts with whatever task was needed of him. He kept things light, sometimes, and that was the feeling that Cornwell gave him, especially in moments like the current one, where Cornwell was truly concentrating on him, "Is everything okay?"

"Fine," Draco answered, automatically, on auto-pilot. "Was that an important meeting?"

"Particularly—you seem upset, did something happen?"

"No, no. I'm fine."

"Is everything with Blaise all right, then?"

"Yes, just fine. He's resting off some of that sleep deprivation right now—bit of a basket-case, though."

"Poor boy, but that's as to be expected, right now," Cornwell said, thoughtfully, though without humor and full of true empathy that Draco could tell. "Did you have some lunch?"

"No."

"Would you like to stay here and have lunch with us? It's about that time."

Draco shrugged, coolly, "No, I can go back up to the school or back home—I mean, where you guys are—I mean, where my mum—I mean, where—wherever it is you guys are all sleeping tonight," without him, but whatever. He tilted his head at his thoughts, then, curiously, and bit into his bottom lip. He liked that Cornwell had his left hand on Draco's own left shoulder, gently, and he could tell that Cornwell was looking at him as they were walking. Draco was needy, kind of, for this sort of relationship with Cornwell, and he didn't currently dislike it, maybe, as much as he should have. He hadn't had much time alone with Cornwell, recently, to talk to him about anything in-depth. This left Draco feeling unsettled, and yes, he did understand that Cornwell had a lot on his mind, but somewhere inside of Draco, the lack of time spent getting to know Cornwell better was starting to bother him.

"Please stay and have a bite?" Said Cornwell, softly, just to Draco, so it didn't even bounce off of the dark walls. Perhaps he was getting a sense of what Draco was feeling. "You've walked all of this way, you know, so there's no need to head back just yet—we could talk about…" Nothing. They had nothing to talk about, right then, really, and Cornwell's lack of a finished thought wounded Draco badly, and even when Cornwell quickly went to speak, again, it was too late.

Draco turned a little, slightly pulling away, "No, I should go. I have people to deal with."

Cornwell tilted his head, and if he had noticed that Draco had just pulled away, mentally and emotionally, he didn't let it show. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah—I have to kill a few of them. If a Ministry Relations officer comes to see you, speak nothing of this conversation."

"What conversation?" And Draco laughed, but dryly, and went to turn, like he was going to go ahead and leave, but Cornwell quickly jumped on the energy. "If you're not busy, I think your mother is bringing cookies. I… think she'd like for you to stay and have some."

"No, I can't, and yes, they're very good. I already tried one."

"Oh," said Cornwell, and Draco saw him smile a little more, with warm eyes. He seemed more tired, now, than he ever had. His usual undivided attention had a lot of other multiples attached to it, so he was never quite there, and sometimes he wasn't quite there at all, but he tried to give Draco as much attention as he could have when Draco came looking for it, and so Draco could only appreciate that, even though, yeah… something had just gone down that he wasn't sure quite how to explain, yet, but inside he felt like he had shriveled up a bit. "She actually made them? She said she was going to, but I thought she was bluffing."

"My mother does not really bluff when it comes to baking—sure, she can cook all right, but baking?" Draco stated the obvious, feeling his forehead wrinkle at the utmost serious nature of her bluffing and so-called kitchen skills, but not in a mean way. She had just never embraced the art of baking or cooking—her life hadn't asked that of her. "Believe-you-me, she would not bluff about baking if her life depended on it, so she must be committed to this, maybe reading a secret cook-book or watching Misses Weasley—I wouldn't put it past her—past either of them."

"If they pass your taste test, I'm impressed. Was she making Chocolate Chip cookies?"

"Yeah, Dickie's favorite."

"Oh, really? The Dickie that I know despises Chocolate Chip cookies."

"Oh," he bit into his bottom lip, and then turned to look at Cornwell, who seemed less distracted than he been even the few seconds earlier. He seemed extremely uncomfortable and upset in a different way than usual, but Draco didn't give him credit. "Please don't tell her that," he couldn't help but ask, turning more to look into the dark eyes, seriously. He would have nearly stopped the older man had it not been for the gush of wind that raced past them, nearly knocking him sideways and putting space between the two of them—this wind was also named PEG, and Draco did scowl at her presence, always getting in between the people he most treasured and himself, whether she meant to or not, before he rejoined his father, because she had also seemed to knock them apart completely, so Cornwell's hand was no longer on his shoulder, and the connection was now gone in more ways than one. "She seemed really excited to be making them for him. Don't put a bludgeon in it; she'd be crushed. Besides, they're good, at least."

"Of course I won't say anything, especially about something like her making the wrong kind of cookie," Cornwell assured Draco. "He loves Butter cookies, for the record."

"Oh, like me, then. No big deal, because she made those, too."

"Who'd she make the Chocolate Chip ones for, then?"

"Dickie."

Draco tried not to cast a foreboding shift of his eyes at the man to his right, nervous about how little focus he seemed to have, anymore, always disregarding the slightest of information and asking the same question three minutes later, much like what had just happened. If his father saw Draco's concern, he covered that well, too, but Draco was beginning to come to the conclusion that he was very much a professional at covering his expressions.

"Right, right. I know, I was listening." He squeezed Draco's shoulder, then, as if to tell him that he saw right through Draco, and neither protested. "Will you please stay for lunch? I'd like that."

"No, I have to head back," Draco said, as they reached the main room, again, and the quiet imbalance of the quiet chaos. "But I'll see you for dinner."

"Dinner," Cornwell said, as if he approved of this new idea of dinner, like he had not been the one to make sure Draco would be at dinner in the first place. He paused, for a mere instant, thoughtfully, from a couple of feet ahead of Draco. He backed up, just like he was on rewind, and then pivoted to Draco. He lifted his finger, and Draco lifted an eyebrow, watching with amused eyes as the fingertip neared his cheek. He placed it right on Draco's cheek, not looking at Draco but rather his own finger, and he traced something there. When he was done, he gave Draco's face a once-over, like he was searching for something, before he went and turned in that way he always did, like there should have been robes turning with him in a show of power, billowing grandly, but there were no such robes, just black trousers and a black long-sleeved shirt pushed up to each of his elbows, with three buttons at the top hem, the first two undone.

Draco just stood there, frozen, until he could manage to blink at what had just happened and what was now invisibly written on the skin of his cheek, and it wasn't for the first time that such a thing had been put there. He immediately stepped forward, with narrowing eyes and eyebrows, and surged right after the older man. He demanded, at once, in his most old Draco-Malfoy-says-you-better-fucking-stop-right-now sort-of-way, "You had better stop in your tracks and turn around and tell me what that was or you'll be facing down the barrel of my not-so-metal wand."

