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

18. Phantom Son

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: Another ridiculously long chapter, but I'm in a ~*Harry Potter mood and just felt like writing a lot and got this out in a couple of days! Hope you enjoy! Er, and review. If at all possible. :/

Somewhere Only We Know

Chapter Eighteen

Phantom Son

Draco found it particularly hard to sleep that night. It was too cold, then it was too hot. The covers seemed to infuriate his limbs; he couldn't decide whether or not they were trying to strangle him or he was trying to strangle his frustrations out on them. He had closed his curtains, so he didn't really know what his new roommates were doing, but he could hear Blaise snoring very lightly from even behind the protection of his drawn velvet canopy sides. Turned out that, when he'd gotten back from dinner, Eli, Will, and Cory had pitched in to get Blaise the essentials. The shopkeeper had apparently foreseen that this might be a common occurrence, and he had packaged things together like extra sheets, pillowcases, comforter, and then a toothbrush and the like, and then basic clothing sets in another shop, like two pairs of pajama sets and a robe—black pajamas, they'd gotten him, and a green robe. They had gotten the cheapest packages, Eli admitted, but Blaise's face when they'd lugged over the different parts of the package had been priceless; it was like he had been given the MOST expensive things in the world. He'd been so thankful, and grateful, and Draco had never seen that side of Blaise before, starving for just the essentials to call his own.

Draco had decided he would try to pay them back when they were least expecting it. They hadn't known Blaise very long at all, had barely said two words to him, yet they had gone out of their way to pick up things for him, to help him. This kindness, he wondered, as he lay there and stared up at the swirling pool of black and gray pixels about him, would it show itself even more in the days to come? Between all houses, new and old students alike? He wasn't sure. All he did know was that he couldn't sleep, and there was some part of him that was enraged.

At last, Draco threw off his comforter, unimpressed with how intrusive it was, heavy, when he had been used to light covers, all summer, and old quilts, and then kicked his way out of his sheets. He didn't both to pull back his curtains from inside of the bed, just tumbled out from the bottom, over his trunk, and then stood, with his hands on his sides, in front of the trunk. It didn't seem any of his other roommates were awake, but they might have been behind their curtains, too, and at their desks, hidden away and unable to sleep. He sighed and sat down on the top of his trunk, heavily, and bent. He held his head in his hands and stared at the space between his bare feet, looking into the space's meaning between the two points. All this seemed to do was make him more uncomfortable, so he lifted his head up, and just as he let his head go, he heard a creak in the flooring over by the open window. He stared at the empty space.

Having been hidden away from the war, for the summer, he had been made aware, very clearly, what could be done in an attempt to gain access to Draco from a Death Eater's perspective. He was paranoid, but he couldn't wave it off as being unnecessary. Things were different, now, as he sat there, in a room full of unfamiliar sleeping compatriots whom he had a strange rite to protect. He just let his eyes stay in the direction of the window, just watching for anything suspicious.

The floorboard creaked, again, and Draco was instantly on his feet. Having lived in that dorm for the last six years, he damn well knew that the boards didn't creak from old age or shifting from the wind, regardless of if the window was open or not. Besides, they lived in the dungeons. Beneath the wood was stone, dirt, and nothing that would let some air through from the outside. He found himself circling behind the center heater, hands on the railing, just staring in the direction of the window. He wasn't scared, exactly, as he had made habit of sleeping with his wand and knew it was a grab of his wrist away. He didn't go for it, just yet, in case, well, maybe it all was his imagination.

Draco circled the heater slowly until he stood closer to the window. He abruptly stormed the few inches. At first he just lightly walked over the boards and nothing happened. Then he put his heels down and they made the same noise as he'd just heard more than twice. He kept his eyes up, looking at all of the empty space before him, right hand out to his right, just in case there was something there, and left hand finally grabbing for his wand. He closed the window with his right hand, pointing his wand out into the room.

"Please, Gods, tell me I'm not the only one hearing creaking footsteps," Eli murmured from a distant place behind a curtain, and then his head peeked out, and that was all. Draco held his hand up, for silence, pointing his wand around. Will's head appeared, shortly after, from his own bed. He, however, crawled out, too, and joined Draco, following his careful lead, just silently looking around.

"I did hear it," Will told Eli, quietly, and Draco nodded at them, like to say he had, too, and there was potentially someone standing near any one of them. As if this had suddenly occurred to Eli, he jumped out of his bed, with his hand in hand, and hurried close to Will and Eli, because, hey, being in a large group was always safer, right? God, Draco hoped so. Not that standing together would be safe, but, soon enough, they had awoken the rest of their roommates, including a sleepy Blaise, but he just stood against the wall behind Draco, who still stood with his wand out. They were just facing down the barrel of an empty room of space, but it didn't feel empty, really. He wondered if, perhaps, it was just natural to feel this way. The summer had been rough on all of them, and staying in a new place, with new people, may have made them all be on edge, but they still stood there, unsure, close together, and with their backs to a cold stone wall, huddled together with Draco in front of them.

After a couple of minutes had passed of silence, unable to speak just yet, Draco went to lower his wand and say that maybe it was just them being paranoid, but there was a swoosh of a curtain to the left of the bed across the room—Eli's bed—as if someone had tripped over the bottom part of it, and it sounded like someone did, too. All at once, every single one of Draco's roommates positioned themselves in the complete opposite direction, all having gasped or said, "What the bloody fuck fuck!" or "WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO?" Not stand there like bloody fools, Draco thought, but he was torn between the rest of the group and the motion of the curtain. He stupidly ran forward, between the beds, and wildly spun his hands and feet about. After all, if it had been someone trying to harm them, they would have already done so. That didn't exactly pacify Draco, however.

And then it went, like boots thudding across the wood floors, and the window BOOMED open. Draco had taken off after the sound, grasping his hands out. He caught something, and it shocked him. He almost forgot to hang on. He pulled and tugged, and with the help of Will, who bravely joined his effort, and then everyone else, a struggle closed off of mystery when struggling sounds were finally made from someone other than one of the Slytherins in the room.

The group didn't really say anything, just tackled the figure down, and then Draco yanked. Off came a cloak and there, panting, held down by many pairs of hands and a few dirty fingernails, was... "Longbottom?" Draco cried out, infuriated, and then threw his hands off of the tall oaf at once. He threw himself back onto the floor, panting, too, from the struggle, and since Blaise had given the okay to let go of their prisoner, the other roommates cautiously heeded.

"Longbottom," Draco just sighed at the ceiling of the dungeons. "What in the hell are you doing here?" He sat up with his help of his hands, knees pulled up and bent loosely. Longbottom, too, was sitting up, now with his wand held out. The man looked clueless as to his own answer, silent, and staring at him, so Draco just returned the stare, then regained composure and fastened himself up, brushing off his robes. He clambered to his feet and then pointed his wand at the tall mess of limbs before him. "How did you get in here? There are—there are wards! Special ones! What—and an invisibility cloak? Where did you get this?" He had seen Longbottom twice since Potter had pulled the Disappearing card. He was part of the Order. This, however, was completely unexpected and needed explanation. Really, no one could be trusted, not even upstanding Neville Longbottom.

Neville sighed and lowered his wand, "Malfoy, I'm not here to do any damage. I was sent to seek you out, but before I could Show myself to you, you were already standing there with your wand out--"

Draco held his hand down, and he swore that he heard Blaise gasp, because Neville took it, after pocketing his wand, and then Draco helped him to his feet, frustrated but relieved, "Well there were fifty bloody other ways you could have shown yourself before we got to that point, Longbottom! I could have killed you! Any of us could have—you all right, tripped on the curtain?"

"Yeah," Neville said, because he was carefully taking care to putting weight on his foot.

"Typical," Draco chided under his breath, just because he could.

"Oh shut up, Malfoy," Neville returned, and then pulled an envelope from his pocket. "This is for you."

Draco took it, wordlessly, his wand tucked under his arm.

"Who in their BLOODY RIGHT MIND sent you for Draco at three in the morning? Via window? During war? In an—Invisibility Cloak? Hi—Eli, by the way," introduced Eli, of himself, to Neville, and then Neville suddenly realized, like for the first time, that he was in the Slytherin dorm and surrounded by people that he did not know for the most part.

While the others were introducing themselves, and vice versa, Draco turned away from them, though Blaise stayed close by. He looked back over his shoulder at Neville, who did not seem one bit comfortable where he stood. He hated the dungeons enough, that was for damn sure. Potions had always left Longbottom nearly pissing his pants, and he had always looked uncomfortable, even more-so than usual, on his trips to and from the Potions classroom. Being here was probably unpleasant for him. He and Draco would never be friends, but they could be decent, Draco had come to force himself to acknowledge. Longbottom cared about people, about Potter, about his friends. They hadn't exactly gotten along at the Order meetings, when they'd met up—anything but, actually—but knowing that they were on the same side gave them a bit of leniency with each other.

Talking with the others, and explaining who he was, Neville didn't seem to need to directly address Draco, at least not yet, so Draco stepped further away from Blaise and concentrated on the envelope. He turned it over; it hadn't been sealed to a close. He pulled the flap out of the slot and pulled out a letter, only just to the top part of the envelope, as the parchment wasn't closed and wasn't very big.

Report to the headquarters at once; attack is underway. We need you here.

Follow Neville back under the cloak.

Immediately.

Lupin

Draco considered his handwriting: it was Lupin's, he'd seen it enough times to know it. He knew they had been plotting possible attack and defense maps for tonight, from earlier, but they often did that and no attacks happened in the night. It was in the early morning hours now, which was rather unlike the Death Eaters to do. But, on all attack nights, at least back at Grimmauld Place, Draco had always been there to man-down and act as the go-between from one location to another. He was ordered to stay out of direct battle, and while he hadn't liked that at first, he had eventually come to realize that his position was just as important. If a message didn't get from, say, his cousin Tonks to Cornwell, or Moody to Lupin, it could be a disaster.

This situation was a disaster. What was he going to say to his roommates? Fuck him, if only Longbottom had just Shown himself, at first, none of this would have happened. The jackass could have just said, "Malfoy, it's Longbottom. Order business, let's go," but no. He sighed, quietly, thinking of a plan of action, whilst he shoved the letter back into the envelope. He tossed it out into the air in front of him, and, as all of these letters did, it disappeared with a "pop" and was sent straight back to Lupin, so Lupin would know that he got it under his own accord, as it was charmed to do that. It was clever, the spells they were coming up with, what kind of things came out of desperation and sheer boredom, out of paranoia and fear, as well.

Deciding that enough time had already been wasted, he turned around and interrupted the conversation at hand, grabbing onto Neville's upper arm and giving him a tug towards the window. He faced his confused roommates and just held out his free hand, unsure of what to say. First, as Longbottom pulled open the window, what came out was, "You just have to trust me—stay in here, don't leave the dorm. The windows and wards will protect you: Longbottom was just allowed past them because he had to deliver me a message—urgent news from my family, my—my mother is gravely ill."

"Oy, Malfoy, even I'm not stupid enough to fall for that," Blaise said and shook his head, and then turned his head to look at the roommates. Draco almost hexed him, but he decided to let Blaise have a go, to see what he said. "It's probably got something to do with the Ministry or his father," he was explaining, and whilst they seemed hard-up to believe him, concerned, perhaps they were too sleepy to see through his next words. "Longbottom worked in the Ministry over the summer; he has special access through the wards for the school year."

"Why'd he come in through the window, then?" Will asked, crossing his arms, eyes fixed to Blaise.

"Mate, mate," Blaise laughed, and then sighed, and then laughed again, like it was so amusing, "let me explain to you a little bit about what would have happened if Neville Longbottom had tried to enter the proper way..."

Draco grinned, fully, once they were up and out of the window, impressed with Blaise's cover. Blaise obviously knew it had nothing to do with the Ministry, or his father, but their roommates just had no idea—the Order, it wouldn't even make sense to them. He closed the windows, Longbottom sealed off the wards, and then they covered up with the cloak, immediately. Draco didn't ask questions about it; did he really need to? He cast a silencing spell around the space outside of the cloak, as they ran across the wet grass—it did not feel good on bare-feet, and Longbottom was no more dressed than he was. He did have a special way of knowing when a message needed to be delivered—he had a chain that he wore around his neck which woke him when he slept; it had a way of alerting him during pretty much any possible situation. He must have hopped right up, as he was in plaid pajamas, too, and bare-foot, and made his way into the Order headquarters which, as a Gryffindor, he was not far from. Neville was privy to the same information Draco was; the likes of a lot of the other Order members did not have knowledge of.

"Where's the attack?"

"I didn't get the details," Neville hurried as they skidded into an invisible doorway of a seemingly ordinary castle wall. They walked right through it and into a dirty, tiny walkway of which was very wide by very short, and they both had to duck to get through it: everyone did. Neville pulled off the cloak and then it, too, made the same sound as the popping of one of the Order letters. It must have gone right back to Lupin, or whomever had sent that. Draco hadn't known they'd had THAT in their arsenal; would have been nice to know. However, it was obviously far to precious to have sent anyone to use in battles. Longbottom was trusted to use it: that spoke volumes. "Golly, my feet are cold."

"Mine too," Draco said, behind him, as they turned a corner and ran nearly directly into two Weasleys, whom they'd both heard coming from the direction. They were on their way out, and Draco and Longbottom were on their ways in. There was no time, Draco knew, for sneers or glares, but rather a quick share of information, offered by Ron, and a Weasley twin saying they were headed into the forest to meet with a Centaur, which Draco took to mean that a fruit of their labor had paid off. They'd been working on centaur spies for over a month, and Draco had been involved in the same negotiations as the two Weasley's had. Draco always gave credit where credit was due: whatever he'd thought of Ron Weasley leading up to the war, well... he had changed, too. He was a good leader, didn't whine, any longer, or complain. He didn't snip, overreact, or throw fits. He worked hard. And it showed on his face like it did on Draco's, in circles under his eyes and shadows under his drawn cheeks.

"Neville, come with us," said Fred Weasley, and Neville didn't seem surprised by having been asked along, as he, too, had a place in cracking centaurs for information. "Malfoy, Lupin said Cornwell left his office wards down for you. You're to use his office and stay there, as the Floo is open—secured, but open, and no one else can control them but you, apparently—blood magic or something about blood, said Lupin. Everyone else is on their way; Ginny's been sent off to collect the rest of us. Good luck, Malfoy."

"Good luck," Draco threw back at them, walking backwards, as was George, in the opposite direction. They threw up their hands, as if to say they meant it, and then the group ran around a corner, and Draco ran around his. He ran through the low tunnels, being careful not to trip or stub a toe, as that would distract him, until he ran up a flight of stairs that were threatening to come undone under his very feet, and threw open a door into the Order's headquarters, where he had stood, earlier, amongst Lupin and other members. It was full chaos. Letters were popping in and out, and just as Draco moved out the doorway, two members went by him and down into the tunnels to get out, obviously on a mission.

Draco didn't have time to stare at the uproar. As sickening as it was, when an attack was in full force, it was a tense situation, but it was exciting. There was a rush of chemical infatuation about it that left his pulse pounding, his stomach churning, and his heart thudding so loud he could hear it in his ears. Everyone had a job to do. Lupin was calling off orders left and right, letters popping in and out of his hands which he glanced at, each time, to make sure he had gotten through to whom he had needed to, and then, after he was done with them, they disappeared, too, and Draco had no idea where they went after that—perhaps into official Order files or something of the sort.

Draco darted, twice, to not be hit by someone in a rush, but the dart, each time, was returned. He made his way to Lupin, who, when he saw him, grabbed him by the shoulder, "Took you long enough, Malfoy! Goddamn, you're slow when I need you—get in the office, no one can control the Floo but you, and it'll open as soon as you go in." It suddenly made sense, what George had meant—"blood magic," as in, really, it was just that the Gryffindor office, of which was attached to Cornwell's office, was only accessible to even be seen by Draco or Dickie, as they were of his blood. "You'll be expecting four visits within five minutes—Arabella Figg, Martin Rich, Allan Rooney, and Cornwell. You know what to do after that." Oh, sure he did: play it by ear and not have a panic attack about the thought of not getting one person's message to the next person. He just nearly flew out of Lupin's reach, as Lupin pushed him in the right direction, although not meanly, just for him to go, because he was needed. Draco grabbed the map and run-down labeled "Draco" off of the nearest wall, one of only about fifteen or so that was left, in his right hand, without looking at it just yet, and went off in an entirely different direction than anyone else at a run. He had the sense that if he wasn't there within five seconds, everything would go terribly wrong. Sure, he wasn't fighting battles, but he essentially linked one battle's success, failure, or message, to another, and in situations like tonight, when, as according to the map, there were multiple locations, they needed him.