Cornwell turned around, expectantly, with very open eyes and silent questioning.

Draco frowned at the expression, but then just asked the obvious, "You've heard something, haven't you?"

Cornwell rubbed his jaw with his right hand, looking between Draco and the floor, but he only shrugged, "I could not really tell you if I had, and you know that."

Draco took a step forward and pushed out an accusatory fingertip, but it was gentle, "You know something? You've heard something? Cornwell, please? Please tell me," and then he realized that he had no power over Cornwell like he did with the people who let themselves be manipulated by him. Draco didn't even continue to try, and so he let out another semi-pathetic plea. "Please?" All he wanted to know is if the second version of the best friend he had ever had, and best enemy, was at least rumored to be all right.

Again, Cornwell shrugged, not fazed at all by Draco's descent into vulnerability, something Draco appreciated, because that meant he didn't have to hide behind any sort of demeanor for the sake of appearing a certain way to Cornwell like he'd always had to do with Lucius, especially with people around, even if they weren't close enough to hear. However, on a different note, that little part of Draco shriveled up a bit more, and it was then that he mentally called for answers from his tightening chest.

"Dinner," Cornwell said, busily, instead of answering Draco's request, as he turned again in his scuffed, well-worn shoes that needed replacing. "Make sure you're there or you're in that enormous trouble that we were speaking about, a'right?"

Draco let him go, but then just stood there, strangely, mouth twisted up and hands heavily at his sides.

Cornwell had heard news about Harry, and Draco was sure of it. Cornwell would never have imitated a drawing on his cheek unless it had meant something involving Harry, quite clearly. He wanted to stay and further question Cornwell, but he knew he'd get nowhere with his questioning. He'd rather play it safe and wait for dinner to come around, and maybe his patience would pay off. For a moment, was tempted to just return "home," but he knew he had to get back and see how Blaise was. It was going to be a challenge for him to spend most of his time at the castle when he knew his family was within the immediately vicinity, especially Dickie, who he was used to hanging out with during the day, so he was going to have to start making sure his school priorities were set, sooner than later. This meant that he was going to have to limit himself to his family which, before the summer, he had been a professional at. He was positive it would be a flawless transition. After all, he had spent the majority of his life being poised with his affections and needs. He told himself that things would be fine, but he didn't like the nagging disappointment in the back of his mind. The thing was, if he wanted to get back in with his classmates and not spend another year completely ostracized, he was going to need to throw back in a fair amount of the Draco Malfoy he had once been. He didn't particularly want to do this, but desperate times called for desperate measures or something as equally and simply profound.

When Draco returned to his dormitory, he was considering himself unlucky, but from where Harry lay his head at night, Draco was lucky. The only thing he'd known concerning Draco, over the last few weeks, had been that Draco was okay, and only that had been divulged to him in terms of whether or not Draco had yet been killed when the reports came in. When he'd helped Blaise make the escape for his life, he'd given Blaise a simple coin that he'd found in the dungeons of the shambles left of Malfoy manor. Lucius had told him, only once, when they'd happened to be within the same ten feet of breathing space of each other, that his own father had bought him a set of coins, and he'd given one to Lucius and kept one for himself. Harry hadn't understood what that story had meant until he'd thought about it for awhile, with the two coins in his pocket. He had then come to realize, after having dreamed of the smell of strong coffee and the familiar faces of Order members, and Draco's laughing smile, and then being awoken by something hot in his pocket, that there had been more to the coins than he'd imagined. Well, they were tracking coins, of sorts, and Harry had asked Blaise to give this old rusty coin to Draco in return for Harry—well, Judas, to Blaise—helping him run.

It had yet to burn, which Harry figured was either because Blaise hadn't made it to Draco or hadn't given it to Draco, but Harry still kept hope that the painful burning would surprise him, one day, from the place where he had the coin strapped around his bare thigh, under his pants and most certainly under the black cloaked robe that he wore with the matching mask that was conveniently connected via black satin ribbons. It was connected so that it would be hard to lose, because a Death Eater always did need his mask handy, and that was one of the many things—handy things, at that—that Harry had come to learn, second always to the very clear loyalty that made "hard to lose" a lifestyle, not at all a choice.

Despite the fact that he barely knew who he was, anymore, or what he was doing, and he hadn't bathed in at least two weeks, was always covered in black soot, he had come to understand the inner workings of the Death Eater movement, which was far more organized and conformed than he would have liked. He didn't take it lightly, but it was his current way of life, and the easiest way for him to have been able to blend in was to embrace if as if it were all real, all him. There had come many surprises, though, and Harry had easily understood why it was that Death Eaters got involved in the cause and never left. There were perks—big ones—and good food when they weren't in hiding, but Harry was on assignment, now, after having spent time under Voldemort's nose, being watched, Harry had been sure, every second of every day and even more during the night. He'd lay in bed and refuse to sleep, then, fearing Voldemort could reach inside of him and discover the truth of the whole matter, but so far, Harry was sure, Voldemort wasn't onto him—or maybe he was, but if he was, he sure humored Harry's life enough to let him live. He'd been in the man's presence at least two dozen times, at close range, and so the fact that he was still alive and breathing spoke for the lie he was leading, but he wasn't a beginner in leading a life of uncertainty and lies.

After originally leaving, he hadn't contacted the Order for two weeks, and only then it had been because of that moment with Lucius, before the coins, when he'd just casually looked over Harry, as they'd been walking through Death Eater members who were cleaning up the rubble from the collapse of the Malfoy Manor, and suggested that, perhaps, if there were people who still loved him, out there in the world, in the fight, he should set straight his priorities and make his intentions clear. Speaking in riddles was practically the language of the people around Harry, now, and he'd become accustomed to doing the same. Sometimes it felt like he was being brainwashed, because during "pep-talks"—and there were many—and speeches, when the cheers would go up, he'd be cheering, too, without having had to remind himself to do so. In a way, part of him was invested in this cause, the complete opposite of the cause he'd been fighting, knowingly, for six or seven years, the same cause his parents had died opposing. He had needed to get in and see this, first hand, and that was why he had left behind the safety of the Order, the safety of a hidden place, to be out in the open where he could get his hands dirty to both convince people that he was Judas and convince himself that he couldn't keep hiding, waiting for something to happen. He had to make things happen, on his own, sometimes, because most of his life had been spent waiting for something or another, and none of that had ever been in his own control.

This, however, wasn't just about his life.

Harry sat in a tiny room with two metal beds and black sheets, one bed meticulously made and one, the one that he sat on, in a state of utter chaos, covers and pillows everywhere, the bottom of the fitted sheets riding up on the bed so that the mattress was showing. He now existed in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor again, maybe miles under the ruined rubble surface, inaccessible to anyone who wasn't a Malfoy patriarchal figure. He was positive that even Draco didn't know that the place where he sat existed. It was grimy and cold, yes, but it was home for many Death Eaters. It was the former home of his roommate who had slept in the made bed two feet from his—Blaise. He and Blaise had never gotten along at school, but they'd gotten on all-right enough in their room after Harry had assured Blaise that he was not going to kill him. They hadn't exactly liked each other, but Harry had helped him, and Blaise had pulled him out of a tight situation or two, having pledged to "Judas" that he'd right his wrong. Blaise had experience with things Harry did not, and he'd quickly come to accept that. This was, after all, something Blaise had been preparing for his whole life, always on the defensive and thinking strategically.

"Kid," came a gruff voice from the other side of the wooden door, "come get some food before it's gone. You know they'll take no pity on you—you're young, they're old. You have plenty of energy, they don't, and so-on—do you hear me?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Iker. I'll be out in a minute," Harry replied, looking up from his shoes. He stood up, hesitantly, and looked around. There were no windows. He hadn't seen sunlight in two weeks, and that wasn't an exaggeration. All he did was plan attacks and chart them out, now, on graphs, since Blaise, his partner, per se, had defected and "disappeared." A man name Krumpet was the one who made partner assignments, and he hadn't found anyone else for Judas. Harry hadn't complained, not for a second, but he pretended to be really forth-going with his happiness when other partners were around and talking about their assignments, for dramatic affect. Complaining was not very welcome, here, anyway.

The hallways were tiny, small, and made of old limestone blocks or something of the sort. Harry figured that he could ask someone, but he hadn't just yet. Questions were shaky territory, even, because every Death Eater was suspicious of every other Death Eater, and questions were like tabs kept in the mind, very much on file and very likely to be questioned within a question or a look or at suggestion, and sometimes with a smile. Careful, indeed, he told himself. He'd been so careful, yes, in the way he walked, in the way he moved his wrist when he shot a spell, and even in the way he wrote, in all capital letters, small, and with a back-left slant versus the straight up-and down penmanship he'd been using all his life. He tried his hardest to never be himself for fear someone might recognize something familiar about him and start whispering to other members if they had any strange stories or thoughts on him. This wasn't far-fetched, because people had suspiciously asked him, in dark corners, about other members.

You always had to watch your back, but at the end of the day, the other members had your back.

A small wheezing sound sounded out from behind him, so Harry turned around, quickly, not bothering to draw his wand. There was nothing there, nothing at all. He walked forward, carefully, saying nothing. The wheeze came forth again, and Harry considered, for a moment, that someone might be using an Invisibility Cloak or an invisibility charm, but no. This wheeze sounded too familiar to be threatening and too deep and, well, somewhat sweet to be human. It was a distressed sound, and Harry found that it was coming from the wall, so he walked over, quietly, and peered down at nothing, going on gut. He pressed his ear to the wall and listened for another wheeze, and he got one, a furious one, like the wheezing thing knew it was he who was listening, and Harry knew just who the wheezing thing was. He couldn't believe it, really, but he knew he had to believe it to make sure the little thing lived long enough to be returned to his owner. He leaned down, then, and fell onto his hands and knees, searching for one tiny connection to one of the lives he'd lead before this dark, sunless place. He crawled quickly along the floor until he found a vent, not caring about how dirty his hands would be or the pebbles and dust that scratched his palms, because they had been dirtied, now, by things much worse than dirt, things that he couldn't wash away, and he peered inward, waiting patiently for it to come to him. He even stuck his fingertip in, as quietly as he could, with his lips to the cold metal, seeing nothing but darkness and the colorful pixels that had burst forth from his eyes at the possible revelation, "Come."

Little pattering feet were heard, and soon enough, there was a pair of big eyes looking out at him.

Pufflyflit. It was true, it really was him. Harry looked around, quickly, when he had his confirmation, and carefully listened to make sure he didn't hear any footsteps coming from nearby halls. If Pufflyflit was still alive after the mass destruction of Malfoy Manor, there was a reason. He was smart, he knew where to hide, but, also, he was to be returned to Draco. Pufflyflit had been everything to Draco when he'd been a boy, so Harry had heard in stories over the late summer, and that was what he immediately thought about. Lucius had told Draco, weeks before, that it was likely Pufflyflit had been lost in the destruction of the Manor, and though Draco hadn't talked about it, really, he had been awfully quiet and withdrawn for the few days following. Grimacing at this memory, he snapped his wrist, with his newly-drawn wand, and whispered a spell at the vent. It popped open, quietly, and Harry reached in for Pufflyflit, carefully, with one hand, and held the vent in the other. He was slightly anxious about the risk of Pufflyflit being scared and snorting fire at him, but he didn't have the time nor the patience to be hesitant.

Pufflyflit ran right into his left hand, and joy sprung forth from the very core of Harry's physical and emotional being. It was like he was being reunited with his own pet, like Hedwig, maybe. Excited and nervous, Harry pulled him close and tucked him under his cloak and then popped the brass vent back on the small hole that was made in the stone wall. He got to his feet as quickly as he could and high-tailed it back to his room, keeping his face down for no particular reason, but that was normal, now. He remained calm and casual until he was in the small room, the door safely closed and locked behind him. He moved to his bed and opened his cloak, setting the tiny dragon down on the bed and falling to his knees in front of him when he whispered for his wand to illuminate the space between them.

He wished he wouldn't have.

Pufflyflit was ill, skinny, and probably dying, as that was all Harry could conclude. He probably hadn't had anything to eat in a long time, at least nothing of substance other than what he could have found in the walls—which, well, might have been a lot, when Harry thought about it. Still, though, he was worried at once, and he found himself wrapping his hand around the small dragon's back, comfortingly, not even noticing the scaly hyde or pushed back ears, more concerned about showing Pufflyflit kindness than worrying about his own fate, "I'll get you some meat," he whispered, so softly, as if Pufflyflit could understand. "You'll be okay, you will." Sometimes hearing himself speak was strange, because he spoke so little, and had come accustomed to that. "Just hang on. I'll get you back to him, I will. I promise." When he stroked Pufflyflit's back, the dragon moved into his palm for more affection and attention. He was a needy dragon, because Draco had given him so much love and affection, so getting attention from anyone, even Harry—Judas—probably made the small dragon feel a whole world of difference better, especially by the way he collapsed into the messy covers and rested his head, curled his tail in, and peered hopefully at Harry, for him to be of some assistance. "Fine." Even though the dragon tilted its small head, Harry continued to speak to him. "I'll get you back to him tonight. Good enough? Of course it's good enough. You're a dragon. And I'm talking to you." He frowned, then, and pressed his forehead into his hands. There was no way he could kill Voldemort here, and he had come to that conclusion long ago. This was not a one-man job, not until the very end, and he knew the very end wasn't very close.