Draco made it to Cornwell's Order office, the fake one, one that he used for everyone else, and then to the secret passageway. He ran down those pristine, lit halls, until he barged into the office that Cornwell had inherited, and not by choice. As soon as he entered, the room lit itself right up, from the dark. He closed the door behind him, threw his wand-held hand up in the direction of the fireplace and lit it. Thing was, along with those clever inventions, had come some useful hacks for the Floo network that the Ministry had never let gone through. People wouldn't be able to see where he was, when they contacted him, and they didn't have to contact him through a fireplace. It was basically just them relaying messages via their wands, like microphones, sometimes twenty at a time, or five at a time, and sometimes someone would drop by. They couldn't drop by and see where Draco was, when he was in Gryffindor's office, because they weren't physically able to see it, only Draco. Therefore, if they physically came in one Floo, they were bewitched to see Cornwell's general-use office and would be redirected to the main Order room via Draco. He was basically the controls between battles—he was like... like an air-traffic controller or a Portkey controller, someone who had to do all of the work to get one message to someone else for the outcome to be successful.

Draco was pretty impressed with the setup that awaited him. Someone had put thought into this. Back at Grimmauld, this had been much easier. He'd had his area, in front of the Fireplace, with a desk. There was a small table, here, now, and an old big, high-backed chair. It was beautiful, quite frankly, the scene before him in front of the fire. And sitting on top of the desk, he saw, as he slid into the chair, quickly, as to not waste time, was a quill and parchment, as he always needed a shit-load of that to keep track of things, and sometimes to waste time when no one came through for awhile.

"Draco, are you there?"

Draco looked up into the fire. There was no one, just a voice. He knew everyone's voices, by now—well, almost everyone's. He still had trouble with those who were new to the Order, or those whom weren't part of the Inner circle, as there were a lot. He thought he pretty much had everyone down, though, "Arthur, this is Draco," Draco confirmed, quickly.

"Excellent—need back-up on Flamini Avenue—there are five more than we expected."

Draco looked at the enchanted list on the paper in front of him—hmm, so Cornwell, most likely, had seen to it that Draco's botched bewitching jobs had come back to Hogwarts with him? Sitting there, now, on the top of the parchment, was a list of all of the Order members in different columns. The first column was of who was in battle, one was of whom was available for battle, who had not been sent, etc.. It was very helpful when back-up was needed. His eyes grazed over the picture. "Do you need Defense, Offense? Ah! Moody's in, I'll send him. Elsie Dittle and Martin Munn, as well."

"Aye," was all he got back, and Draco crossed off Moody's name with his quill, as well as the others. Their names disappeared, at once, on the parchment, from the "available" list which meant they had just been ordered off to assist Arthur Weasley via letter. Letters popped back to Draco, on the desk, which meant the three were on their way, and when Draco let the letters drop into thin air, it, too, they went to that lovely place where all of the letters went, wherever that was.

Draco sat back and inhaled deeply, getting a hold of himself. The first one of the night was always the most nerve-wracking. He knew he'd fall into the groove, again. He just felt really badly about not having gotten there more quickly. He mentally cursed Longbottom, again, and then jumped when he saw Longbottom appear in the fire right before him in the fireplace, Luna Lovegood using him as a crutch. Longbottom didn't even have to say anything, because Draco already had crossed her name off and sent her on to the Hospital Wing.

Neville disappeared as fast as he had appeared.

"Hello?"

Draco smiled at the new arrival, "Misses Figg," he greeted her as she stood from a chair.

"These are for Arthur—names of compromised Centaurs who may be in danger on Flamini—get them to him as soon as possible. They come via Neville, Ron, and George."

"Done," was all Draco said, after she handed the letter to him. She disappeared, back into her quaint little home, seemingly nervous and tense, because, well, who wasn't? Draco circled Arthur's name, as he always did to a name when something had to be sent to them, and then tossed the letter into the fire in front of him. It didn't start to burn, just disappeared and likely into Arthur Weasley's pocket. He would be alerted only by his wand burning. It was some pretty sick networking, if Draco did say so himself. All he knew was that Cornwell, Lupin, and many within the Core circle or CoreOr, as they called it, "Core Order," circle had been the ones to perfect and hack it into oblivion, and it damn well worked like a charm—a goddamn good charm!

And so Draco's early morning went, until, alas, the "in" list started to fill, and he knew that the battle was over. He never knew if it was won or not, because he always had so much conflicting information. Usually, he could get an update from someone, but now, so far away from everyone else, that was a little hard. He had asked, a few times, how things were going, and gotten meager replies. And then the second time it had ever happened, it did: in came a death, carried by Arthur Weasley—a young woman—PEG! PEG? PEG was dead? Oh, no.

Arthur sighed at Draco and placed her down on the floor he saw that was different than the floor that was actually there. He didn't say anything, because he, too, had been the one to bring Draco's first death. When a death came in, one of theirs or the Death Eater's, it was Draco who had to time-mark it, for the files, and fill out the paperwork. It was miserable, that long line drawn to the edge of the paper, followed by writing out the word "deceased." He didn't like it, but he did it. He sent her on to the Hospital Wing, as he was supposed to, and sent Arthur back to the main room of the Order headquarters, some few hundred feet way or more.

Draco sat back, and then, when he was sure that everyone was back in, and his lists were full, checked, double-checked, and triple-checked, he sealed off the morning's files with a signature, and all of the scribbles he'd written disappeared into the pages he'd written on. It was a little creepy, he had to admit, but it gave the events finality, closure. He put the quill back into the ink-pot and realized he hadn't put it down once for the last five hours. He sighed, then, sitting back and looking out one of the large windows up near the ceiling. It, indeed, was eight-o'clock. Morning had come; this hadn't been a pleasant battle. He had sent many of the Order to the Hospital Wing, and had even been directed by Poppy Pomfrey to distribute small vials of a mix of healing potions for those whom appeared to Draco with bad cuts, scrapes, scratches, and bruises, to get them through the battle. He'd distributed seven, which was a lot, considering most battles, there were barely, well, any intense injuries. Perhaps it was because the number of the Order was growing. At least, that was what Draco reasoned.

Cornwell appeared in the fireplace, in one last flame, and then it went right back out. He walked into the office, and he and Draco just looked at each other. Cornwell walked the couple of feet, face dirt-brown, robes tattered, and bleeding from his cheek—the reason Draco had been staring. His approach made Draco look up, and once he did, his heart knotting up, Cornwell held his face, then pushed it down so he could kiss the top of Draco's head, it seemed. He did, then pressed his uninjured cheek to his hair, while Draco just stared off at the fireplace, eyebrow cocked. Cornwell was silent, shaken, and unable to say anything, really. Draco just reveled in the fact that Cornwell was glad to be back with him, and vice versa.

"Think you can zap me off to the Hospital Wing?"

Draco looked up, eyes drooping with concern at once, "What? Are you—what's wrong?" He was too weak, or injured, to make it to the Hospital Wing himself? He had clearly already seen that Draco had sealed off the official files for the night. He had stayed, because he had been awaiting Cornwell. He had come, as Draco had expected. Cornwell's whereabouts had been a mystery all night. He had come to Draco, once, for a vial, before disappearing with a disparaging grimace in the process. Still, though, he just stepped back, staggering, and Draco found his own two feet just in time to embrace him tightly, with both arms, so he didn't fall. He turned right around, barefoot and hesitant, and sat his father down. He plopped down, heavily, and just looked back up at Draco, as if asking him for help, for he was far too tired to ask again—but it was something else. Something else was wrong with him, and it wasn't physical. It was like he had been dealt a very, very, very bad, painful blow, just mentally or strategically. Draco opted for the latter. He just nodded, then wrote a new file opening. It took a few seconds, during which Cornwell just stared at Draco's face, miserably, and lifted half of his lip in some sort of conversation he seemed to be having with himself.

Draco drew a cross next to Cornwell's name, and then he, too, disappeared in a pop. Now that everyone really was officially back, he shut down the Floo with a flick of his wand, as he was always asked to, and then sealed the parchment off for the night. He didn't stick around to examine the office, because it wasn't his to examine. He was too worried, anyway, and gutlessly anxious about the state of things. He hurried all of the way back down the tunnels and through rooms to find the rest of the Order, wishing, silently, that he could direct himself around as easily as he did with a quill for everyone else. He felt very distanced from everyone else, and he didn't like it in the slightest, especially in small tunnels no one really knew existed but three people, if that. He stopped running and looked in the opposite direction.

Not knowing what it was, Draco went back the way he came from. Suddenly he felt less concerned about getting to the Order than making sure that his mother and Dickie were all right. No, his mother did not fight in battle. All signs indicated to her probably sleeping soundly, same as Dickie, but the thought of them all alone, so distanced from everyone else, really, was overwhelming... in a bad way. He ran as fast as he could back through the tunnel, took a flight of stone steps three at a time, with his hands on the walls to support him as he went, back into Cornwell's office, then found his way through more passages and tunnels until he came into the residence. He ran to the Wing that they all stayed in and first went to his mother's room, but upon passing the grand living room, froze. He froze.

He backed up, slowly, and then very, very, very slowly let his eyes into the room, then his feet led him in. Dickie was sleeping on a small chaise lounge, thumb tucked into his mouth, wrapped in white blankets, and nothing was amiss. It was the presence of the other couch, in front of the fireplace, that had been turned away from the door, that caught his attention. He knew who it was before he even saw him. He walked up to the back of the couch and then peeked over the top and gasped. There was a man laying there, seemingly sound asleep, but he wasn't Judas Cliffdale. He had a rather generous black beard that looked to have been growing out for months, ghostly white, unhealthy skin, drawn cheeks, thick black eyebrows, full square lips, and black eyelashes that jetted out sharply. His nose looked chiseled, as did his jaw and cheekbones, especially because of how sunken in his cheekbones were. He didn't look at all familiar, until it became glaringly obvious that the last person he was expecting to be laying there, or anywhere that he knew, was the person laying there, with the layers and layers of white down comforters rising and falling with his very tangible heartbeat.

Draco stumbled away from the couch, unaware of what to do. His last instinct in the world was to wake him up. All he could do was run to find his mother, whom he found in the kitchen. She shrieked when she saw him, but he was already breathless, already angry, already happy, and already very confused. He didn't point or try to speak, just gave her a quick shake of his head and realized, in words, all too quickly, what was going on, and why that fellow out there on the couch had left him speechless, left him unable to do simple mind-work. He puffed off, "Judas is dead."

"What?"

"Harry—Harry's body's out there, it's back; that means Judas—his soul—it must—it must have been too weak, and he died, and so his soul died, and it needed its body back—I'm so—I'm so confused," he was saying, but she had taken whatever she was making off of the stove, turned the burner off, and was already rushing towards him, at a run, like she had to see for herself, because Draco could not have lied to her, breathless, and on the verge of confused tears, staring at her like that, so broken, and confused, and like he was on a really bad acid trip—not that, you know, she would have known what that was like or anything...

Draco left her to find her way back to—to... to them, and he quickly made his way out the proper way of the living quarters. He ran through the halls, and he had never run through the Hogwarts halls like this, especially not at nine or so in the morning, the sun coming up over and through the open windows and walls. He didn't run back to the Order. He ran to the Hospital Wing and threw himself into the doors, breathing harshly. He hadn't known what to think, what to feel; he only knew that Harry wasn't supposed to be Harry, that something had gone wrong—or so he thought. He just knew that he had to tell Cornwell, and so he did, because everyone looked over, including Cornwell, who seemed well and was tending to someone's bruise with a salve.

Cornwell went to scowl at whomever had just barged in, but then he stood, "What?"

"Harry—Harry," was all he said, and he motioned Cornwell to follow him, hands out.

"We didn't want to tell you--"

"No! No!" Draco interrupted him, voice booming over Cornwell's who, despite the fact that he thought he knew what Draco was freaking out about, perhaps sensed that there was something more. Draco was instinctual; he knew that one of them had died—either Harry's soul had been too weak and had died, and left behind had been his body, with Judas's soul, or it had been the other way around. He had no idea of knowing, now, except that Cornwell was holding his wrists still, trying to decipher all of the gibberish coming out of Draco's mouth, but then Draco's long fingers just found their ways to Cornwell's hands, and he clenched them, fingernails and all, and finally managed to speak clearly, but in the tiniest of hushed tones. "His body is back."

Cornwell stilled him further, so seriously, "What? How is that poss..."

Draco could have only nodded once, and he only did manage one nod, before they were both out the hospital door. Draco didn't try to explain on the way down, because Cornwell knew exactly what the possibility was—the likely possibility, at that. That Draco had come to find out, Harry's soul had been in far more risk than the soul of Judas, far more likely to easily give way and pass on, especially if his body was the weaker of the two, which, Harry had told him, it had been, which was why he had come back in Judas's body. It was all so confusing, but, soon enough, they ran into Lupin, and Ron, and Molly and Arthur Weasley, who clearly had been told something was up, probably via a frantic Narcissa Malfoy who had probably screamed or something of the sort, maybe something less dramatic, but Draco wasn't on to all of the subtle connections between old friends.

Draco was the first back into the living quarters, and then Cornwell pushed him back, and moved Narcissa away, who was now holding an awake Dickie in her arms, and Lupin held back the Weasleys and told them he would explain if they would just please calm down and let Cornwell inspect things. They didn't know what "things" were, but when Ron was struggling to get past Lupin, apparently having been told that Harry Potter, his best friend, was not dead, or was dead, now, possibly, Draco snapped, and he gave the Weasley a shove back into a wall and yelled at him to "stop it." Ron screamed back at him to get out of his face, which just resulted in a shoving match and Lupin breaking it up. But Ron returned to his parents, albeit confused, and Lupin started to talk to them.

Draco, meanwhile, found his way back into the living quarters, and no one had stopped him. Cornwell was on the other side of the couch, between it and the fireplace, on his knees, it seemed, that Draco could see. Draco finally stepped up to the couch and looked down, nervously. Cornwell had his hand on the whole side of Harry Potter's face, and was just looking at him. Sighing, because Potter, whether he was Harry or Judas, was still asleep, Draco bent down, slightly, and leaned against the couch, but Cornwell looked up at him, strangely, and then removed his hand. A head turned from the couch, and green eyes stared up at him.

They were transfixed.

Draco inhaled only through his nose, as he couldn't quite remember how to breath otherwise.

It was Potter. It really was. His face. His hair. His eyes. They hit Draco like a million metaphors that hatched bats in his stomach, full of anxiety and dread at the possibility of the complications. It was his face, his body, his eyes, but... but was it him? Draco couldn't process excitement until he was sure.

Draco stared down into the face below, which was extraordinarily handsome like he hadn't remembered, strong and confident, but vulnerable and so sick, weak. Eyes, though, were brilliantly alive, as they always had been. They were dull, now, but open half way, heavy and laden with tension. Draco tilted his head, as if he were staring at a robot, because that was how it seemed, due to the monstrous staring and confusion and blankness. He very well knew that his hopes were dying, here, and he suddenly felt as though he was going to be very, very, very sick. It was like that very first day of having heard Harry had been murdered, but fifty times worse.

And then the face below finally moved, eyes closed, and the lips twisted into a close-mouthed smile.

Draco pushed himself up, and hopefully croaked out, "Potter?"

The green eyes opened, and, for a couple of moments, they were both afraid.

"Yeah, it's me," replied back so quietly, groveling and husky in tone, in a voice that hadn't used or heard all summer. It shot through them all like a hot jet of water. Judas's voice had not sounded like this. This was Harry's voice, and it was soft. It was distant. It was sick. Hoarse. Possibly dying? It was not healthy.

Draco finally let out a breath, maybe a cry—well, no, mostly a really hard laugh.

Harry couldn't laugh—it was too much pain—and he was too weak. His smile faded, but kindly.

Draco tumbled over the side of the couch, and Cornwell gasped, already trying to pull him off, "Draco, NO; God, he's too weak, you fool! Draco!"

Draco didn't even care, he just growled, "Potter," and attacked him in a hug, not sure where the blankets ended and Harry Potter began, but he was sure there was enough padding to soften the blow. He couldn't... Potter... was... both... really there... and... also... really there. He tumbled off of Harry though, just as quickly, and into Cornwell, and Cornwell did give him a slight slap on the head, but then wrapped his left arm around Draco's shoulders and hugged him, both on their knees in front of the couch in front of the massive blanket man. Whatever he was, under that blanket, Draco knew he was malnourished, obviously, and very thin, worn, and tired, and he was already asleep again. He had no energy. No energy at all—his body, his body, Draco realized, was still just as weak as it had been. Was—did that... did that mean Potter... he could still? No. No, he couldn't die; it wouldn't be just, not at all. It wouldn't be fair for how far the fight had come, for how far Harry had come.