Pufflyflit let himself be buried under Harry's messy covers, without a fight, and Harry left in a hurry.

At nine o'clock, which was Harry's usual bedtime, he pulled on his cloak and lifted Pufflyflit with great care, eyes on him like a hawk. This was the second time in one day that he was leaving Malfoy Manor for the foreign home of Hogwarts. He pressed his wand to the wall of his cell—er, room—and whispered a tiny incantation. The blocks parted ways, almost silently, and so he coughed loudly to muffle the sound, just in case anyone was listening or walking by. As he walked through, he thanked whoever was above him or below him or around him that Lucius Malfoy was the one who'd made his sleeping arrangements. This, coincidentally, had been the same route out that Blaise had taken two weeks earlier, and the only person who knew about this entrance was Lucius Malfoy, because he'd made it when he'd been nineteen or so said the engraved words in the dirt-carved tunnel that both he and Blaise had explored one afternoon when they'd supposed to have been on assignment.

Harry ran as fast as he could for what felt like an hour until he reached the end of the tunnel, and then he entered another. He followed only the clean path that Lucius had left, or someone had, not veering off into the somehow dark, root-invaded caves and ways. Though his heart was burning and his anxiety level was unprecedented, he kept on as fast as he could. He wouldn't allow himself to walk, not this time, because this was the time he was really leaving for good, and he was terrified with paranoia that someone could come running up behind him and ruin this for him, the escape. It was the lack of sun, the lack of sleep, the lack of nutrition… he was affected, and the slower he ran, as his energy faded, the further the end of the tunnel felt, the end of the very long way to Hogwarts, but eventually, after what felt like three times as long as it had felt earlier, he arrived where he had been mentally stationed for months.

He climbed up through a hole and pushed past something wet and damp, and came out looking up at the stars with a huge wooden circle covered with moss. Lucius Malfoy had been pretty crafty, that Harry had come to admit to himself more than once, lately, and he was wondering if he'd ever have to keep that secret. It wasn't such a secret that the man had been helping him. No secret at all, at least to Harry. He quickly covered the hole back up with his heel and his toes, and then a scrape of his fingertips for good measure, clutching the tiny dragon in his warm cloak, and then he hid behind the closest tree, nearly tumbling there. He breathed out, shakily, and the peeked around the uneven bark to make sure the coast was clear. It was, and so he made his break from the prison called Death Camp and ran, permanently, for the same reason Blaise had run. Except, really, no one knew Blaise had run. They thought he'd been killed, and there had been one person who had set that all up, and this was the same person who had set up the death of Harry Potter's Judas Cliffdale.

However, there was no magical way for him to get from the Manor to Hogwarts, at least not for another ten miles and countless lunges behind bushes and trees, even at night—it was never safe, not this close to Hogwarts. It was not easy to get out of this place, but he'd been there long enough. He'd done what he'd needed to do and had obtained what he thought he'd find useful, the "cause" might find useful, and he'd quite found himself ready to announce retirement from life more than five times, but he'd kept on—for what reason he still could barely understand. He knew, though, that mostly it came down to, if he ever really needed the easy way out, he'd take it, because it would always be there, so he didn't need to rush. He had options. For now. He had places to be, now, and none of them were Hogwarts, at least not in a way that would mean him suddenly taking classes, no, or sauntering back into school life. He had done his time, now, and a nice calm before the storm had settled, somewhat, but once he returned to the Order, it would be, well... on, once they had a few days to settle back in together and work things out. There was no hurry, here, and that was probably the biggest and most useful piece of information Harry had gotten. Voldemort was in no rush, and he had the virtue of patience to make up for his lack of most other virtuous characteristics in his very, very perfectly flawed personality. Granted, he was a murderer, but not entirely void of human interaction—not emotion, no, but interaction. Harry had seen instances that confused his mind and hurt his heart. He had seen sides of Voldemort he had wished he never had. At least before, in all ways, Voldemort had just been the enemy, a target, a one-dimensional evil bastard with the intent to kill. Now, though, he was still those things, just more 3-dimensional, a man who laughed and enjoyed milk for dinner, who told stories about being a teenager—fond ones, ones of friends—he'd actually had friends—in dorm-rooms and pranks on old foolish teachers. It was sad, really, that that part of Voldemort had died at seventeen, but that person still was inside of him, and Harry recognized so, and he also recognized himself in that.

It was sometime later that he felt he could safely Apparate without being detected, and he did so.

There he stood, outside the gates of Hogwarts. He pressed his face to the gates and breathed in deeply.

Home. The smell of the end of summer, the fresh cut lawn, the lake—a feast, a day early—home.

He was finally home, and all of the running, the thoughts… it all just seemed like decades ago, now.

"Thank Merlin," said the face that appeared out of no where on the other side of the gate. "Harry."

Harry pushed open through the gate with one hand and fell into a hug from the man greeting him, Remus, and hugged him so hard with his one arm, the other holding Pufflyflit in his cloak, that they wobbled into the gate which resulted in the loud and very open slamming close of the huge wrought-iron gates, both officiating that Harry was home, safe, and back with Remus, just… back. "Home."

Remus held him close and thorough with both arms, squeezing his neck, and softly chuckling through his emotional, very quiet, nearly silent distressed murmurs of assurance, "You are home." And then, as if assuring himself, he quietly added. "You are home, and you're safe, Harry, and you'll stay that way." He covered them in Harry Potter's old invisibility cloak, and so they just stood there a lot longer, and Harry found himself unable to bring his feet and legs to move just yet, safe and protected and back at home, the one home he'd always had, that he would always have. He was back with Remus, just like that. He was sweaty, and dirty, had no idea what he looked like with his crazy beard that he barely noticed, now, and he knew he smelled awful, and he had cuts from running into branches and being lashed at by sharp leaves and flowers, but it didn't fucking matter. None of it fucking mattered, just that he was back, that he was back at Hogwarts with the people who cared most for him. He was back with Remus, who he had come to realize he cared the most for in the world, now, and he whispered so, shakily. No answer greeted him, but he understood why. He did get a long kiss, he assumed, pressed against the side of his head, though, and that was the best answer he could have gotten.

They didn't really pull away from each other. Remus just kept his left arm heavily around Harry's shoulders, tightly, as they silently walked up the grounds and to a part of the castle Harry had never even examined or walked through, taking their time with Harry's hurt and drained limbs, not speaking. He didn't care where they were going, really, as long as it was warm and he could eventually get some sort of shower and a very, very hot meal—something good and hearty but not something bloody. He'd seen too much blood, lately, and he couldn't stomach much else, now, at least not until after a couple of days worth of decent night's sleep. He'd lost weight. He knew it, and he knew Remus knew it, even through the thick of the cloak and the density of the dark night. His body still grumbled for the food, at night, when he was refusing himself sleep out of paranoia, but he was just so happy that he wouldn't have to do that anymore, and this nearly cured his desire for food at the same time it ignited his hunger. It was at this moment he realized just how truly tired he was, and not just physically. He was drained, completely drained, and he could barely see, even though his eyes were wide open. Yes, he had left on his own accord, but not foolishly. He'd been sending back information to the Order, and they'd known he was safe via Lucius's rare reporting to them. Safe, safe, safe was all that he could think, now, and he felt even safer when he was walking under the old covered courtyards of this building, this giant pillar of loyalty, still standing strong and tall and beautiful. These castle walls were lit with candles, and he could hear happy chatter from families, he figured, who were staying in the building, and it was so foreign to him that, with everything going on inside of him, and the amount of emotion he hadn't let himself feel for the past weeks, his eyes spilled hot tears that silently rolled down his cheeks and over his numb, chapped lips. That, on its own, was incredible, but he was in a state not to notice much else but the fact that he was tired, and hungry, and he needed to be wrapped in a warm blanket, tightly, in a dark room, in a comfortable bed, and left alone to sleep, to cocoon, hibernate, and begin the very long process he knew it was going to be until he could even begin to process...

Remus did not lead him to the doors, though, that were so cheerfully lit, that Harry could see through the blurry line of vision he had. Rather, he moved them around the side of the building, because he knew where he was going, and Harry could sense that. Remus had known he was going to show up. Harry had not told him. Harry had not spoken to him at all, once, since he had left. He had only spoken to Cornwell and Lucius, and the last he had silently stared at Cornwell, from an open window, for the first time since he'd left, he'd known he had gotten his message across, so silently. Perhaps Cornwell had known that that night would be the night, which he didn't quite have the alertness to realize was why the door was unlocked for them, blindly, from inside, and why he was moved in, first, and then led, so slowly, down a long hallway until a room appeared before him, bright from behind a cracked door, secluded. Secluded was this room.

He entered it without stopping, because he couldn't have. The room overcame him. It was a warm room—it was lavish, something he hadn't seen in months—it was beautiful, and it smelled like—like Cornwell—and Draco—and Misses Malfoy and Dickie—like Remus and the Order, and it smelled like home, like cleanliness, like open windows and fans and rest of ease. His lips just parted open at the sight before him, and for some reason he found a more sudden appreciation of his ability to see, tears subsiding, to be able to take in something like this, its luxury and elegance and sense of grandeur, as if it were for the very first time. It was more than nice, but nice was the only word that he felt he could use, then. Just being back, safe, was overwhelming on its own, and as this ran through his brain, again, his sight was clouded, rightfully, and though his shoulders slouched, it was only with relief that no other place or smell could have brought him—a better place to come into could not have ever existed as perfectly as this one did. It was a homey room, not fancy and cold and impersonal. It was full of emotions and love and personal books and pillows and throws and fancy cloaks on the backs of chairs and a pair of shoes sitting beside a much smaller pair of tiny shoes by the door.

"Harry," softly brought him back, and with such concern and strict comfort, tone adjusted perfectly.

Harry managed a weak smile at the only waiting man in the room, who was approaching them with hands outstretched so softly, arms loose, but with urgency. He was not greeting Harry or waiting for him, he was coming to him, with hope, with such relief that he was there, and it was so clear, even to Harry's fuzzy sense of clarity.

Harry's trembling body was taken by his hands, too, so gently, and he was being moved, with utmost care, with real worry and joy, at the same time, as he was led to the nearest couch, and though he had never realized the ache that his body held within its confines, as he sunk into the cloud of comfort, his body cried, and he did, too, even more silently, and collapsed with their help. He just lay there, unwilling to help them help him move, as Cornwell wrapped a waiting blanket around Harry's shoulders, which was warmed, and Remus wrapped another one, a larger one, over the rest of Harry, and then more, so he was really just a giant human lump of blankets that they eased back into the pillows he hadn't realized must have been placed there for his not-so-surprising arrival.

"Just rest, Harry," he heard Remus softly sooth, from next to him, eyes closed. "Everything else can wait."

Harry didn't bother to argue or agree. With Remus's hand on his arm, he let his neck muscles go and his head fall into the softest pillows he'd ever known to exist—such comfort, like this, he hadn't had in his whole entire life, and while he was already so close to sleep, he felt something move within his coven of covers. Realization dawned on him, and while Remus and Cornwell both softly protested as he weakly wrestled the covers with his own limbs, Harry kept on, still with closed eyes, too exhausted to open them.

"What is it, Harry?"

Harry opened his cloak and let Pufflyflit out. He didn't move or open his eyes. He just let them see.

"Pufflyflit," Cornwell murmured, from somewhere distant to Harry, whose face was turned away from them, halfway asleep, and with such softness and sensitivity, which lead Harry to very sleepily begin belief in the idea of Draco having made mention of missing one little dragon named Pufflyflit. The worried sigh that came in result of Cornwell taking Puffyflit was no surprise, because the small thing was sick, and his ribs were very easily felt. He was fragile. He heard Cornwell saying the same thing, softly, to Remus, of him, and he wouldn't have protested that, either. His limbs were full of warmth and contentment and he just happily sighed his still-leaking tears into the pillow his head had sunken into. He was going to be okay. It was the first time he had been sure of this in months, maybe in the entire last year and a half. Coming home had never felt like this. He had never had this, and had he not gone away, weeks earlier, he wouldn't have known just what this was. This was his family.

Draco walked through the door to the quarters where Cornwell was residing. It hadn't occurred to him until Blaise had mentioned it, strangely, but Narcissa was staying with Cornwell and Dickie. Whilst Draco had realized she had formed a connection and bond with Dickie, the fact of her staying with them, at Hogwarts, hadn't really dawned on him, which was ridiculous the more he thought about it. She could have gone anywhere in the world, with Dumbledore's help. He knew that it was probably safest for her to be where Cornwell was, and safer for Dickie, too, to have a motherly figure watching after him all day. He wondered, though, when his mother and Cornwell had had a conversation enough to let it be decided that she stay with them. He'd thought to himself, on that way down to dinner, with his hands in his pockets and his eyebrows furrowed, nose-thinned, watching his toes scrape over the top of his sandals and tromp over the grass in his passing wake. Yes, he'd thought, with interest, had it been a frank and invested conversation, "Narcissa, when the new year begins, the Order will relocate, which means you will need to, as well. Would you like to come along? I know you have an attachment with Dickie. Frankly, I'd like it very much if you were around to keep an eye on him," or something not nearly as simple as that, but sort of similar, or if it was something more subtle, like, "Gryffindor's quarters have ample room," and then just a glance? Or perhaps she had suggested it? Maybe Dumbledore? It was very strange to him, and he had every intention of asking and trying to figure that out. Getting a break from his normalcy, in Blaise, in the old Slytherin dungeons, in getting to know new dorm-mates, had really given him a chance, even in the short time, to realize just how magnificently opposite his private life had turned since the end of the sixth year. It was not going unnoticed, now, to him.