Draco leaned his head in and rested it in the comforters. It sunk in a few inches.

A hand gently wrapped around the top of his head, and Draco clutched it. It was Potter's. Glorious.

"Sleep, Harry," Cornwell quietly cooed, and then murmured a spell, under his breath, that Draco could not have heard if he tried, and Harry's slightly confused face melted away into peaceful serenity again. "Come, Draco. I spelled him out of whatever head-space he's in only to make sure it was him. He's disoriented, it's best we let him wake up by himself and not with us around. He needs to acclimate himself. We've done all we can."

Draco just kept his head there. He knew Cornwell was right, that perhaps Harry wouldn't even remember this, by the way his eyes had just been so glazed and barely opened. Cornwell had probably forced him to wake, somehow, when he had first gone in, to see who he was, and would care deeply no matter what the outcome had been. But Cornwell could not have known what Draco was feeling inside. His hands stayed so carefully over Potter's, and Cornwell didn't know what that felt like, either. Draco had felt Judas's hands a million times, and had seem them, but this was Potter's hand, and Draco felt out his fingers, in his hair; they were so long, and gorgeous, but so thin. His palms were huge, and his skin was so soft. His knuckles felt a little rough, and so Draco relaxed into the comforters and rubbed his own fingertips over the callouses, like he could buff them. He didn't even know what to do. He knew Potter wasn't even awake now, probably hadn't felt anything at all but his own acknowledgment of being alive, and perhaps not having even known that he was back in his body, but he was, and it was glorious.

"Come, Draco," Cornwell murmured, softly, standing above him, and he gently soothed Draco's hand from Harry's, though he let Draco lift his hand and carefully put Harry's hand back where it had been in the white mountain of goose-feather down-comforters. Draco stood, so slowly, just staring downwards, then he looked at Cornwell, speechless, and Cornwell was, too. It occurred to Draco, then, that Cornwell had never known Harry in his physical body, not as a young adult. He had never seen Harry past the stages of Toddler-hood and in pictures, but never in person, and certainly not since he had jutted out features and angles and killer cheekbones. He was extraordinary, and Draco praised so mentally.

Cornwell placed his hands gently on Draco's shoulders and steered him out of the room, but not out towards the Weasleys, rather into the kitchen with Narcissa and Dickie, who was now in his high-chair, looking bored, unimpressed, and hungry, all the whilst Narcissa just hugged herself. She had been watching from the grand archway of the kitchen, watching Draco, watching Cornwell, watching the half-life of Harry Potter, possibly the luckiest man in death to have ever existed. She had seen him; he was no boy. He was a man, had a man's face, a man's honor. He was unlike Draco. Draco appeared so young before her, and Harry so old and pale. He would need a lot of time, time and patience, and a lot to eat. Mostly time. Care. Love. She knew so.

Narcissa took Draco from Cornwell, gently, and hugged him. Draco accepted. They all just stood there, in silence, for a couple of minutes, until Cornwell finally moved. He had to go be the ambassador, talk to the Weasley's. He had to figure out what this meant—they all did, especially Cornwell. This meant that, yes, Draco realized, and perhaps Cornwell did, too, because he paused, merely for a moment, as he viewed the couch from the side, that Judas had died. His soul had passed on. He had decided to let go. They could not blame him; he would be at peace, now, and with his mother and brother, but Harry's body had not gotten stronger. His soul had, perhaps, and his ability to fight through it, to hold on, to not let go, obviously, for he had been fighting the whole time. But it was a matter of how his body was going to respond. Would they be able to heal him the right way? If they hadn't been able to before, why would they be able to now? And then there was the matter of him having to be the one to fight the Dark Lord, to bring him down. They had to start all over again. They'd been nearing the end, but now Potter was... maybe in somewhat of a coma, weak, and not at peace about it, or maybe he was very much in peace, and liked it that way, liked being so close to the idea of passing on. But he was still there with them, at least, which meant he hadn't decided yet. He knew he couldn't go, that he had many things to do first.

"Draco," Narcissa said, gently, a couple of minutes later, as she led him towards the front rooms where neither was sure the Weasleys still were. They were. Narcissa looked at Draco, from Ron, once more. "Why don't you show Ron to the kitchen and put on a pot of tea for all of us? I think Arthur and Molly would like a bit of something that makes sense right now." She looked from Draco to the Weasleys, who were just sitting together, all looking devastated, heartbroken, and happy at the same time. Stunned, really. She motioned Dickie along to Draco, though the tiny thing had been snuggling with Cornwell's arm, wanting affection, and Cornwell had been giving it. He seemed happy, maybe in a way that Draco was. He had never seen Harry Potter, really. Now that he had, when his baby fat had long since dropped and his features had popped out, all straight lines and instantly recognizable, it must have been quite an experience for him, too. Even he still seemed quietly amazed by having seen Harry with his own eyes.

Molly Weasley nodded her head in a roundabout way, and said, "Please," as she cried. "Tea would be good."

Draco just nodded, and motioned Ron to follow him, and hell froze over... because he did. Draco waited for him, and then they walked silently down the hall, ten feet between them, but in sync, and Dickie walked next to Draco, his tiny palm wrapped in the much larger one. They didn't say anything. What was there to say? Draco couldn't possibly know all of the things Ron was thinking, or feeling, and he hadn't an idea of what to even begin to think of saying. So he said nothing, as it was best that way around Weasleys, at least where Draco was involved. Why had his mother suggested he take Ron with him? Because Ron and Draco could commiserate together, silently, whilst Cornwell and Remus tried to explain to Arthur and Molly why and how. Draco could more easily explain that to Ron, because Ron knew that most all things impossible were possible with Harry Potter.

Ron sat down in the kitchen, at the table, heavily, and stared out the window.

Draco lifted Dickie back into his high-chair, then looked at Ron, "Eggs?"

Weasley looked at him. There was nothing malicious, "What?"

"Would you like some eggs?" Draco asked, and then picked up the skillet, after having put the teapot on the stove. "You must be hungry." All Weasley did was nod, somehow, and Draco could appreciate the answer. Despite everything, it was morning, and he had been in battle. Ron was likely hungry, and Draco knew so. He wasn't exactly great at cooking, but he could manage some eggs, maybe see if there was any meat to add in it from the enchanted ice-box. He kept looking over to check on Dickie, too, but Dickie was just happy now that he had a couple of blocks to play with on his high-chair table. He dropped one.

"Draco," Dickie exclaimed sadly, looking down at it over the side of the chair.

Draco walked over and picked it up for him, then kissed him on the forehead, "Magic word?"

"Pwease and thants-yew?" Dickie hopefully asked, voice having gone up a couple of octaves.

Draco couldn't help his helpless laugh. He handed over the block, "Good boy, and you're welcome."

Ron sniffed, "I still have a hard time finding you human, Malfoy."

Draco looked at him, frankly, "Weasley, we'll never see eye to eye, but we can be civil. At least," he struggled, and then itched at the back of his neck, before making eye-contact Potter would be proud of. Really, he had respect for Weasley. Potter happened to be an added bonus, now, "I can be civil towards you and mean it. I know it may take more time for you to say the same, and that's justified. But I'll be around if you're ever ready."

"Cooking eggs and sausage."

Draco snorted at Ron's acceptance of the treaty, and affirmed, too, "Cooking eggs and sausage."

"My sister," Ron said, a few minutes later, over eggs, "I fear what her reaction will be."

Draco couldn't look up, could barely raise his head. He just answered, quietly, "Happy, no?"

"Ecstatic," came the reply, "but we just got her to stop crying over his death, and now she'll start all over again."

Draco couldn't help but laugh, mouth full. He tilted his head up a bit to keep his mouth closed and all of the food in tact. He hadn't thought about it at all, but he had heard, sometime before, in the summer, the girl Weasley, Ginny or whatever he name was, crying and whining about Potter at that first Order meeting they had run into each other. Potter hadn't mentioned much about Ginny, about anyone, really, from his life, including Ron. Maybe that had gone along with his mission, to leave the things that hurt too much to talk about in the past as much as possible. And, as he swallowed a bite of eggs, he came to a horrible conclusion via a horrible thought: what if, now that Harry was Harry, and he was all in one piece, he was going to revert back to the person he had been before Draco, before the summer? He hadn't gone to the Malfoy Estate by choice; he'd been forced into Draco's life, and Draco had been forced upon him. There was no denying they had a bond, but how strong would it be, now, when there were friends to love him, and best-friends little sisters to sooth him and sympathize? Ron Weasley would always be Harry's best friend: Harry had said so. Where did that leave Draco?

God, he felt so sick for even thinking about it; how selfish, to think about where he fit into all of it!

"Bad bite of egg?"

"What?"

"You had a look on your face."

Draco was surprised he'd been looking, as realization dawned on him, "Oh, no—I... was just lost in my thoughts, I guess." Why not be honest? He pushed the thoughts away. After all, he had helped Potter as much as he had been able to. Potter had been a good friend to him, and Draco hoped the same could be said now about him from Harry's perspective. He felt himself to be on very uneven ground. He hadn't spoken to Potter in—Gods, way too long. Things had changed, he knew, and even more-so now that Potter didn't have to live quite the lie he had been living with Draco and his family, and Lupin, as is secret keepers. He had a family, the Weasleys. "You have to admit the eggs are pretty smashing though. I'm not too bad, huh?"

"I've had worse," was all Weasley replied with, after fighting with himself, clearly.

Draco couldn't help but laugh, then, sort of roughly, "Go on, Weasley. Get in a jab, for familiarity's sake."

Ron kind of smiled, then, and just shook his head and went back to his eggs, "Ferret."

Draco smiled, but sadly, as he watched Weasley enjoy his eggs, then looked out the window.

The three Weasleys stayed for a long time, mostly in the kitchen, drinking tea, and not around Harry and the living room where Draco had been sitting with his family the night before, after dinner. Draco lingered in the doorway a lot, though, looking out at the couch, watching the rise and fall of the mountain of down comforters, paranoid that Potter had stopped breathing ever now and again. He'd return to the table and have some tea, but then get back up, again—he'd make an excuse, like he was getting more tea, putting more tea on, going to the bathroom, getting some cookies, wanting to check the time—always something. Alas, he had Dickie in his arms and walked him across the living room to take him to his crib. He sung him a song, though very quietly, paranoid Weasley would somehow be listening and smirking at him for being "human" or not being an evil bastard—part of Draco was still very proud, especially when it came to Weasley—and then tucked him in with his blanket and parted ways. When he got into the hallway, nearest the living room, he got to his knees and crawled the twenty feet towards the couch and roaring fire. Hey, he could embrace his inner stealthiness.

He just gazed at Potter, for awhile, as he slept, on his knees, keen, fascinated. Terrified. He must have looked a sight, a nearly full-grown man, tall, on his knees, staring idly like a little boy waiting for Santa Claus to come. He wasn't willing Potter to wake, for he had to make that decision on his own; it wasn't Draco's make. No one could make Harry have the strength to come back but Harry, and Draco could only do what everyone else was going to be doing, and that was hoping. He found it easy to hope when it came to Potter, and perhaps more-so now because he really was looking into the actual face of Harry Potter, no longer Judas Cliffdale, from the closest view of it he'd ever had, free to acknowledge the depths and levels of his features. At the thought, he lowered his eyes to the floor; they hadn't HAD confirmation, yet, that Judas had passed on, but from what Draco knew, there was no other way. Perhaps he had not known everything, nor had anyone but Dumbledore; he was not sure.

"Potter," Draco whispered, then, close to his face, though the man was sleeping, and oblivious, and sick. He seemed to be light years away from where Draco resided, wanting to be closer, and even closer than closer. He wanted to press his nose to Potter's cheek, to make sure it was real, to finally feel how it would feel to be close to him, intimate in a non-intimate way: as friends, that was. As friends, yeah. Draco's nose sniffed with bitterness at the thought, then pushed it away. It wasn't about that; it had never been about that. His eyes, though, just latched onto Potter's long, long dark eyelashes. They were beautiful, and looked so soft, and full. He forgot what he had been wanting to say, as he found himself intoxicatedly close, closer than he'd realized. Somehow, Potter smelled wonderful, like rain, and like freedom, and like being light-hearted, like lime-stone, and grass, and and peaches, too. Peach, like his coloring, his peach lips, and the peach tint in his cheeks...

Draco eyes fluttered to a close, as only the very most tip-top of his nose nuzzled the soft cheek.

Thrill stung his insides. Anticipation, and alert, and butterflies erupted magnificently inside of him. He opened his eyes, close, as he bravely pressed the side of his nose into the cove below Potter's cheekbone. He had a beard, yes, but it was soft, so soft, and didn't itch Draco's skin or make him quickly back away with alert. He just wanted to be close. He'd never been this close—he had never been as close to anyone, emotionally, as he had been with Potter. He prayed to God, then, as both of his eyes stared levelly with Potter's closed ones, that things not change and go back to how they had once been, despite all of the things Harry had said to him. Just in case that did happen, Draco wanted just to remember how close they had become, and how Potter smelled, so sweet. A man, especially one with a beard, and so completely angular and handsome, should not have smelled so sweet. But he did.

His skin was warm, and so soft, at least that Draco discovered upon having closed his eyes, now fully engaged in having nuzzled his cheek and nose to Potter's cheek and rested now in his shaggy unkempt hair. He hadn't an idea of how long it was—not long-long, just long-ish, and shaggy—but it was soft, and black, and it was Potter's.

Draco wanted more than anything to just pull Potter close, just to be close with him. He wasn't sure how he felt about Potter, now, other than just how excited he was that Potter was alive, and with him, with all of them. This feeling he had, of wanting to hold him close, to protect him, was more of a brotherly feeling, less of a best-friend feeling, or anything else, for that matter. He breathed deeply in from Potter's cheek, and then nuzzled again. His body lit up, once more, so happily, and his index fingertip snaked over Potter's thumb in the covers. He rested there, against the couch, somewhat on his knees and somewhat not, trying not to disturb the man's very heavy, heavy sleep. The man's very, very heavy rest.

Finding himself not wanting to leave his place against Potter's warm skin, the urge to pull Potter's arm around him chimed in his mind. He knew it was stupid, but his mind wandered sometimes. He kind of smiled to himself, at the thought, and then finally began to pull his magnetic cheek from Potter's. God, he was beautiful. Draco gently gazed over his face with grazing, generous, giving eyes, not taking anything from the view that he wouldn't have given back as best as his face could have, eyes searching every part of it. How close he had never been, never able to see the freckle under Potter's lip, or the beauty mark under the outer corner of his right eye that his glasses had always hid from view... or the shelf of his lips. He was truly exquisite; he was for a human being more than Draco, one like Ginny Weasley, who'd loved him always, or something of the sort—not that Draco had ever had a chance, or could have had a chance, but that was all right, as long as Potter stayed his friend. It would be enough. Maybe. Probably not, not once things got back to normal, when Potter could be around everyone and not have to keep secrets and pretend to be someone else.

Draco smiled, so sadly. It was like he was saying goodbye to what they'd had, their friendship as it had existed. It was a sad thing. Very sad for him, actually. He was feeling a mite depressed already. Preparing himself for the demise of their bond was wise. He knew they'd remain friends to an extent, but not like it had been before. How could things have stayed the same? They had both grown up so much even since that summer had began, since that first day Harry had shown up as Judas.

"Potter," Draco whispered once more, just watching him, still from very close, "I know it's very unlikely you're listening right now. I know you're sleeping very soundly, and I'm happy that you are. You deserve it." He bit himself back from saying how much he deserved it in order to tuck a lock of stray hair behind his ear, as it had been out of place whilst all of the rest of his hair had been pushed off of his face, his pretty skin.

"I just wanted to say..." He looked down, almost as if too embarrassed to say it even looking at Potter when he wasn't even conscious. His eyes flickered back up, though, not so bravely, and his lips twisted with a sick sadness—literally, he felt sick. "I don't really know what will happen, now, because you're back, but I missed you. Whatever does happen, or whatever gets said, I'm glad we had time to work out our differences, to become friends, even. Really good friends, at that. I've told you before, and I just want to say it again while I can: you're the best friend I've ever had. I just wanted to say that to you one more time and know that it won't fall on ears that don't care as much; you're my best friend." Potter was still sound asleep, not a hitch in his sleeping or breathing pattern, not in the way his chest rose and fell, not like the twitching pattern Draco's seem to have now.

"Truth is, you're... a... beautiful.... person," Draco said, and then kind of laughed at how ridiculous he sounded, but he knew he needed to get this out, now, while he could. "If it were another life, and things were different, well... things could be really different, now, but they won't be. I know part of you will care. Just know, in the future, and remember this somehow, maybe subconsciously, that I really, really, really, with all of my heart," he blurted out, so quickly, all of the sudden, but intensely, murmuring and staring at Potter's closed eyes, "love you so much. I know we joked, but I probably will have eleven-hundred cats, or house-elves, or mini-dragons, or something equally as ridiculous, and you'll have your wife, and your kids, and maybe some owls and a ridiculous exotic animal handed down to you by that giant man-giant who loves you, too—just... just don't forget me—I don't know, just remember who I am beneath all of that other stuff, beneath what I used to be in your eyes—like when it was two in the morning and we would just lay in bed and stare at each other and laugh—and I promise to remember that about you, too. Now that your body is back, you'll be expected to return to what your life was like... before me, before you decided to come to the Manor. I understand that. Just know that I will always be an owl away if you need me, if you can't take the Weasleys and their insufferable love for you, everyone falling all over you... when you need someone to verbally and emotionally harm you, don't hesitate..."

He sighed, then, so quietly, and pulled his face back a bit, feeling better that he had shared that, not sure if it was all of what had needed to be said, but it felt like he had said what he'd needed to. "Thanks for being a great friend, thanks for being supportive about—about... everything—and... that, and not judging me. I mostly thank you for helping me deal with Cornwell, because I hadn't dealt with that at all. Like I said, you're a great friend, and I like you for that." He held his breath, and when he was sure Potter was still sleeping, he let it go. "I love you, though." Shit, he'd said it the way he'd meant to, the way he'd needed to. "This is when it'd be good for you to wake up and say, "Malfoy, why do you have to go and ruin such an epic monologue to rival Hamlet's soliloquies with some poofy bullshit?" And then I'd laugh. And you'd say. "But I love you too. Just not that way." And then I'd laugh again and tell you Hamlet was a poof, and then you'd ask me how I even knew who Hamlet was, and then we'd laugh, and things would be normal again, and I wouldn't have just blurted out that," he leaned in, whispering, "I love you. I really don't know how I love you, I just do. Perhaps I love you like a brother; I don't know, Potter. I just don't know. You need to pull through, though, because, regardless, you are like my brother, and you're part of whatever kind of family we have now—Lupin needs you, and Tonks, and Cornwell, and me, and Dickie, and even my mother—and all of the Weasleys. I know they're your family, but try not to forget the dysfunctional family I've shared with you this summer—we all love you, too. We all need you to come back, because we need you in our lives, so we can help you, build you up, take care of you... be good to you, because you deserve it, and even if you didn't, we care about you too much to just let you go."

Draco pulled himself away, after a few more seconds, and then just sat there and watched Harry sleep.

"Draco," Cornwell said, quietly, a few minutes later, from the kitchen archway, "leave him be."

Draco looked over, drawn from his thoughts in the fire, and murmured, "I can't just sit here with him?"

"No, not right now," Cornwell replied, but softly, and Draco understood: it wasn't fair to the Weasleys.

It wasn't long before the grand feast began, of which Draco missed. He and Ron were both kicked out of the private quarters eventually, and Draco had protested more than Ron had. Narcissa had done it for their sake, she'd said, but, really, it was probably for Harry's. When he awoke, he would need time to get his bearings, to try to deal with being back in his body. He needed to be concentrated on that, not on everyone hawking down around him.

Ron left, with his parents, and instead of going to the feast as he'd promised his mother, Draco wound up sitting outside of the Quarter's doors, watching other students pass at the end of the long hall, going to their first classes. They couldn't see him, because no one went in this wing, just always passed it. There were magical illusions about this wing, and he appreciated them. It was easy to relax, here, even in the hall, even on the cold stone floor.

He didn't have a first class until noon, which really was only an hour away. An hour seemed like a long time, now, especially as the minutes dragged by. Draco thought about picking himself up to go to the Feast, but it almost didn't feel worth it. He didn't want to go back in, or back to his dorm, or to the Feast. He wanted to just pause is life and sit and meditate on everything. He needed some perspective, too. He hadn't been prepared to come back. So much was going on that he could no longer ignore.

The door pulled open, and Draco looked up, casually, head back against the cold stone.

Narcissa sighed, gently. She must have known he was sitting out there. She knew him too well, whereas she had once barely known him at all. She found his eyes, "Draco, you can not help him, and it's not going to help you to worry, either. Please, darling," she insisted, and bent on her knees, so she was looking at him more closely. She put her hand on his shoulder. "Please go get ready for classes. Then you can come back, when they're over. Sleep here, if you wish—I'd like you to. But it hurts to watch you just sit here, knowing there's nothing you can do. If he does wake, we'll find you between classes, love. I promise." He didn't seem convinced, because he wasn't. "Cornwell and I have your schedule; you're my first priority, Draco. Because you are, you must just pretend to want to assume some familiarity—if not for you, then for me. Please, go to class."

Draco had only listened. She went back inside, and he finally stood up. He went in, said goodbye to her, then Dickie, who was loud and happy, completely oblivious that his screams of delight with his coloring book were lost to the sleeping ears of a man a room over or so. Passing the living room, he found that Harry was no longer there. They must have moved him into one of the Guest rooms, and Draco felt relieved at the thought, but also about how lonely it would feel if he did wake up and no one was there to talk to him, or tell him what had happened. He figured he had to trust his mother, trust Cornwell, trust Lupin. They said they would take care of it, and so they would. Really, there was nothing he could do.

In the back of his mind somewhere, it resonated that he had already given up his friendship with Harry.

Classes went by slowly. During Charms, even, he tuned out what was being said. Potions had been boring, all textbook work given by a temporary professor who had no idea what he was doing. Between the following classes, one of his electives, he waited to hear any news, lingering outside classroom doors until the classes were starting. When no word came, he could not help but be discouraged. Who knew WHEN Potter would wake? Hopefully he'd be roused sooner than later. For some reason, Draco couldn't imagine he would want to be in the state Potter was, not now, not when the Dark Lord was still alive and well, or alive and well-enough, that was.

"Dinner, Draco," Blaise said, quietly, that evening, as Draco sat at his desk, staring out his window and into the rainy grass grounds that his eyes were ground level with, it seemed. He looked away from the foggy, gray-ingrained window and found Blaise back amongst the candle-light, peeking around the end of his bed curtains. He hadn't set himself away, necessarily. He was distracted by what was going on, but not overly so, he thought. He had a lot to think about and very little to say. Perhaps Blaise wasn't used to that: Draco still wasn't.

"Sure," Draco agreed, and stood slowly. He pulled his cardigan from around the back of his chair and then straightened up some bits of parchment he'd had lying around. As his roommates walked out, Draco looked long and hard at the journal of stories sitting on his desk. He still hadn't read everything in it, for he had wanted to treasure each one and not take them for granted or devour them in a glutinous manner. He'd read one just a few minutes before, a short one, about a cup, and a spoon, and the different uses of sugar. It was fascinating what Potter had been able to come up with. But he was thinking too much about Harry Potter. In fact, it was all he thought about. So, instead of going to see his family, to catch up with the Order, which had called a meeting, he'd opted to stay here. He opted to attend dinner with Blaise and their new roommates instead of dining with the Order. Order was exactly what Draco needed in his life, especially if Potter was going to wake up and turn their friendship back to its original barely-existent state. It wasn't so far-fetched to think so. Their friendship had come out of necessity, not choice. He had his best friend, Weasley, and his family, and all of his old Gryffindor mates. What he and Draco had been through, well... they'd been through it.

Trailing some of his house-mates on the way to dinner, he was lost in thought, once more. It was broken only by a run-in, right outside the Great Hall, with a red-headed girl whose face had blossomed, and body, too, but was ruined by the indignant look of snobbery on it all of the time. She always looked like she had a problem with something... with everything. He had the idea she was a total bitch, but he didn't tell anyone so. Anyway, who would he have told in the first place without getting a beat down in some way or another? She had become his mortal enemy by just existing. He was naturally prone to people who were not held as saints, especially those who hadn't done a thing to deserve the titles. She always seemed in over her head; now was no exception.

Draco waited for her to speak, towering over her with a calm.

She finally did, face already red, eyebrows narrowed, "How could you keep that from us?"

Draco knew of what she spoke, but he didn't offer her any explanation. He was just reminded how she was a no-one to him. He did not care for the Weasleys as Potter did, perhaps as his mother feigned, now, or cared like Cornwell did. In fact, the Weasleys seemed rather coddled to Draco, and they always had. This girl, she had no manners, no sense of social dignity, and she proved so by reaching forward and tugging rather rudely at Draco's cardigan, for him to answer her. Instead, he pushed her hand away, rather forcefully, and drawled out each syllable with a tone not to be mistaken, at all, for friendly, "Do not touch me, Weasley."

The young Weasley touched him, once more, the same way, clearly on the offensive. She was reminding him of Molly Weasley, because she, too, liked to round on people, often when she had no right to. When she did it, it was kind and came from a good place. This one, this young one, just annoyed the hell out of him, and the last thing he felt he needed, right then, was this clueless brat. She rubbed him the wrong way by nature, and so he scowled at her, silently, while he, once more, removed her hand from his cardigan.

"How could you look at us—his best friend, our family, me, and not say anything? You're truly cold-hearted to have kept all of that from us—my whole family is devastated."

Draco didn't have time for this, and he didn't want to make a scene. His year of scenes had been last year. This year he just wanted to be under the radar, attend to his studies, and hopefully survive to see the end of his Hogwarts career, "Despite what you've been told, or what you believe transpired, I was under orders not to tell anyone. I wasn't even supposed to know, no one was, least of all you lot who would have probably outed him by just being around. Everyone knew who could have kept the secret, and we all did—you, however, attacking me, in public, no less, is just an example of why you couldn't have handled the delicate situation."

She wasn't listening, apparently, or just didn't want to hear the truth, "That's such an excuse! If you weren't supposed to know, but you found out, could you not have had the courtesy to share that information with us, the people who actually care about him?"

Draco sighed. He stared at her for a few long seconds, like to make sure she was done, dead-panning, and when he was sure she was done, clearly looking for a fight now, he held up two hands—not in surrender, but in annoyance, like she needed to back herself away from him. Then he lowered them when he had the go ahead to reply, "If he had wanted you to know, you would have known. I'm sure, if nothing more than the fact that it was risky to tell you, he likely didn't bother to let you know because I'm sure, in his head, it was safer to keep your family away from what was going on; your family means the world to him, he wouldn't have wanted to put any of you in danger. Acceptable?"

"This isn't over, Malfoy, just because you think it is; you don't know what we've been through, and when Harry comes out of this and gets some perspective—"

"Right," Draco said, like he cared, with a prompt nod, and then followed her statement up immediately with one of his own, "because you know exactly what we've been through." Her lips closed, by some miracle. Insufferable, self-centered bitch. "As in my family, the Order, me... Harry. In fact, you have no idea what he's been through, and if you have some intention of making him feel guilty for not having revealed who he was to people irrelevant to the plans, then I will do everything to stop you. I assure you that you have no idea what you're even talking about, shocking, and I won't hear anymore of it." He didn't add the part that told him to further insult her, because he didn't have the energy. "I wasn't an accomplice by choice, Weasley, but if you want the truth, it's better I was there with him and none of you. He wouldn't have made it through anything without killing any of you."

"We're his family! How would you like it if—if—well, damnit, Malfoy, you don't have any friends or family like we have him, but can't you put yourself in our shoes? How can you be so cold?"

Draco twitched to keep himself from taking that comment to a familiar and unpleasant place. All right, he could be civil with Ron, because Ron had done battle; Draco had seen him work and vice versa, and their parents were very nice people. He wasn't particularly keen on any of them, and that was never going to change. Change, clearly, had not happened on their end, regarding Draco, regarding his mother, and Draco was pretty sure Ginny Weasley was stupid enough to not have yet seen the nearly identical face of Cornwell's and attach the relation. She could have her delusions, her opinions, and he really didn't care. She crossed a line by talking about his family—like her family was one tenth as great as his! They may not have lived in a burrow, but his family was historic, they were loving, they were his, and as much as she wouldn't want to admit it, Harry was part of Draco's family, now, too. He calmed himself, remembering that he didn't want to make a scene, and then looked away from her, clearing his throat, "I think we're done here. Is there anything else you want to pretend I'm to blame for?"

She turned around and stormed off, like the insolent brat she was.

Draco just stared at her retreat, lip lifted in utter dislike. He literally made an, "ugh," sound, then followed her, just ten times more gracefully, into the Great Hall. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it was the Feast, the same feast he'd been delighted to have taken part in six times before. This feast didn't seem magical at all. Dumbledore stood, gave some speech, which, like usual, fell on Draco's deaf ears. Sometimes he thought Dumbledore spoke a language that he did not. Where had Dumbledore been, exactly? He knew Cornwell had been in contact with him multiple times, but no one else had, really. Also similar, he decided, to his natural distaste for the Weasley's, was the natural distaste for Dumbledore. Okay, Draco didn't need to become a totally different person and pretend he liked everyone; he did not. Why lie? He wouldn't go out of his way to keep the dislike alive, but he wasn't going to try and bridge it, either. He and Potter had bridged a bond from two different sides, and it wasn't based on who the other associated with. Draco respected Harry. That didn't mean he had to force himself into liking those he as naturally prone to dislike.

"I saw Weasley accosting you," Blaise said, as Draco sat down, looking over at the Gryffindor table with contempt. "Nicely handled."

"Gracias," Draco offered him, at ease, as he settled between Blaise and Cory. "What's that?"

"Picture of my family," Cory replied, and handed it to Draco who took it very gingerly, gently, and he made sure not so smudge the moving frame. It was a beautiful family, full, healthy, and probably from a year or two before. There was no look of desperation in their faces, no circles under their eyes. My, how times had changed. He looked from Cory's picture and back to him, then to the picture again. Cory had aged with the summer, and Draco frowned, but in a friendly way. He had once had many siblings, and from what he'd said when they'd all met for the first time, he only had a couple of brothers left.

To have lost so many of his family members, and not even that long ago... Draco's heart hurt for him. He turned more of his attention to watch Cory eat, and then offered, more privately, away from Blaise and the chattering house-mates, "They're beautiful. Did your dad give this to you?"

Cory nodded, then seemed to sense Draco's attentive tone, like he was listening, and if Cory wanted to say more, he could. So he did, "I visited my family up in the East Corridor after Potions. I was happy to get out of there for dinner, though. If I'm being honest, my da's terrible at cooking." He took a bite of potatoes and made a sound that sounded strangely like a whimper. He pointed his fork at his mouth, like to say he had made the right decision to come to the feast.

Draco laughed in a gentle way, and he carefully placed the picture down on the table above Cory's plate and anecdotally added, "My dad's a pretty good cook; my mom's learning, though, so I can relate somewhat. It's hit or miss."

Cory laughed after he swallowed his potatoes, "Lucius Malfoy, cooking? I don't know, Draco; I have a hard time picturing him cooking. No offense, but I can only imagine him cooking House Elves or something equally disturbing."

Draco smiled, then, after Cory looked away. Yeah, uh, he was going to have to work on that "dad" bit. He was going to have to remember that no one knew about Cornwell. He went to eating his own meal. He didn't really talk with anyone else, except for a casual "yeah" or a nod as he listened to one of his dorm-mates, since they were all sitting together. It was strange, because he found himself often glancing over at the Gryffindor table, as it was habit to do at the feast. There was no Harry Potter there, though. Instead there were strangers and familiar worn faces of young people he'd shared classes with. No one was eating with the vigor of the past, but somehow the spirit of the room seemed hopeful. It was hard to say it was optimistic, though. Even the Gryffindors ate with their shoulders slouched, especially all of Potter's old friends, young Order members. It was Ron who looked happiest, and Ginny who looked the most miserable.

A late entry made her way in a few minutes before the feast ended. As soon as she stepped into the room, Draco had practically felt the tension rise from the Gryffindor table. It was Granger, and she walked over to the table and sat down, albeit far away from whom she would have normally been sitting with... if she hadn't done whatever she had. Harry had never really spoken about what she'd done, but it really must have been something huge. Perhaps, if he'd been in a different situation, he would have been able to empathize with her, but he could not, not objectively. In fact, he could not even eat with her there. Harry did not hold contempt for people he loved, even when they did wrong things—in fact, he was a sucker. For him to have been so thoroughly furious, angered, and betrayed by her... it had to have been something enormous.

Who had let her come back? Dumbledore? Surely the man was out of his mind this time. Whatever had been done by her, it hadn't been pleasant, had maybe even gotten Harry killed, that Draco had surmised, and Ron hadn't been thrilled to see her at the funeral. No one had, and from what Draco had always seen, the Weasleys had been like a second family to Granger, as well. There was no sense of friendliness, now, especially judging by the way Ron was staring at her, apparently having lost his appetite. He, too, seemed furious, but so furious that he could not move. No one else seemed to be as angry, and it then occurred to Draco that, perhaps, no one else knew what she had done.