The first thing he noticed upon arrival, through the grand doors, down a dark lonely hallway that appeared to lead nowhere but a dead-end to anyone who didn't know what was lurking behind a simple Disguising charm, was the smell of turkey. He loved turkey. He hadn't had turkey in a long time, but he couldn't help but smile to himself, surprised, because turkey was exactly what he had the first night at home during the holidays. It smelled like the holidays, now, and looked it, too, which he quickly discovered as he exited the empty, grand foyer and veered off into the living room. He just stood there, stunned, pulling his other hand out of his other pocket, to take in the space before him. Yeah, it was chilly outside, but there was a fire going and everything! Not a normal fire, either, but a cozy one! The candles on the walls were lit, and a few were places around—he wanted to go over and just collapse into the couch and snuggle up, truth be told. It was the kind of atmosphere he had seen a few times as a child, the kind that he hadn't realized he'd reveled in, with memory, until he was confronted with it again. He almost wanted to cry, just because. It had been a long day, a long summer, and now there was turkey and fireplaces.

It was mostly quiet but the crackling, but he turned his ears on alert to listen for any sounds of Dickie, any sign of him, or Cornwell, or his mother or the sounds of utensils colliding with dishes. He heard soft laughter, that of a couple of people, or maybe more, so he slightly frowned. Guests? What had he expected, though? He hadn't had an actual dinner with Cornwell and his mother and Dickie in… well… since being at the Manor, actually—wait, what the fuck? Since when did he even have those kind of dinners in that context? He sighed and pushed away the little part of him that resented… well, everything, and, instead, moved through the living room, letting his eyes take it in, again—the warm couches, all of the pillows, and some of Dickie's wooden blocks on the floor, and his little blanket was laying on the side of one of the couches. It had a little fuzzy sheep attached to it, and he couldn't sleep without it anymore.

Draco moved from the living-room until he found the kitchen, and he just stood there for a second, with interest. Indeed, the only extra person there was Remus Lupin, and with red cheeks to match the glass of red-wine in his hand. It was a strange sight, actually, because there were a couple of bottles of wine on the center of the table, and the table was fully set—place-settings fancy, and there were really fancy goblets out. There was even a fancy red table-clothe and a festive setting of leaves and gourds and things surrounding the wine and wine glasses. In front of them sat a huge plate of cookies, and he smiled at the fact that they were almost gone and there was a small trail of cookie-crumbs dribbled across the table leading right to the place-setting of one happy Dickie, who was sitting in his high-chair—something old, very old, but beautifully engraved. It was the kind of furniture that was too expensive even for the filthy rich, clearly. It looked heavy and comfortable, and seemed comfortable, too, by its fancy padding.

The kitchen wasn't bright, but, in fact, he was surprised they were eating in there and not the dining room, but it was a pleasant surprise. It was so much more comfortable, here, and normal. As much as he had been accustomed to formal meals at the Malfoy dining room table, everyday for most of his life, he had come to love this setting, as well, because Number Twelve Grimmauld Place had often been like this.

"There you are," his mother said, fondly, and came walking out from behind one of the counters, tossing a clothe onto the countertop as if to signify she had just finished drying her hands. His attention immediately snapped to her, sort of stunned at the whole décor—it sure as hell hadn't been there earlier in the day. "You're late."

Draco frowned at her, as she reached for his hands, and he gave them to her, "I'm sorry," he admitted, shameful, but not concentrating on it, as she gave him a kiss on his cheek, smiling fondly at the little boy who was much taller than she was, now. He smiled back at her, softly, because hey, it was his mum, and she was happy, now, too. She dropped one of his hands and motioned him to come in, and while she returned to what she was doing before he walked in, he focused on the other people. Cornwell wasn't there, just Remus and Dickie—and they were great company, too, of course. Remus was obviously a bit tanked, and Draco wasn't sure what to make of that, but he fashioned a grin as the man stood up, quickly putting down his glass as if he could somehow pretend that it was not his own, and sobered.

Draco couldn't help the natural expression that took over his face, and it just stuck.

Remus tilted his head, then kind of laughed, too, at his own ridiculousness, "Well, then."

Draco shook his head, finally, and let out a small laugh, moving closer to him, and they sort of shook hands, randomly, in an affectionate way, and then Draco gave him a tiny little shove to sit back down in his chair and added, "Before you fall," as reason for giving him the push. Really, though, he circled right around the back of the gothic black chair and swooped right to the little boy who threw his arms up, like Draco had just pulled off the most amazing win of anything ever, and cheered.

"Draco!"

Draco laughed, eyes right on Dickie's, and no where else. He was sparkling, and he had cookie crumbs on his lips, and his small hand was patting his tummy, so Draco cocked an eyebrow at once, "How many cookies have you had?"

Dickie giggled at Draco and pressed his forehead to Draco's cheekbone, like he was ashamed and didn't want to answer, and Draco didn't mind. He sputtered an impressive answer of "three," that Draco had come to learn to decipher, and then held up his entire pale right hand, big eyes staring right into Draco's, like he swore on his whole entire tiny but gigantic and sweet soul that he was telling the truth.

"Yeah, maybe," Draco skeptically replied, and hugged him, and he smiled when Dickie casually wrapped his small arms right around Draco's shoulders, which still were cool from outside, and warmed them with just that tiny gesture, and he just stayed that way, even as Draco moved out from that side of the table so he could look at the two other adults—his mother was pulling something out of the oven, and Remus was looking on after her, being very unhelpful while he was telling her to be careful, leaning back against a counter with the wine-glass dangling between his fingers. He made for a sight, one which Draco would laugh at for a long time that night. "What were you guys laughing about in here?"

"We were just rehashing some old school memories," Remus chuckled. "Things from when we were all your age."

"It seems like such a long time ago, and it's more like rehashing old memories, period. I don't know about the school part!"

Remus gave a semi-shrug, not having looked away from Draco. He smiled, softly, "Have you gotten more settled, then?"