Draco found that his temper kept rising. He wanted to walk over to her and ask her what she was doing there, or maybe he just wanted to curse her, again. Dumbledore, he was a wise man: wise-enough. He trusted everyone. It was thick, Draco knew, for him, of all people, to be upset about Dumbledore giving Granger a second chance, but he strangely settled on the idea that he didn't really care. Where HAD Dumbledore been, anyway? He sure as hell hadn't been around any Order meetings, and from what Draco knew, Cornwell barely spoke to him. It was strange, that Dumbledore would back off the way he had. He had been the one to help with the soul-switching, or body-switching, or whatever the case had been, but after that, it was like he had given the lead for Cornwell to take, but slowly. Since he had taken reign, Dumbledore hadn't made a peep.

"I'm going to head back to the dorm," Draco said, then, after finishing the last of his potatoes.

Blaise glanced at him, mouth full of pudding, unabashedly, and nodded. He didn't attempt to speak.

Draco kind of laughed, suddenly, and clapped him on the back, "Don't choke with happiness."

Blaise gave him a thumbs-up, then his thumb went back onto his silver spoon and he dug in again.

Draco found his way to Order Headquarters, wondering why so many young Order members had been at the Feast instead of at the meeting. Had he not known better, he might have thought they'd all attended the Feast for the same reason. He took the long way, the way that led outside. He walked across the green grass. It was still sunny, as the sun had yet to start going down, and it seemed criminal, almost, that everyone else was inside. It smelled good, still like freshly cut grass and the lingering scents of the bloomed flowers on the trees. He would miss this, miss the summer. He had experienced it so little this last summer, having spent so much time pent up in different Manors and Estates, but he wouldn't have changed all of the experiences he'd had that summer, either. He walked slowly, nearly dragging his gray Converses through the dry green stalks of grass, until he came to an invisible door. He entered the dark hall. There were no windows. He sighed and followed the path to the main Order room.

He passed the offices of some higher-ups who maintained bigger things, like Simon Abbott, who took care of all of their Portkey needs. All he did all day was set up schedules and Portkeys for battles that even had a chance of taking place. He and Draco worked together, sometimes, because Draco would sometimes have Portkeys to distribute when he was doing his job from in front of a fireplace. He wasn't bitter about what he did. He knew it was important to the efforts, and he was still surprised that he, of all people, had been entrusted with the job. No one had even had any complaints when Cornwell had explained what Draco would be doing to them, and they trusted him to make sure messages were delivered. They never held back. He felt valued in the Order, now, like he actually was helping the cause. It was his father's cause, in some ways, and Potter's, but because of that, it was more-so his, inside, he felt, than it was theirs. He treasured them both more than he'd ever thought he could treasure people. Thinking of it, he couldn't help but roll his eyes at what his younger self would have thought, would he have seen Draco this way, or heard his thoughts, or felt what he felt. It was so strange, how he had changed over the last two years.

Draco entered the Main room. It was empty. He frowned, pulling his hands out of his pockets. He hadn't seen an empty ANYTHING, involving the Order... ever. His first thought was that maybe something had happened and there had been an attack and everyone had opted out, but when he heard footsteps coming down the hall, he thought better and turned to see who it was.

Remus Lupin grabbed a stack of parchment off of his desk, then looked up. He seemed caught off guard, just to see Draco silently standing there, in the middle of the room, "There you are—why didn't you come earlier?"

Draco only shrugged.

Remus frowned, then, and came a bit closer, "Were you at the Feast?"

"Yeah—where is everyone?"

"In the meeting," Remus said, immediately, and motioned Draco to come follow him, remembering suddenly, it seemed, that he he was being waited upon by the Order members to bring back these—oh, maps. "There's a room better suited for meetings in a room across from Cornwell's office—just a big room with a big table and lots of chairs," he explained as if Draco hadn't had a tour of the place, as Draco joined him, his hands back in his pockets and his eyes on the ground before them. "Everyone was wondering where you were."

Draco glanced at him, "No one wanted to make sure I was safe?" He couldn't help but laugh.

Remus smiled at him, "Cornwell assured us you were safe, just needed a break—said your mother insisted you go to the Feast, and he thought that was a good idea too." He glanced at Draco and saw him smile, very slightly, at the floor. "We sent Neville to check if you were in the Great Hall. You were."

"I wondered why he wasn't there when the rest of them were."

"Them?"

"Spare me the semantics; I've had a run-in with a Weasley, and now I remember who I am in their eyes."

Remus kind of laughed, like he wasn't surprised, "Well, we'll talk more about that later, after the meeting, but the reason they are not here is because they weren't invited. It's just a meeting for the Core-Or, the top level. Only you and Neville were asked, because you play strategic roles; this information is more valuable for you to understand and know than it is for your classmates; your role is the one that probably requires the most trust. We all depend on you at some point to keep us safe and in the right direction." He glanced at Draco. "I thought you could use a bit of an ego boost."

Though he had chuckled to himself, Draco's eyebrows rose, from behind Remus, as he opened the door across from the door of Cornwell's office. It was noisy, at once. There was a discussion going on, something about a battle in Liverpool being imminent, and Cornwell was the one leading the discussion. He was standing while everyone else was sitting, and it often seemed to be this way. He seemed to be a visual person, not one who could just sit back and let everyone else dictate what needed to be done. He knew his place in what was going on—which was still unknown to about ninety-eight percent of the Order, but it didn't seem to matter. They were all really working for the same thing. Cornwell still remained a bit of a mystery to them.

"Here," Remus said, and handed the papers right off to Cornwell who was about three feet away.

Everyone was still talking, now, engaged in their conversation.

Draco closed the door behind him and smiled lightly when Cornwell looked up at him from flipping through the papers. He still seemed sick, pale, like he hadn't had any sleep. Draco had no place to tell him so, as, when he did, it fell on deaf ears. Cornwell probably couldn't sleep, even when he tried, and so, the seldom times Draco had seen him fall asleep in a chair, or while sitting on a sofa, he'd never let anyone wake him up. Treasured moments were sleep for Cornwell.

Cornwell came closer, and his hand was already on Draco's arm, "Hello," he said, softly, and something on his face changed. It seemed to switch out of Order-mode and into, "Oh, there's my slightly-estranged son who looks like a wounded puppy whose lost his best friend every time I see him," mode. Draco realized his own mistake: not feigning happiness. He tried to force on a cool smile, but then decided against it when Cornwell just kind of chuckled at the attempt. Instead of saying anything else, though, he surprised Draco with a light kiss on his cheek, and before Draco could be embarrassed, he sent Draco on his way to take a seat which was empty, on the side nearest the door, and so Draco went, nearly tripping over his feet at first. The thing was, Draco was having trouble dealing with all things Cornwell. Cornwell had so much on his shoulders, and Draco found he could not be upset that Cornwell had other things to focus on. He was just used to being around Cornwell, and seeing him all of the time, where, even in passing, Cornwell would ask him how he was doing, and... and, well, Draco was being self-centered, because there were far more important things for Cornwell to worry about.

"Oh, the beloved cousin finally decides to make an appearance," Tonks said, when she noticed him taking the seat next to her. "We thought you weren't going to show up."

Draco tried to think of a witty reply but, instead, just settled on a shrug and a quiet, "I wasn't going to."

His cousin frowned just slightly and asked, "Why not?" Concern twisted up in her eyes, and rather fondly.

"I'm having a bit of an existential crisis," was all Draco found he could reply with without going into detail.

Tonks rubbed his upper back, out of nowhere, and nodded so understandingly that it blew Draco's mind, "I think we all feel a bit like that now," she said, quietly. "Don't worry, things will be all right."

Draco turned his eyes to hers, without blinking, and posed the obvious question, "Will they be?"

"I've no idea."

"Hopeful doesn't work for our family," Draco told her. "It goes against our..." and then he trailed off.

Tonks raised an eyebrow, rather suspicious now, it seemed, "Our what?"

"Nothing," was all Draco replied, because he remembered... he was talking like a Malfoy. "Catch me up."

Tonks seemed to want to pursue the conversation, but then caught notice of their surroundings and obliged him in catching him up to speed while Cornwell was passing out pieces of parchment and Remus was passing out other pieces. They were handing out the assigned maps for tonight, so some maps were different than others, "Lucius has it on good authority that there'll be an attack in Liverpool tonight to rile the Death Eater troops—a bit like a reunion, really, all glamorous, Dark Marks lighting up the sky all over the place."

"Are there going to be attacks or is it just propaganda?" Draco asked, as he received his map, with his name on it, from Remus, who then flipped through the maps until he found the one for Tonks.

"Propaganda, we think," Remus answered, before Tonks could. "It's better to be prepared, though."

"Yeah, sure," Draco said, and glared at his map. No one else but Cornwell and Remus had a map like he did. His map showed all possible battle routes, whereas everyone else's maybe just showed one or two, their individual mission. Draco's was customized to see who would be where, when, and it was a mess of colors, names, and lines. He would have to do what he did every time and separate the map with a spell, so it was easier to read, easier to organize. That or he'd focus in on one by tracing his wand over the line of a mission's route.

After a couple of minutes of studying his map, a hand ruffled through his hair at the same time another hand reached over him and put a piece of paper down. It was a list of stops and visits Draco would be expecting, that night, in front of his fireplace. He didn't have to look up or turn to see whose hand was in his hair. It was Cornwell, and while everyone was busy looking at their assignments and talking to those they were paired with, that night, he leaned in down closer to Draco, hand on the table over his shoulder, to peer at Draco's map too. He smelled good, like Vanilla and home and Draco's childhood. He kind of breathed in through his nose as quietly as he could, to get a good, solid, and content scent memory going.

Cornwell's fingertip trailed a long red line, suddenly, and murmured, so no one else could hear, "This is where I'll be."

Draco never knew Cornwell's map or where he'd be—he'd always been privy to everyone else's information, but not Cornwell's, no one had. It was dangerous for no one to really know, aside from Remus, who was Cornwell's left-hand-man, where Cornwell was and what his plans were, because he so often was here or there and then here again.

Draco looked up at him, then, tilting his head slightly back and towards the right, eying his father.

Cornwell looked right back at him, staring him right in the eyes, "He's staying in my office for the night, or until the battle is over, where he can be under your watch," he whispered, and suddenly Draco understood. "No one can get to him there. No one. Also, though the private Quarters are safe, I'm going to ask your mother and Dickie to stay in the office with you tonight, as well."

"Why, what's wrong?" Draco whispered, panicked already.

Cornwell lowered his eyes, so it wasn't as intense, like he didn't want anyone else to look over and hear them or think something was going on, but there was definitely something going on. Instead of telling Draco just what was going on, right then, his eyes came back up, and he tapped his hand back over the map a couple of times, "If you have things to do, go do them. Be back here no later than eight; we prepare to leave at about eight-fifteen. I'll explain more later."

Draco didn't demand answers. He didn't need to anymore. He'd get them when the time was right.

Cornwell suddenly cupped the back of Draco's head, looking over him with happy eyes, and then found Draco's own eyes, once more, and then leaned in and pressed his lips to Draco's forehead. It lingered for a few moments, and then he pulled back.

Draco deadpanned at him.

Cornwell chuckled, but ever so quietly, and then kissed his cheek, his soft beard itching Draco's cheek, but Draco didn't protest, as much as he would have liked to, had he not been welcoming the affection, "I'm sorry."

"What?"

Cornwell gently stroked his cheek, "We haven't spoken very much lately. I'm sorry."

Draco was caught off guard, "I—uh—er... suppose it can be forgiven. You do have a lot of other things to worry about."

Cornwell stood up, again, but still kept his eyes on Draco's, and then he gently ran both of his hands back over Draco's hair, smoothing it down because he had ruffled it, and Draco hated that, but he appreciated the thought of Cornwell knowing that, too, so he wasn't embarrassed like he might have been at another time in such a public setting. It then occurred to him that the people at this meeting were the CoreOr—in other words, these were the members who were privy to the information that Draco was Cornwell's son, whereas the majority of other members did not know. These were the same people he'd been sharing meals with the whole summer, nearly. Had they never been officially told, there was no way they could deny the resemblance by now.

"Will you be okay if they're there with you? I'm sure Dickie will sleep, and perhaps your mother will too."

But the question really was: are you going to be okay with Harry in there?

Draco just lightly smiled, "Yeah, they won't distract me. I'm pretty good at my job."

"That you are," Cornwell replied, very fondly, and smiled. "That you are, Draco."

Draco flushed, "You're being super affectionate, you know; I'm mildly affronted."

Cornwell shrugged a bit, as if to say he wasn't sure he cared, and was sure Draco didn't, "I miss you a bit, that's all."

"I've... only been away, and barely, for about two days."

"Yes, but I liked how things were. It was good to... to be around you so much. I'd gotten used to it."

Draco felt his cheeks heating and his heart fizzling distantly, "Oh, like I didn't annoy you?"

"You didn't," Cornwell chuckled, then, and brushed the hair off of Draco's forehead with his cool palm, sadly, somehow. "You've never annoyed me. I see you as more of an appendage. You're like my arm, except now it's gone and I'm always searching for you. You're a... Phantom son."

Draco flushed, "You're not planning on dying tonight, are you?"

"No," Cornwell chuckled again, at Draco's serious face. "No," he sighed. "It's just... I'm your father."

Draco's lips closed together more contentedly, and he stared up at Cornwell. The way he'd said it...

Cornwell smiled, then, so barely, and thumbed at his cheek again, "I never got to be that before."

Draco couldn't think of anything to say, so he said nothing, hoping Cornwell could decide what was next.

He did, and confidently. He smiled, seeing Draco's reaction. He looked back at the map, then pointed at it again, "Remus will be staying behind tonight. He, of course, won't be in the office with you. He'll stay out in the main quarters and dictate who goes where, oversee everything—fill coffee, waste time, etceteras."

Remus, who had been passing, feigned a laugh, and Cornwell smiled, "Ha ha ha, you're so funny."

Cornwell ignored him, but laughed when he had walked away, and Draco did, too.

The meeting, it seemed, had ended. It must have ended before he'd gotten there.

Draco stood up, eventually, when Cornwell went back to attend to his duties of answering questions. Draco waited for him, and when he seemed ready and no one else had questions, he returned to Draco. They walked out of the room in front of everyone else and across the hall into the office, Draco first. Cornwell closed the door behind him, then led Draco towards the passageway, hand on his upper back, "He's already in there, still sleeping. I took him in earlier, and your mother will be in. Just remember, no one can get in or out unless you, Dickie, or myself are with them. I'd prefer it if none of you left until I'm sure things are safe--"

Draco turned to him, once they were in the dark, cold tunnel of the passageway, "Seriously, what's going on?"

"Nothing," Cornwell said, quietly. "The more battles we wage, the more chances are that I'll come back severely injured or... This isn't easy to say, Draco, but it has been going unsaid, and it leaves me... unsettled. I'm sure you've felt the same. I see it on your face every time I show up after a battle. I want you and Dickie safe. Harry, too. Nothing is more important to me than your safety."

"I know," Draco murmured, staring at him.

"You need to know things in case something does happen to me, and soon. You're my blood, you have the blood of Gryffindor in you, and so does Dickie. So long as that remains true, which will be always, you will need to watch your back, and you will need to watch Dickie's while he's too young to look after himself, and after that, you will both need to look after each other. If something happens to me, you need to know how loved you are and by me. It is my fault I walked away—I shouldn't have, I shouldn't have let you make that decision, but I walked away for other reasons, too. However, I do feel like I just got you back, and I'm really finally adjusting to that, now, and because I am, I need you to know how much I love you, that I loved you always," he said, and held Draco's face so carefully between his two huge palms. "I love you."

Draco didn't even have the heart to let his cheeks warm or feel silly. He felt happy. He felt good, and he kind of laughed, as did his father, as they hugged a long, solid hug, and Draco said back, not so quietly, "I love you, too."

"If something happens, all of my plans, and research—everything—"

"I know, they're in the office. I know where everything is, even back at Grimmauld."

Cornwell nodded, as they pulled back, and he just held Draco by the upper arms, looking him straight in the eyes, like pacing them both, "Good boy. I know things haven't been the same lately. I don't mean to put distance between us, but I feel like it's easier for both of us if I do. I know it's not fair to you, but I worry so much about you, because the closer you are to me, the more danger you're in, both physically and emotionally. You do have to face up to the fact that you are a target," he whispered, and Draco's eyes lowered, but only to Cornwell's chest and not the floor, because Cornwell wouldn't let him look down. "It's our fault—my fault, Lucius's fault, your mother's fault. It wasn't your choice to be my son, and I should have taken you away from all of this the minute you were born. But now, things are how they are, and you're my son, and Lucius's too, and Voldemort will want to exploit that. If something happened to you, it'd kill me—kill Lucius—and you have no idea just how much more He knows about how I love you than you do."

Draco squinted at him.

Cornwell cupped his cheek, "There are a lot of things about my past, and where I've been, that I can't tell you right now—maybe out of fear, maybe out of hope, maybe out of anger—I don't know. But we have to keep you safe, and Dickie, and your mother; she's a target too. You are all more targets if Voldemort finds out Lucius has been spying for us as he has. I know he knows Lucius is dancing a dangerous dance, but he doesn't know just how involved he is."

"How is he?"

Cornwell thumbed Draco's cheek again, and Draco found he rather enjoyed it even more than the first time, "After tonight, not so good, Draco," Cornwell said, quietly. "It's likely Lucius will be revealed, tonight, as a traitor to Voldemort, and on his own accord. Only Lucius and Voldemort know of tonight's locations, and if we show up, Voldemort will know Lucius has been working against him."

"What if he's lying?"

"Lucius loves you too much to lie to me; that bond goes deeper than lies and power in this world."

Draco thought he'd never heard a more dizzying and profoundly true statement in his life.

Cornwell wrapped his arm around Draco's shoulders, gently, as they walked down the tunnel, eyes on Draco and nowhere else, "He'll be safe, though. If things go as planned, he'll come here—he'll come to you, and you'll pull him in. You'll keep him in the office until it's over, and then we'll take him to a safe-house Albus has set up."

Draco turned to him, stopping him. He loved Lucius, his father, and there was no doubting that, but he could not pretend he hadn't doubts about what this entailed, "You want me to pull Lucius into Gryffindor's office? Does he know Harry will be there?"

"Of course not."

"It's a trap."

"It's not a trap."

Draco looked at him, "You think this is a good idea?"

"Hey, he's your father," Cornwell laughed. "Would you rather me send him somewhere less safe?"

Draco's insides screamed an answer he was shocked to hear, but then quickly muttered, "No!"

"That's what I thought," Cornwell replied. "Harry will be fine. Lucius won't be able to touch him. Literally."

"Why?"

"I took Harry in, myself. If what I believe to be true to be true, my thoughts and wishes dictate the magic of the room. Harry has up a powerful ward around him which only one of us will be able to terminate. If there's danger, the office will know. I do not know the secrets of it. I've not had the pleasure of spending as much time there as I would like, as I should have a long—very long—time ago. But I know, for reasons I can not share, that he'll be safe, perhaps even if Voldemort, himself, was in the room."

Draco was uncomfortable. Very, very uncomfortable, "It doesn't sound good."

"Your mother will be in the room. Lucius wouldn't dare hurt her. He loves her."

"Does he?"

"Don't be daft," Cornwell said, but he didn't look at Draco.

Draco stared at him, as they walked, and eerie silence easily prevailed.

"Do you think he'd be off put by how my mom has grown attached to Dickie?"

"No," Cornwell replied, honestly.

"Really? I think you trust him too much."

Cornwell snorted, then stopped, and Draco turned around to face him.

"I trust your father with my life, Draco, if you want the truth, which you do. I know he loves you very much, I know so, also, for reasons you couldn't even possibly wrap your mind around, right now, at seventeen years old, and I know his love for your mother is outstanding and possibly out of this world."

"Yes, but he's cheated on her their whole marriage, Cornwell!"

"He's a Malfoy, Draco! He's the bloody richest wizard in all of Europe, and he was raised that way—he has no time for playing house, he never has, and just because he has his mistresses doesn't meant he doesn't love your mother. You were raised by him, in this world—I'd think you'd know the dating rituals of the elite."

Draco sighed, "Their marriage was practically a business arrangement."

"In the beginning, Draco, and, regardless, just trust me. She means the world to him."

Draco twisted, physically, and then groaned, looking around the dark tunnel halls. His eyes eventually led him back to Cornwell, who still stood where he'd last been standing, "You must think I'm a fool—you all must. It was obvious the very first moment I saw him, Cornwell, and if we're getting things off our chests about lies, this should be up there with the heaviest. Even Harry knew." He eyed the man's shadowed face with one heavily arched eyebrow and a nervous bite of his lip. "I was so in denial that Harry had to yell at me to stop being a thick bastard and face the truth."

Cornwell knew what this was. He just looked away.

"Your bloody awful wife did not have white-blonde hair—in fact, it was as dark as yours."

They stared at each other for a second.

Draco couldn't believe he had just brought this up, but, now that he had, they couldn't just leave it.

"I know where you're going with this."

"Yes, well... you should."

"Just because my hair is dark doesn't mean I don't have relatives who have white-blonde hair. Obviously."

"The chances would be about one in a billion that two people with dark hair and dark eyes could produce a child with hair and skin like that, like mine. That skin is my mother's, just as mine is, and so is that hair, and, furthermore, so is the beauty mark he has on his cheek that I have on mine, and the timing of his birth adds up with the time my mother went to South Africa for, oh, six months?"

Cornwell started to stutter, but then he stopped.

Draco threw his hands out, "Are you seriously going to pretend you didn't have an affair with my mother when Draco Part Two exists?"

Cornwell gawked at him, "Are you out of your mind, Draco?"

Draco could not believe the answer, and he laughed as Cornwell quickly walked around him, then followed him, "No, but I think you are! Whatever issues I had with the—well—whatever—they're somewhat gone, because fuck, it wasn't your own fault that you didn't know who the other was when you had me, but you sure as hell knew when you had him!"

Cornwell turned around and just stared at Draco.

Draco took two steps back, neatly, and closed his lips together.

"This isn't the time to discuss this," was all Cornwell said, then, quietly. "Is that good enough?"

Draco found himself smiling, but just a little bit, "I wasn't trying to discuss it, because it is what it is, at least in my mind. I brought it up because of my father," Draco slowly explained, mind-boggled as to how Cornwell could be so smart and so stupid at the same time. "My father has no loyalties to you now, not since he's seen Dickie, and he sure as hell knows, now, that he is yours and my mother's, too—why she was away in Johannesburg, doing charity work, for a year—it's certainly a lot more clear, now, why she had to get out of England and why she never let him visit, nor myself. She actually went through with it—had another one of me. With you. So, basically, his wife, whom he did not have children with, has now had two children, by you."

Cornwell chuckled, then, out of absolutely no where, and he did it affectionately, "You're so clueless."

"I'm clueless? Then please, PLEASE, fill me in on the big HUGE puzzle piece I'm missing."

"It's not my place to tell you, Draco," Cornwell said, then, abruptly. "But I thank you for your worry, and I'll ask you, once more, to trust me. Lucius and I may not get along, and we may have history you do not understand, but we have an understanding."

Draco's head was about ready to explode, and so was his temper, but he tried to calm himself, "You don't think you have reason to question his motives when you had an affair with his wife, and you're the father of the son he's raised, and suddenly you're back, and my attention is on you, and so is my mother's, and you don't think he wants you out of the picture?"

"Had he wanted me out of the picture, Draco, he would have seen to that a long time ago."

"When you were in hiding?"

Cornwell started laughing again, his hand over his eyebrow bone, like he was just trying so hard in thinking of how to explain this without saying things that weren't his "place" to say to Draco, whatever that meant. He looked up, then, and dropped his hand, and said, "We had correspondence in the time I was gone. I'm unsure if you're aware, but he did send me letters. He'd ask me how things were, and when I didn't come back, that last time, he asked me why I hadn't. I gave him my changes of address when I moved. Had he wanted me "out of the picture," he knew just where to find me... at home, at work, and my vacation homes, as well as my Traveling Owl."

"I don't understand—are you... brothers or something?"

"Your poor fucked up life," was all Cornwell could kindly say, at Draco's world, at his question, as he hugged Draco, laughing, and Draco felt a bit like he was going to cry. He was so confused. And when Cornwell pulled back, he just shook his head, as if again telling Draco that other things would have to be revealed to him before he could understand why things were as they were. If it was not his place to say, whose place was it? "This can all wait for another time."

"No, it can't," Draco told him, so quietly, so seriously, when Cornwell had found his eyes again.

"Draco," Cornwell murmured, then, because it was raw, and he could see Draco's pain and confusion, "you already have an idea, but you just have to connect it to the rest of your family's situation."

"But you're my family, too, and my mother, and Dickie—and how could you have—and why did she leave him with you? Why didn't she bring him home? I thought she hated you."

"Why would she hate me?"

"Because you left! Because of—you know—because of the... situation."

"Draco, I was "with" your mother, in a matter of speaking, until you were about seven."

Draco gasped. He literally gasped. His eyes flew open, wide, and he stepped back and insisted, "What?"

Cornwell sighed at him, "Can we please talk about this later? We have things to do."

"What the—no, no the fuck we can not. You don't say something like that and then expect me to let it go!"

"Well, if you weren't being so damn thick, maybe you'd understand and start putting things together!"

"Don't call me thick, you arse! You have just further uprooted my sense of all stability. Explain yourself."

"Okay, Professor Dumbledore," Cornwell sniped back at him, and Draco was triumphant. "I'm having trouble understanding why you haven't figured it out yet."

"Figured what out!"

"It's not my place to tell you, Draco."

"Oh my God. If I already know, apparently, then just tell me."

Cornwell hesitated, and then put his hand out, then let it fall, "Lucius has known about me since... well, for quite some time. He was a spy for the Order back then, even before I was involved. I know he genuinely has affections for Voldemort; they're friends, if you can believe that. But Lucius has always been torn between what is right and what is wrong, and it's not clear what is right and what is wrong. It's not as easy as who's on the "good side" and who's on the "bad side." In fact, I can guarantee you that, when Harry wakes up, having spent the past month in the company of Voldemort and company, he, too, will understand the more human side of the struggle from their end. There will be things that make sense to him, things that, maybe, he even likes more about their "side" than the one he's been fighting for his whole life. Voldemort is a monster, there is no doubt, but there are more than a few of his followers who do not wish for his vision of the world, but they wish for enough of it that they stay with him. Do I think your father wants to kill innocent Muggles? No, not in any part of me do I believe that. But does he want a Pureblood society? Yes, he most certainly does. When Voldemort is gone, someone else will rise, Draco, who wants a Pureblooded society. That establishment was there before Voldemort rose to power, and it will always be a part of our society, even subconsciously. The problem is how he chose to represent that chunk of our world, to terrorize people, innocent people, and to be so extreme as to show no mercy to those magic chooses whose families have no magic in them. Lucius stays in Voldemort's pocket because he has a stake in that fight. But he knows, like I know, that there's common sense on our side, too. In fact, it's likely Voldemort knows your father has been struggling with these things for the last twenty years, from the very beginning. But he loves your father, or as much love as he is capable of. Your father is like a son to him. But if he finds out that Lucius is rising up against him, which he will, undoubtedly, tonight, there will be no going back on that."

Draco's lips fumbled for understanding, "My father's rising from within, as if to take over?"

"If something is to happen to Voldemort, it will be Lucius who takes over for him. That much has always been clear. If your father has a hand in bringing death to Voldemort, however, or, in other words, helping us find ways to bring him down, Voldemort's sympathy will wain. He will kill Lucius without a doubt."

Draco had never even thought of it like that—how could he have? He'd been too busy being a spoiled brat to think anything like that. To him, his father had always been strong and confident in his faith towards Voldemort, except for in those long-lost moments he'd watched his father, in his office, struggling openly, with his head in his hands, or staring out a window, face torn in different directions every minute or so.

"Surely you don't think a man who could love you as much as Lucius has could ever purposely want to kill innocent people? I'm sure he has—I'm not saying he's a Saint—God, no—but he's not what most people see him as. He is your father, would you not trust him to trust me enough to keep you safe? To keep him safe? On top of that, I gave him the son he could never have. I kept Dickie because the son I had was no longer mine." He stared straight at Draco.

"My father was unable to have children?" Low sperm count or something?

Cornwell shook his head in a roundabout way. He seemed to not want to be discussing this, but if there was a place to discuss it, it was here, in a hallway where only five or so men had been, "Not really, no. He just had no interest in producing an heir with your mother."

"That doesn't even make sense—if he loves her, why would he not want a child with her? He's a Malfoy, of course he'd want an heir. I'm sure my grandfather tortured him about making sure he could secure the fortune..."

"Well, I don't know what he thought, Draco. What do you think, though, as your father never did produce an heir? I mean, can you? Can you think?"

Draco glared at him for that, but it had been sweet, not mean, and Cornwell had a point. Draco sighed, ever the more confused, and the dark tunnel was not helping his concentration, surprisingly. Things were going over his head and he knew so, "Was he not attracted to her enough? Is that why he has mistresses? Do his mistresses have his children?"

"No... well, I wouldn't be surprised, come to think of it," Cornwell said, thoughtfully, after a moment.

"But when you found out about mum—at that party, in the summer—the Black reunion—Liverpool... she'd brought Lucius, right? They were dating before they were married, weren't they?"

"Dating? Do you think?"

Draco frowned, "You mean, they were betrothed?"

"Ding ding ding!"

Draco stood taller, "But he could have had children with other women, so why was it so important that you gave him a son—me?"

Cornwell sighed, then, like in disbelief, "Draco, come on."

"What, I'm trying! If I haven't "figured" out whatever all of this means, before, it's obviously for a reason."

"You're forgetting the biggest piece; you know it. You do know it, and I won't tell you."

"Stop it," Draco protested under his breath, so seriously. "I'm obviously not putting things together, but in my defense, I've learned a lot of new information in the past three or four months and I'm still adjusting. If you're sure I know, then how about you just tell me."

"I can't, Draco. It's not my place to tell you in a roundabout way. I know you haven't yet realized it because you haven't wanted to." Cornwell looked him squarely in the eyes. "How about you put the obvious together?"

Draco threw his hands out, then put them on his head, squeezing his eyes closed, "I just don't understand."

Cornwell struggled for a moment, and then asked, in a hushed voice, "Do you remember when I brought you your birthday letter this year?"

Hands still on his head, fingers in his hair, Draco sighed hopelessly, "Yes."

"And I told Harry I was your father?"

"Yes, I do remember that," Draco kind of laughed at the expression that'd been on Judas's face. Now, if only he would have been able to see Potter's horror and amusement instead...

"Do you remember how you explained it?"

"No, I just..."

Draco looked at Cornwell.

Cornwell held his hand up and squinted one eye, like he was hoping Draco was realizing, at long last.

Draco blinked at him, then, out of total confusion, "I—but I thought—oh..."

"Now that you know, it's not my place to discuss it with you, so—on to our work, okay?"

Draco just trailed him down the tunnel, lips parted in stunned confusion, feeling only... slightly foolish.

Lucius and his mother really had been betrothed, and they hadn't produced an heir because...

But what about his other mistresses? Had they been covers, too? They'd never been hidden, actually.

"Oh," Draco just muttered, hands over his face. "My whole life is a lie."

"It's not."

"But... but everything—everything I thought," Draco ignored him, his voice accusatory. "Everything I thought... is wrong."

Cornwell turned to him and stopped him, pulled his hands from his face, and found Draco's eyes with a bit of a game of trying to catch them, and when Draco let him, the lock stayed, "I'm sorry. One, for how much we've hurt you. Two, for how it has all come out in such a quick period of time. Apologies aside, none of this change the important things—we all loved you, then, and we all love you now."

"Yes, I know," Draco dismissed the point, but not ungrateful for the words. "Does he have a—does—does he have—did he ever have a..."

"Yes, of course, and for a long time. You remember him, he was always around. He was killed."

"What? Oh, wait... wait, was it—it was! It was—Daniel? Was it Daniel? Oh, wow. Wow."

Cornwell smiled, so softly, even at Draco's epiphany, "Daniel," he confirmed. "Not long after I left, actually. He was a Death Eater, too."

"Was that why Lucius was so angry, then, and why he took it so hard? Why he could never sleep? This makes so much more sense, I can't even tell you..." Draco was piecing together information about his father that had always seemed to make Lucius distant, why he had been so obsessed with the Death Eater organization the last three years. It was the opposite now. When he had time to sit down and work all of the things he'd learned this summer out, well... well, hopefully he would live long enough to see that torturous and accepting period of time come to pass, where things could be sorted in more friendly compartments in his mind.

"Yes. He... he took it very hard."

"And was that why he was so angry with you, because you're you, and they were up against you and the Order?"

"It is likely, and it was irrational, but he apologized, long after I had left here, long after that particular battle. We've made our peace."

"So why'd you go, then, if you loved my mother, and my father wasn't even an issue?"

"Because politics are involved and it was the Malfoys, Draco. I'm a Black, and not one of good social standing. We are not powerful like the Malfoys. And, anyway, I have a great respect for Lucius. He wanted to start anew with your mother, and you, and you chose him. I made my peace with that, as well."