"Yeah," Draco answered, simply, shrugging, concentrating on looking down his shoulder at Dickie, who was looking up at him from his shoulder. He was content there, whereas he was usually wiggling to get away when Draco felt like carrying him around, because he was so cool, now, and could walk around on his own. Maybe it was that he was getting over the newness of that privilege or maybe he had just really missed Draco, already, like Draco had been missing him all day. He smelled so good, like baby soap, the Lavender kind his mother used on him when she bathed him or put lotion on him, the same kind she had made when Draco had been a boy. He'd recognized that smell anywhere. It was so soothing and wonderful, and so Draco found himself resting his cheek to the top of Dickie's head, just standing there with him and treasuring him. One day his legs would grow long, and his arms, and the rest of him, and Draco wouldn't be able to do this. He never had thought he'd ever been able to have this, never have another someone who shared blood with him, or even a parent, blood-or-not. There weren't many days that went by where he got over just how thankful he was for Dickie. Even if he was a baby, Draco felt not so alone in his family. Without him, Draco would have been someone else, now, someone less important to someone less awe-inspiring.

"He's sleepy," softly spoke his mother, startling Draco. He looked up to see that she had closed the oven and was now just watching them, contentedly, with a smile, not far from where Remus stood, also watching them.

"But wasn't he napping earlier?" Draco asked, frowning.

"Yes, but he's a toddler, love. His energy runs out more quickly than you'd think. He was running around outside, for awhile, with Cornwell, and I think that wiped him out. You know how tired he gets; he's just a little one. You slept all of the time when you were his age."

"Oh." Draco licked his bottom lip. "Well, can I put him to sleep when it's time? I won't get to do that, anymore, once school begins."

"Absolutely, just later," his mother said, softly, as she moved to him and softly cupped his upper arm and squeezed it, before rubbing Dickie's back, to which he responded to with a sleepy, knowing yawn. "I think he'll be just fine to stay up and have dinner with us."

Draco agreed, silently, and since he had been holding Dickie for a long enough time to feel better about not really having seen him, all day, he let his mother take him, with a grin, because she loved babies, apparently. She just loved Dickie, and he kind of laughed as she just took him toward the table, talking to him. Dickie was just gazing at her so happily, and slowly Draco's smile began to fade until he was unaware of how his face might appear and more aware of the ocean of emotions running through him so quickly he wasn't sure how to categorize them, and he realized that maybe it wasn't time to do that just yet in the first place.

Remus cleared his throat.

Draco blinked away from his trance on the floor and quickly asked, "What's for dinner? It smells good."

"Turkey," answered a different voice, one he had yet to hear, but was so very familiar, so he turned around to the archways that lead into the hallway on the other side of the kitchen that lead into the private studies and libraries and such. It was Cornwell, but he looked different, now, than he had earlier. He was clean-shaven. Gone was his flannel button-up, and, instead, he was wearing a plain gray t-shirt that had a bit of a v-neck to it, and his usually worn trousers were replaced with much newer black ones that had creases in them, therefore suggesting they had been ironed, which was blasphemous when it came to Cornwell, but, like usual, however, he was not wearing shoes.

Draco didn't even have to say anything, because his eyebrows said it all. He already missed the flannel.

Cornwell just gave him a look to not say a word about it, either.

Remus chuckled, happily, into his glass, and his wine bubbled in result, and then moved away from them to go toward the table and back to Narcissa and Dickie, because they were more entertaining than Cornwell and Draco, or just in a different way, at least, that he was better quipped to deal with when he had had a few. He was still laughing as he went, though, and sighing, and then laughing, again. Draco had no idea what this language of laughter meant, but something was going on, and he wasn't sure what to think. He felt so out of the loop for no reason at all, and he disliked it already. He made sure both Remus, his mother, and Dickie were out of listening distance, and then settled back against the cabinets, too, and folded his arms over his half brown and slate blue cardigan-covered chest and half over the simple white t-shirt under it, watching as Cornwell started to pull other things out of the other oven.

Cornwell turned, after a second, and then tossed Draco an oven-mitt, "Could you give me a hand with all of this?"

"Sure," Draco said, slowly, after he caught the thing against his chest, Seeker reflexes apparently still intact, and approached the oven and the colorful pots and pans inside. He stood beside his father and tried not to laugh or ask, well… anything. He pulled out a glass-covered casserole dish. After getting a whiff of it, and a glance through the glass cover, he hopefully asked, "What is this?"

"What?" Cornwell asked, looking at him, quickly, and then down and then up, alarmed. "What is what?"

Draco held up the dish between his two mitt-covered hands, "Do you know what this is?"

"Huh?" He seemed confused, probably because it was quite obvious to the both of them what the dish was. "I do. I made it."

"You made this," Draco repeated, but not as a question, just as a statement, stomach growling at the dish between his pot-holder covered hands. "You really made this."

"Yes, I did."

"You made my favorite food."

Cornwell squinted at him, but, at once, he seemed to suddenly understand what Draco was talking about. Draco was trying to understand that he had been made a special food. "Of course I did. It is my recipe, you know. Well, not mine, but my mother's, though I think I perfected it. You know."

"Yes, I'm quite aware, seeing as how, when you left, so did this magically delightful, epic, melt-in-my-mouth, favorite-food of mine from my palette, thanks! I haven't had this since I was thirteen. Holy…" he laughed, as he moved around him, eagerly, leaving him to get out the rest of the food, because, well, Draco had his favorite food, now, and Cornwell would just have to deal with it, and he did, laughing behind Draco's back quite softly, fondly, while Draco plopped the dish down on the marble counter, pulled the glass top off with the mitt, and grabbed the nearest fork. He dug right in, leaning right over the counter and shoveling the food into his mouth. He let it sit in his mouth for a moment, but when he swallowed it, he stood up perfectly straight and looked back at Cornwell.

Cornwell was smiling at him, stove open in front of him, food forgotten. "Good?"

Draco could only nod at him, because his mouth was full again. He was happy.

"When you're done stuffing your face with that, could you come help me with the rest of this?" Cornwell threw at him, so Draco stuffed his mouth full of the best, most delicious mashed potatoes to have ever existed—they were truly magical, and it was the only thing that had ever melted his soul warm when eating. No other mashed potatoes compared—it was just… just… Cornwell's mashed potatoes were like gold, whereas everyone else only ever made measly metal scraps—not even Hogwarts could have hoped to serve potatoes like his, no matter how expert the House Elves were. He would probably eat most of them, honestly. He was going to take about seven huge spoons of it, and then go back for seconds—everyone else could have something else. He wanted his mashed potatoes. He said goodbye to them, though, and went back to helping Cornwell.

They got everything transferred from the hot dishes into fancier, nicer ones that matched the table setting, and once everything was taken over, Cornwell gently squeezed Draco's shoulders, from behind, and moved him toward the table, to sit down, to relax, and so Draco obeyed, taking the seat right across from him. This was a feast, and it was amazing. He had never had a home-cooked feast, before, without the help of house-elves or Mrs. Weasley. Once upon a time, Cornwell had been a pretty damn fine cook, but this was too much, even for him! There were all sorts of things, too—little things, like little salads and such, and breads, but mostly Draco was just eying the potatoes, the stuffing, the gravy, and the turkey—and some greenery—oh, and the salad looked delicious. He grinned up at Cornwell, privately, and Cornwell just laughed back, so openly. He knew Draco was happy with this meal, and that seemed all that mattered to him. Suddenly Draco felt a lot better about their last conversation, even if he wasn't completely sated. He was okay for now.

"What is this, Cornwell?" Remus asked over the brim of his glass, of the food and the setup, as if just now noticing it for the first time.

"Thanksgiving," Draco answered for his father, without hesitating. "It's Thanksgiving."

Cornwell just pointed the tip of his glass at Draco, smiling so softly, nearly sweetly at him, and Draco kind of felt his cheeks warm, "Thanksgiving," he agreed, because, well, Cornwell had spent a couple of those elusive years of his disappearances from society and thus had taken to the feast. It was perfect, because Draco loved it, too, and had the first time he had smelled it. He hadn't had this exact feast in a long time, and it was then that it dawned on him.

"Is this for me?"

They all looked at him, and then both of his parents laughed with a youngness he hadn't seen in either of them since the beginning of the summer, and they laughed so fondly, Cornwell with his squinted, wrinkled dark eyes, and his mother with her light eyes bright, head tilted strangely at him.

"Of course it is," she answered, then, when no one else did, leaning over her empty plate a bit. "Why'd you think you were coming for dinner tonight? It's a special dinner for you, Draco, because you'll mostly be eating meals away from us, now, and we wanted you to know how much we'll miss you, and this is Cornwell's way of saying that we love you."

Draco drowned his laughter in his potatoes, not bothering to argue, even though he saw Cornwell shoot his mother a look, a brooding, not-fond one, though it was harmless. He loved his family; he just couldn't tell them how much. It wasn't proper, even still. There wasn't time for it. If he had belonged to any other family, he might have found time, but he could never express it, and had never truly been able to, and even with Cornwell and Dickie in his life, the harder it seemed to say. The more he seemed to learn to care for people, as the ins and outs of his daily life came and went, the harder it seemed to be to tell them just how much that caring had evolved.

When dinner concluded, Draco helped his mother with the dishes, and then he joined Cornwell, Remus, and Dickie in front of a fireplace in the main room. It was the only source of light, but a great and elaborate source that resonated all around the room and even behind objects that cast great shadows on the walls. He knew that he had to head back, and so he stood and said goodnight to Dickie, who was falling asleep on the floor, on a blanket, in front of the fireplace, with his special blankey, head propped on a pillow, next to his mother, who was stroking his hair as she looked into the fireplace. He kissed his mother on the cheek, and when she went to stand to walk him out, he told her just to stay, because Dickie was comfortable, and she did. He thought fondly of himself for coping with this situation and then turned to Remus and said his goodbyes, and, at last, to Cornwell, who had stood and disappeared.

Draco walked to the front room, and then to the entryway, and reached out for the door just as he heard Cornwell enter behind him. He opened the door and then looked back at his father, who was carrying something in his hands. It was a dish, one of colorful ones from the kitchen. He held it out for Draco, as he approached, with his left hand, and lifted a flannel over-coat off of a hook with his right, "It's cold out."

Draco glanced at the piece of cloth without disdain and took it with a willing hand, "Thanks," he managed, and pulled it on. Part of him was always mentally scoffing when he let himself give in to moments like these, but he was trying to grow out of that by letting himself evolve. He liked the way it felt, at the end of the day, to think about those moments, and feel like he had accomplished something on a self-reflective level, but even more than that, he liked knowing that taking something, like the over-shirt, without a snide remark, or even a smirk, from Cornwell, probably made Cornwell feel good. He thought this as he tugged the two sides together in front of his chest and looked down—it was a bit baggy, but it would keep him warm on the way back to the castle.

Cornwell smiled when Draco looked to him to say a final goodbye.

Draco was caught, but instead of ignoring the catch, he sheepishly grinned, "Look, I'm trying."

"I know," was all Cornwell replied with, and softly, as he tugged the shirt closed, a bit more, with his free hand, though Draco pointed at him, as if to tell him that he was an adult and didn't need the extra fatherly hand, and so Cornwell pulled his hand back, in surrender, and laughed aloud as he offered out the dish instead. "I thought you might like some of the leftovers in case you get hungry later. I put a charm on them, so they'll be good until about breakfast time, but you'll still have to warm it—a simple Warming Charm should do it."

Draco took the dish, slowly, touched. He knew he was pathetic, but it was a nice moment for him to have, "Thank-you," he replied, again, less stiffly, and itched at his cheek. "I'll see you…"

"Wednesday, if you'd like to come for dinner. Or during the weekend? Perhaps both?"

"Yeah," Draco agreed, distractedly, frowning down at his own reflection in the glass cover of the dish, the colors below it distorting the colors of his face and the visibly distorted parts of his red flannel over-shirt. "I… it's strange, that we'll be so close, but I won't be able to see you, or mum, or Dickie as much as I have this summer. I'll want to come visit."

"And you're welcome to, whenever. You know that," Cornwell said, softly, watching him with very intent eyes, that Draco could see in the mirror to their left, out of the corner of his eye. "It's just that Dumbledore thinks it best if you remain up at the school, like all of your classmates, too, whose families are here. It's best you maintain some familiarity."

"So much as changed, though, since I was last here…"

"For everyone, Draco," Cornwell softly reminded him, but firmly. "Whenever you need to come see Dickie, or your mum, do. Dumbledore would not have allowed the Family Quarters had he not known it was best for his students to be able to see their families more than they would had they stayed off of school grounds."

Draco nodded, casually, thinking this over while he stared idly at the dish, "I know."

"Is something on your mind?"

"Nothing more than usual, I guess."

"If you guess, then it must be true." A heavy silence settled. "Do you… want to stay and discuss it?"

"No," Draco said, and glanced up at Cornwell, strangely. "That was very… diplomatic of you."

"You mean that in a negative way."

"I do, but I'm at least pacified knowing that you're not a complete stranger for noticing that I've noticed you're acting very strangely, but we can pretend I haven't. I assume you have your reasons, you always have."

Cornwell seemed pained.

Draco walked out the door, then, emotions high, "I'll see you later. Thank-you for dinner."

"Draco—"

"And the leftovers." He took a step backwards, making his exit, with slightly lowered eyes.

"Draco," was quietly insisted, but with an urgency, but perhaps slightly too late in the evening, as Draco did not stop. "Draco, wait a minute. I'm serious—I said wait a moment, Draco."

"Yes, my name is Draco." When Cornwell frowned, hard, and seemed very distressed, out of no where, alas, Draco felt liberated. "Tell him I miss him."