"But I—I didn't choose him over you, Cornwell."

"It's all in the past, Draco," Cornwell whispered, then, and took his face, once more, but more strongly.

"No, no, it's really not," Draco told him, hands wrapping around his father's wrists. "You loved my mother, and she loved you."

"What once was, Draco, yes, but no longer. Once upon a time," he said, quietly.

"And then once like two years ago. Dickie?"

"Yes, but that wasn't planned. I was desperate, and she was lonely. I'm not saying your parents haven't had—I mean—relations—just not ever had children. After Daniel died, well, I'm sure you know, now, why all that has mattered to Lucius for the past three years or so has been trying to get closure. He's obsessed with bringing Voldemort down, Draco."

Draco was speechless for a long time, "How come no one ever told me? I never—I don't—I can't even process everything about—wait, and was that why your wife left?"

"No, she'd already left me by then."

"So, were you just going to spend your whole life in some tiny shack of a cabin with Dickie, and I never would have known? You'd have let my father obsess over Voldemort all by himself knowing you and Harry were the only ones who could do the damage?"

"No, because this was planned. You and I have not had contact, Draco, but Lucius and I have never stopped corresponding—it wasn't particularly friendly, but we had an understanding. Who do you think it was who saw to Lucius's safety? Dumbledore?" And the man laughed in the name of Albus Dumbledore like not even Draco had seen Lucius do. "No. Dumbledore knows nothing of Lucius's intentions toward Voldemort, and he wouldn't believe them in the first place. What gets to Dumbledore eventually gets back to Voldemort. Wise people know this; wise people are careful with what they say around him. Lucius has never spoken to me of his plans, has never even confirmed his ways have split from Voldemort's, but he knows I know, and that's why we'll work on each other's behalf for the time being. We'll keep each other safe, tell each other what we know. He's kept us on our toes and alerted us. We would have lost many Order members in surprise attacks..."

"Yes, yes, I know. What was "planned," though?"

"This, now, returning this year, now that you and Harry are seventeen, now that Harry can fight, and so can you, and because Lucius and I have been waiting for Voldemort to get strong enough to make his move," Cornwell whispered, and he stared into Draco's eyes, so close. "Like I've told you over and over, Draco, this reaches far beyond the Here and Now. Things have been planned and in the works for years. Your father is not my enemy, and I am not his. The friend of my enemy, however, is not my friend, and therefore Lucius and I will remain on different sides always. He wishes for a Pureblood society. I wish for a society where it does not matter what blood it is you have, as long as someone saw fit, beyond our realm of knowledge or understanding, to put magic in your veins. But when the fight is over, it is not Lucius and I who will be enemies—perhaps even friends, then, but it will rather be Harry's fight, should he so choose to enter into it. The threat is gone only if Lucius is the one to take over that circle when Voldemort leaves, because he is a smart man, a clever man, a just man. If it should be one of the other insane clansmen, or another unrelated madman down the line, then there will be big, big trouble. Tonight is important for both sides of this war, Draco. Tonight, the war kind of centers around your father. He will burn his bridges tonight. Things will not be any safer for you, for him, for your mother or Dickie. It is our fault that you're in so much danger in the first place, but let's face it, you love the attention."

"Basically," Draco whispered, then, and hit his father with a smirk that seemed to startle him so much it hurt, "I'm your son, and Lucius's son, and either way, I'm in danger, because someone will always be after me. And Dickie. And my mother."

"Yes."

Draco's lips parted, exasperated at all of the information that had just been flooded to him, mostly because he'd always tried to block it out, "I think I'm ready now."

Cornwell kissed Draco's cheek for a long time, and then gently took his hands and led him down the tunnel, carefully, and a couple of minutes later, spoke the last words in the tunnel, "Don't die, all right?"

Draco just looked at him and laughed.

Draco went back to his dorm and changed out of his school robes, leaving on the garments below it. He found he was tired, but somehow he had come to work through his drowse, always, when the Order needed him. He escaped out of the Common Room around seven forty-five and made his way across the grounds, ducking low behind bushes when he saw students randomly passing, walking back from the lake. He breathed in the fresh air deeply, listening to the toads croak in the distance and the low moans of things emitting from the forest from some far proximity. It was peaceful enough, but he wasn't sure whether the tension he was feeling was legitimately in the air or just something he was projecting, nervous about the possibility of battle, that night, and the damage it might produce on both sides. He had never quite worried like this. He was afraid he was going to lose those he was closest to. He felt sick as he took the last steps into the order, praying to some mystical force, whom he hoped had a favorable plan in mind, that he not lose Cornwell or Lucius, both of whom were always in danger, but especially tonight, and especially Lucius.

The order was quiet when he entered, and not because it was empty. They were all sitting around, silently, in the main room, on chairs and sitting on desks, some playing idly with stationary supplies, and listening to a quiet report coming back to them. It sounded like Ron and Charlie Weasley were on the scene, hiding behind something, or spying from a distance. They were scoping out where they were and reporting all of the things they saw—approximated distances from one clearing to another, a couple of pathways—the one on the left full of tree roots—and whilst they spoke out the scene as they saw it, Remus drew a visual map, in the air, for all of them, with his wand. This map was on their papers, he saw, as he eyed his. He gave a nod of thanks to Tonks who nodded back at him.

It was going to be a long night, it seemed.

A couple of minutes later, Ron and Charlie both popped back in to the Order's Headquarters, via a modified and illegal hack that had been crafted up with the help of Ministry insiders. It was a good thing, Draco thought, that the Acting Minister of Magic was such a clueless dope and really had no idea how to run the Ministry, probably trusted anyone who worked for him. Luckily, one of the Order's higher-ups was Lead In Charge of Spell Modification and Relocation, and another Head of Portkeys, and so, between the two of them, they made things happen.

The minutes before going on official battle duty were mostly quiet, reflective. One might have thought they were chaotic, but they weren't. They needed this time to concentrate, to get their heads on straight. In battle, especially because the Order wasn't very large, every member counted and relied on every other member to see to his or her safety. Draco had been in battle only a couple of times, but even then he had seen how they all relied on each other, had each other's backs. It was nothing like how he had seen the Death Eaters fight. Sure, the Death Eaters had larger numbers and typically darker spells and less moral conscience not to use them, but they didn't fight for the kind of reasons the members of the Order did. Sometimes it seemed like they even forgot what they were fighting for, because it was just so ingrained in who they were, and deep down, Draco felt that truly seeping into his own conscious. There was something innately right about what they were fighting for, what they were defending. Still, though, Draco wasn't entirely sold on the idea that their happy-go-lucky joyful ideal world was even remotely realistic, but he didn't tell them so. He knew they just wanted to be rid of Voldemort, his killing of Muggles, innocent ones, and Draco sided with them on wanting to end that, and soon.

He knew in his heart, though, that there would always be those Purebloods who wouldn't want to be bothered with Muggles and Muggleborns. They did taint the pool of magic, much as it didn't seem to matter to people in the Order. Draco didn't want to see innocent people hurt, but he did feel that, on some level, there was also something threatening the sanctity and pureness of the magic. Perhaps it had been his upbringing, perhaps he would never shake off those deep feelings, but he knew there were other ways to deal with this, and that was for Purebloods who disagreed to just disagree, mate with each other, and keep their opinions to themselves, and not take it out on innocent bystanders.

He could not deny that it was not his own prerogative to decide who was blessed with magic. Someone else did that, and because of this, he knew that he had no right to say someone else was tainting magic. Someone saw to it that some muggleborns WERE born with magic in their veins, and so he figured that was for a reason. However, there was absolutely no doubt that the strength of magic would weaken, as it had been weakening by decade. The power wizards had once had, like Merlin, or Slytherin, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor—all of the—it was just no longer as pure as it had once been. Centuries ago, at the tender age of 17, wizards would have been able to cast unbelievable spells with unbelievable power, but no longer. Perhaps it was a good thing. For now. Draco just worried about the century following theirs, when the power, now, was already dwindling.

In the way that it seemed like the sun had been brighter when he was a child, the days longer, and when time hadn't seemed to exist, magic had seemed, even then, so much more, well, magical. Perhaps it was nostalgia, or perhaps it wasn't. For these thoughts, Draco felt he couldn't fully commit himself to the order, because he did worry about magic. He had a lot invested in it—well, he supposed everyone did. This had been his family's life, protecting magic, centuries before he'd been born, and on both sides of his family, Malfoys and Blacks. He could not turn his back on that, the thought of how magic had been tainted. Maybe this was a way of weening out magic? Making it less powerful, decade by decade, birth by birth, until it fizzled out? The thought had crossed more than his mind.

Draco didn't particularly feel guilty. He just knew it was always something he was going to struggle with, at least for the immediate future or the next ten years. It was a trying time to be wizards, obviously, especially young ones who were still working out the world, what they wanted out of it, and what they wanted to give it. It was strange for Draco, however, because he was torn in two very opposite directions. It wasn't just that he had one father on one side, and one on the other, but that both of them were the very leads of the causes they were fighting for. Their views were so extremely different—hell, Cornwell had been raised a Muggle, had never even known he was a Wizard until he'd been about Draco's age, and, on the other hand, Lucius had been raised amongst men and women who'd been watching their family's magic being drained.

Draco found he more identified with Lucius, because the thought of magic no longer existing for his great-grand-children made him sick. Magic was a life, it was a sense of being. It was a whole different world, one that both the Blacks and the Malfoys had been around to help create in the beginning, their ancestors, and seeing its demise was more than a tad unsettling. If Draco expressed this to anyone, they would tell him that the pool of magic was not being drained, that it was evening out, that it was better that they didn't have as much unbridled power as they might once have had. They'd say that magic wasn't going anywhere, but he knew it was. He just felt it in his insides. Now, did he think that Muggleborns needed to be hurt or killed over this? No. They were magical. And, quite frankly, Draco had nothing specifically against Muggles, either. He hoped this was closer to how Lucius felt, that he knew he had no right to kill innocent people, and that, if he took over for the Bigoted Pureblood Society, he'd at least do it and come from a place that was logical, that went back to the roots of making sure Purebloods married Purebloods to maintain their family's magical line instead of pointlessly killing innocent other witches and wizards just because they weren't Purebloods.

Draco sighed, coming out of his trance on his map in order to hear a few closing words coming from Cornwell, "... and then we'll see what we can do. Ready?"

"Ready," everyone responded in unison, even Draco, because he was. He was ready.

Draco looked at Cornwell from across the room before he left. Cornwell studied him back, perhaps noticing Draco's tight shoulders, the way even Draco knew he was sitting stiffly, thinking intently about where his thoughts had been, where his loyalties resided. He knew he belonged in this fight, fighting for just the decency and life of innocent people, but he wasn't sure his heart was in it. But Cornwell was, and Harry was, and they were invested in it more than anyone else. Their lives had both been predetermined to take place in this fight, one via prophecy and one via genetics.

Draco slid off of the desk he'd been sitting on, and he just up his hand, the one with his map and papers in it, as if to wave goodbye to Cornwell. Cornwell just gave him a slight nod of his head, as if he was unsure that he wanted to go to battle knowing that something so severely seemed wrong with Draco, but Draco figured that had never mattered before, and, regardless of what his intentions and deep-seated loyalties were, he had a job to do, one that he couldn't fuck up, and so he excused himself and made his way behind secret passages and down blood-tied hallways that lit for him as he walked.

When he entered Cornwell's office, all was quiet. The fireplace was already roaring rapidly, and on the surprisingly chilly September night, it felt good, kind of lukewarm. He saw, at once, across from the table and chair he'd sat at the night before, doing his job, the long dark-brown and wooden couch that had been in the Private Quarters, and on it, still asleep and oblivious to the world, was one Harry Potter. The presence immediately had Draco's heart pounding but he pushed through it in order to get closer. He was going to be staring at Potter all night, most likely, when he wasn't doing his job or helping someone. Was it healthy for him to stare at Potter while he just seemed to lifelessly lay there, willing him to wake? No, likely not.

Draco put his papers down on the table, and then turned and looked over at his mother and Dickie, who were sitting on one of two high-backed grand chairs, and she was reading to him as he looked at the pictures, half asleep in her arms. All of these feelings came flinging at Draco when he realized, for the first time, what this meant—that she was holding her son, that she had been doing so since the moment he'd shown up. It was no wonder, now, why she seemed to love him so much, when he was her own. But, even if he had not been, Draco knew she might have loved him as such. Dickie spent so much time with her, and vice versa. He seemed to know exactly who she was, perhaps had known all along, or perhaps had no idea, but he seemed content, and happy, and Draco could almost not tell where her pale skin met Dickie's.

Draco could not help the small, indignant snort that left his nose, unbeknown to them, "Hi."

Narcissa smiled at him, having been waiting for him, it seemed, "Hello, darling."

Draco walked over, slowly, because he had a bit of time to kill before he opened the files, "What are you reading, there?" He asked, as he pecked a kiss to her cheek and then high-fived Dickie, who reached his hands up for Draco, for Draco to take him. Draco did, just because he had no reason not to, lifting Dickie right out of his mother's arms, and she just smiled at the both of them. God, this was weird. She had no idea that he really knew, and it was just... so eye-opening for him. He looked at Dickie, now, with a more official sense of brotherhood.

Narcissa closed the book, in her lap, and held it up, "A picture book about the different kinds of potions ingredients. If he's anything like you, I thought he'd enjoy it. He seems to."

Draco's eyes lit up as he eyed the book, "Didn't you used to read that to me?"

"Sure did," Narcissa laughed, fondly, eying the worn book as her fingertips traced over the faded gold lettering. "Sure did."

Draco grinned to himself, then at Dickie, who was just happily gazing at him, "Are you tired?"

"No," Dickie protested through a yawn, his little hands both covering his mouth.

Draco snorted at the snooty, precious, innocent answer that had hit him back, "Yeah, okay."

Dickie rested his head down on Draco's shoulder, so Draco bounced him a bit.

"So, what do you need from us? I assume you'd like mostly silence."

"Well, that would help," Draco admitted to his mother, as she stood. "There is a bed and a crib just behind the door, there." He motioned his head over to a door that stuck out between two shelves of books. It was a small room, but a decadent room. Cornwell sometimes got a couple of minutes of shut-eye in there. This place seemed to sooth him more than any other place did, and even Draco somehow sort of felt... better... when he was here.

Narcissa's eyebrows rose, "A crib?"

"Most likely. Dickie has Gryffindor blood; I'm sure his presence is sensed."

"Enough for a crib to pop up, really?" She seemed very impressed. "These quarters never cease to surprise me."

"Let's hope it's only ever good surprises," Draco laughed, as he handed Dickie back over to her. "Sleep well."

"We'll be just in there if you need anything. Good luck, sweetheart." She cupped his cheek.

Draco sighed, "Why do you both keep doing this?" He asked, cocking an eyebrow. "I'm starting to fear for my life."

She didn't seem surprised, "We just love you and you have a face for affection, that's all."

"A face for affection? Merlin," Draco snorted, and she chuckled at his horror. "Goodnight."

Draco made sure they were all settled before he let her close the door so they could rest. Dickie was already half-asleep in his crib when his mother had shooed him out and told him it was almost eight, and it was. He took his seat, again, but didn't immediately write the script to open his files, eying the clock. He had a couple of minutes to kill, so he sat back in the chair and watched the light from the fireplace cast delightfully dancing shadows over Potter's limp body and his covers. It was warm in front of the fireplace, so Draco got up and took one of the blankets off from over him, one of the heavier ones, and threw it over the back of the couch. He figured that if Potter was perfectly conscious, just without being conscious, and was hot... well, there could be nothing worse except for being unconscious in the first place. And so Draco sighed with contempt before he signed in his scripts.

Draco saw, at eight o'clock on the dot, on his map, that everyone was where they were supposed to be.

Nothing happened for at least fifteen minutes. It seemed, in this time, that everyone was just getting a sense of what was going on on the scene. Draco watched their dots move around his maps. The further apart they spread, the more the map zoomed out and he could zoom in on specific people if he needed to. It was strange, he thought, that there didn't seem to be an attack thus far, so, most likely, it was just a propaganda rally and there was no immediate danger. He wasn't sure that they were going to start a battle, nor was the Order. If anything, they'd grab Lucius and maybe a couple of guilty parties to turn over to the Acting Minister to keep the public in high-spirits, or as much as they could manage to be, about putting more Death Eaters to trial.

Draco twirled his quill between his fingertips as he watched Harry. His eyes went back and forth between Potter and the map, his right leg crossed over his left, resting comfortably in the over-sized, high-backed chair. He didn't find it as hard to concentrate as he would have thought. The thing was, there was nothing he could do for Harry, now, to bring him back, except do what he could to try to help heal him, but what that entertained was not yet known to him, perhaps not known to anyone. The good news was that he still had a heart-beat, and that, for however long he had opened his eyes, for Cornwell, he had been conscious, and there. That was, of course, a wonderful sign, one that delivered those who would see to his health and recovery, hope.

"Draco," spoke up, and Draco looked over at the fireplace to see Remus. "We're all coming back."

"That's good news, but why?"

"We've gotten Lucius safely out, and now that they think we've kidnapped him, they'll react. We need new strategy and a regroup."

"Right," Draco said, in a matter-of-fact way, and as Remus disappeared from before him, the dots on his map started to reappear on the list of those who were "in" the Order and available to fight. When everyone was back, including Cornwell, Draco just sat back instead of going out to see what was going on. He was mostly relieved because Lucius's name appeared on the list. This was just one more lucky night, he thought, and now that Voldemort was likely to be suspicious about Lucius's absence, the fights would be more personal. More people would get injured, hurt.

Draco picked up the map, then, about to close out his script for the night, but right as the first words left his mouth, something occurred to him. He pulled the map closer to his eyes, looking at Lucius's dot. It was larger than the others, sort of misshapen. What did this mean? There hadn't been any special dots marked on the map, non for enemies or anything of the sort, that Draco knew. Cornwell and Lucius seemed to be in his Order office, and no one else. As he watched the dot closely, it separated. Oh, shit. He jumped up and scribbled down on a piece of paper

You've been compromised. Someone came with Lucius. He's by the mirror.

He pressed his wand to the paper and it disappeared, no doubt reappearing in Cornwell's hands a second later. It was the fastest way he would have been able to do or say anything. He threw about ten spells in front of the fireplace to close it all off, and then he was out of the office and running down the hallways, the lamps igniting with each one he passed, once more. He kept glancing down at the dot—it was undeniable, this had been planned. Order members were now all over the place, no longer just in headquarters. He saw some running through the school, and when he looked at Cornwell's office, he saw that it was still three people—Cornwell, Lucius, and someone else. If this wasn't a big deal, he wouldn't have heard panicked yelling, would he have?

Draco ran through the tunnels until he found the passageway into the Order's main room. There were four people there, two Weasleys—one being Ron—and Tonks and Moody. Tonks went to say something to him, as soon as she saw him, all of their wands raised at him as he came through the passageway. They didn't lower their wands but rather turned them away and towards the office doors as Draco held up his map, as if to say he knew that something was wrong.

"Someone came with Lucius."

"Impossible, I didn't see anyone with him," Moody growled with a snarl at Draco.

Draco held up the map, "The map doesn't lie," he whispered back. "It doesn't say who it is, which means the person is unidentifiable."

"Do you think it's..."

"No," Moody replied to Tonks, "Voldemort wouldn't attempt Cornwell here. He's a coward but not a fool."

Draco moved back into the passageway before they could say anything and let it close behind him. He sealed it off with a spell, so they couldn't come after him, and he just ran, keeping the map in his hands. There was only one way he could get into that room. Perhaps he should have taken someone with him, and perhaps not. But he needed to be rational, here, and the best way he could do that was if he was alone. He was be most useful to whatever the situation was that way. He found his way to the office passageway and pushed the bookcase gently from the opening so he could hear what was being said. He pushed it only about a forth of an inch open, but it was plenty enough to hear what was going on.

"When Lucius said you were back, I almost didn't believe him."

Draco had no idea who this person was; he'd never heard his voice before. It was low and terse.

"He never exactly went anywhere," Lucius replied, after a tense silence. "He was in hiding."

"Yes, thank-you for the insight, Malfoy," the man replied snidely, and Draco's eyebrow hooked up. "My, my, won't the Dark Lord be pleased when he hears you've been cohorting with Cornwell Black all of these years. I squirm to think of what'll be done to you. Justification for your years of getting away with everything without any punishment. I dare say that'll be remedied and then some."

"And just how do you suppose," Lucius asked, then, suddenly, "you're going to get out of here? With us, no less?"

"Why, calling in reinforcements, I suppose. Would you like to call them or shall I?"

"No one can Apparate in," Lucius told him, and Draco could hear the amusement in his voice.

"Who said anything about Apparting?" The man questioned, and seemed very, very amused. Too amused. Too pleased. With himself. Draco saw, in the mirror, the man open his coat and pull out a handful of black marbles. He tossed them into the air, and instead of falling to the ground, they floated. Genius, Draco praised, because he knew exactly what had been done—he'd heard about them working on this, years before, but his father had said it would never be possible. Well, someone had figured it out.

Draco saw, too, that the man was pocketing two wands—Lucius's and Cornwell's—shit.

Cornwell finally spoke, "Do you really think there aren't wards up that will kill them as soon as they materialize?"

"I'm still here, aren't I?"

"Yes, because you're not a Death Eater," Cornwell told him, as if he were a very dumb child, tapping on his own forearm with his index fingertip to signify his lack of the Dark Mark. "Go on, try it. I will celebrate the embarrassment Voldemort will likely experience when he reacts to the news that his very best Death Eaters having been bested by Dumbledore's Wards again." Draco knew he was bluffing, but whoever this other man was, he did not, clearly. He eyed Cornwell strangely, and Draco's heart pounded. He had to do something. They were wandless, and now that he noticed, seemed slightly haggard, as if there had been a bit of a physical fight before all of this had transpired and had arrived at the passageway.

"You're lying," the man told Cornwell, frankly, as if he was absolutely positive about it.

"You never did have a good Poker face," Lucius muttered under his breath at Cornwell, but in a conversational way that, in the face of possible injury or death, in front of this man, almost made Draco start to laugh. He even turned to look at Cornwell, arms crossed over his chest, to tell him so. They were amusing, Draco suddenly realized, when Cornwell just returned a vaguely unamused glare. They were all too familiar in a way that he was quite acquainted with. They were like he and Potter in sixth year: kind of enemies but kind of kindred spirits, too. Just like Draco wouldn't have wanted to be stuck in the presence of psychopathic madman with anyone but Harry, and probably vice versa, it seemed to be somewhat the same for Lucius and Cornwell.

"So, what do I do now? I've got your wands and Death Eaters ready to take you. Any last words?"

"That's a little dramatic," Lucius said all of the sudden, and then he looked at Cornwell. "Isn't it?"

"I was thinking the same thing," Cornwell replied, conversationally, with a sudden smile, as if they weren't being threatened within inches of their lives. "Are you ready to face the epic and violent wrath of Voldemort, Lucius?" Cornwell asked, and put his hands up in the air like he was preparing himself, pulling a face, and Lucius took on the same mocking tone, at once, and did a little movement with his head, like he wasn't at all intimidated, amused at the idea rather than terrified.

"Oooh, I don't know, Cornwell," Lucius replied, his hands up by his face, shaking from side to side in a jazz-hands sort of way, every bit theatrical. "Are your legs just shaking with fright? Mine sure are."

"Smart asses," the man grunted. "That always was your problem, Lucius. It won't get you out of trouble this time."

"Won't it?" Lucius asked, and then dropped his arms from over his chest. "In all seriousness, how do you want to do this? Do you want to take us right here or would you rather take us to him?"

"I have my orders, none of which I need to discuss with you."

"Oh, teste," Cornwell cooed with delight, under his breath. "I think you have a foe, Lucius."

"Well he damn sure never had any friends," the man barked at Cornwell, pulling his wand out.

Cornwell chuckled, "You're such a fool!" Draco was enthralled by this exclamation and then mind-blown by the one that followed it. "Malfoys don't have friends. They have allies in high places. Why do you think you were sent to get Lucius? These," Cornwell said, and motioned to the small black marbles in the air, "are probably his weakest Death Eaters, likely the youngest ones he has. He sent them in here to get killed, as did he send you. You probably already know this, as well, but wouldn't want to admit it, and who would?"

"Would you like to see just whom he sent?"

"Yes," Cornwell replied, and Lucius went to protest otherwise. "Show us our equal opponents."

The man lifted his wand, and just as he went to flick his wrist, Cornwell grabbed a bronze platform that he kept on his desk to protect the wood surfaces. He lifted it with both hands and then slammed it into the side of the formation of marbles and into the closest wall, as hard as he could. The marbles hit the wall at unbelievable velocity, and, then, the most amazing thing happened. Bodies just unfolded from the marbles, just completely broke loose, and every single one remained unconscious on the floor.

Cornwell turned and looked at the man, who Lucius had pinned to the desk. He was now holding three wands. He tossed Cornwell's to him, took his own, and then pocketed the other. Ever grateful, Cornwell muttered a wrist-binding spell, and then Lucius cast a body-bind on him, then everyone else. When the room was all silent, Cornwell turned and looked in the mirror, directly at Draco, "You can come out, Draco."

Draco pushed open the study door. He had been ready to help if he had been needed, but he had trusted in Lucius and Cornwell, as Cornwell had asked of him. He had let them handle it, for they were far wiser than he was, and more skilled, and more instinctual. They worked well as a team, Draco had to admit, and he had liked watching them from that tiny crack, in the mirror's reflection. He walked around and then looked at the whole scene before him. There were six people on the floor in body-binds, lined up by the door, completely unconscious.

"Are they dead?" Draco asked, first, as he approached Lucius, who extended his hand out to Draco's form, and, somehow, Draco ended up in an embrace with him. It was nice, and warm, and he smelled like his father, the one he had known in the studies, and not the one who was obsessed with the Death Eaters, now which had a new spin on it. Draco hugged back, because he had every reason to do so, and then was let go.

"One of them is," Cornwell replied, as he examined one closest to the door. "Completely dead."

"Unbelievably idiotic," Lucius spat, then, as he walked over to Cornwell and looked down at the man. "To bring in orbs like that, knowing that they could be killed with a simple smash against a hard surface. It's the most irresponsible plan I've ever heard. I'll tell you, the ranks over there are going to shit. You'd think it was Rita Skeeter heading up the intelligence."

Cornwell laughed, then, as Lucius examined their bodies, and backed up to where Draco was. He smiled at Draco, so softly, like to tell him it was okay, that this was really what it was like between he and Lucius, that things were okay. He smiled as if to say, "see, we're okay, just different." It was true, they did seem okay. Not friends, really, but allies, and suddenly Cornwell's words about Malfoys and allies seemed even more profound than when he'd first heard it. For Cornwell to have said that meant he very well knew just what it meant to be a Malfoy.

"I wouldn't put anything past Rita Skeeter, come to think of it," Draco said, oh so seriously.

Cornwell ruffled his hair, "Ah, like fathers, like son."

Draco was mortified.

But Lucius turned, at Cornwell's statement, and just laughed with him, so genuinely. He always had gotten enormous joy out of Draco's humiliation. "Indeed."

"Fuck my life," Draco simply told them, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"No," Lucius told him, still as airily aristocratic as ever, but way more human, and relaxed, "it's a good life. You have to look at all of your idiosyncratic as gifts, for no other child has ever been raised to be more all-encompassing than you have been. You have my ideals, and everything else is Cornwell's—s'all right, a good combination if there ever was one."

Draco shook his head at them, because they just seemed so amused with themselves and complimentary of each other just to one-up the other, "Look, before this turns into some weird conversation—because there have already been way too many of those lately—can we just take care of this mess?"

"Already on it," said Remus, as he came through the door, with eight other members behind him.

"Now," Cornwell said, and draped a comfortable arm over Lucius's shoulder, "let's get you someplace safe, shall we?"

Lucius scowled at him but didn't say a word.

Draco squinted at them, "Where is that, exactly?"

"Ah, Draco, no one can know that."

"No one but you?" Draco asked Cornwell, and Lucius nodded instead. "Will I be able to see you?"

"Yes, when things are more settled and safe," Lucius told him, his voice gentle. "We will have time to talk about... many things."

Draco felt as though ten pounds had just been dropped from his chest area alone, "Really?"

"Yes," Lucius told him, as he led Draco towards the door, his hand on Draco's upper back. "We will talk."

"About Daniel, as well?"

Lucius, for a moment, was stunned, but after sharing a look with his son, gave a small nod. First, they hugged, and it lasted about a minute, for comfort, for assurance that the other was alive, and okay, and things would be better, when there'd be time to apologize, time to explain, and then Lucius gave a prompt nod. "Yes, that'd be okay."

Draco smiled, then, mostly to himself, and said goodbye to Lucius before Arthur Weasley took over.

Cornwell and Draco walked together out of the office, and Cornwell seemed to be putting off a vibe that he didn't quite want to be bothered by anyone right then. When they were out by all of the scattered and cluttered desks, Cornwell turned to him and grasped him by the shoulder, "I'd like it if you stayed in the Quarters tonight."

Draco turned around, then, because of the grasp, and stared into the dark eyes, seeing something in them that was so warm, that made his inner eleven year old run around screaming with joy he'd never have admitted to when he was eleven, but Cornwell knew otherwise, "Why is that?"

Cornwell shrugged a bit, and then moved his hand so it went to Draco's other should, leaving his arm draped over both, "For my own peace of mind, that's all. We miss seeing you at breakfast, too. All of us."

"I'm supposed to stay up at the castle and "maintain a sense of normalcy," though."

"I think normalcy, for you, after this summer, will come more to benefit you if you see us more often."

Draco looked down at his shoes, thoughtfully, then back up to Cornwell, "Okay, if you insist. I'll arrange it so that I can stay."

"That was like pulling teeth, huh?" Cornwell chuckled, as they walked down the hallway.

Draco felt his cheeks flush, "I like being home, that's all."

"And home is us?"

"Yeah," Draco found himself saying. "Home isn't a place anymore. Look at all of the families here. We all call this home for now, because we have our families here, and we're lucky. So, I guess... yes, home is where you, mum, and Dickie are, and Harry, too."

"And Lucius."

"And Lucius, but he won't be here tonight, will he?"

"No, for awhile he'll be in hiding, but I'm sure we can arrange you to visit him, perhaps over Holiday."

"That's a really long time from now."

Cornwell seemed to realize this, too, and said, as he squeezed Draco's shoulders, "We'll figure something out." And he sounded like he meant it.

"Speaking of," Draco said, knowing they were heading to Gryffindor's office to collect Narcissa, Dickie, and Harry, and assure them that everything was all right, "when we get back to the Quarters, can we talk for a little while? I know you'll be needing some sleep, but if I could just... snag a few minutes?"

"Sure, what about?"

"Harry."

"Of course," Cornwell assured him, looking at him as they walked together. "I surmised as much. This will be our next battle, our next... challenge."

"I had figured as much, as well. This means we start all over again, doesn't it?"

"So long as Harry is as he is, yes. And if..." Cornwell cleared his throat. "If we do manage to heal him, or he comes to consciousness, he will need rehabilitation. His body has been lying still for the past three, four months, and he'll have to readjusted to it, and his body will have to naturally come back from this. He is, for all intensive purposes, nearly dead. That's the truth of the matter, Draco, and we all need to face, individually, the possibility of him not pulling through this."

It was different hearing it coming out of Cornwell's mouth. It affirmed the direness of the situation.

"Well, then, what are we going to do to help heal him? What can we do? Who can we even trust?"

"Just let us worry about that," Cornwell said to him. "But if you have any ideas, I'd love to hear them."

"I just..." Draco sighed heavily. "Do you think someone should be stretching his muscles out?"

"Quite. As a matter of fact, that was one of my first concerns. That'll be something I'll be tending to, first thing tomorrow morning. Connor Figg, Arabella's nephew, is a doctor of physical therapy. He's a squib, also. He's a prime candidate to ask for help. He's well versed in magic, of course, and has won numerous awards for his work. Arabella trusts him completely, even more-so than some of our Order members who are actual medi-wizards. We have to keep Harry's presence really just to us, the Core-Or. Too many people know already."

"The Weasleys," Draco offered.

"No, Arthur and Molly—even Ron—should have always known. I'm more concerned about the youngest girl knowing—she shouldn't have been told. A mistake, I'm sure, Molly Weasley regrets by now."

"You think she'll tell someone?"

"Not necessarily, but she's not as invested in this as we are. Her attempts to help may backfire for all of us." He paused. "There's something off about her. I don't trust her intentions to be coming from a place of teamwork."

"Someone should talk to her, then."

"Yes, but who would she listen to?"

"Ron, perhaps," Draco suggested. "He could easily shut her down, pull the best-friend card. It would trump whatever card she thinks she has." If it had come out a little too forcefully, Cornwell... had noticed, because he cast one small glance at Draco, with the tiniest raise of his eyebrow, before disregarding the infliction from Draco's voice.

Cornwell was thoughtful only for a few seconds, and then he looked at Draco, once more, "Could you talk to Ron about it, see what he thinks? Gather some ideas from him? I think you'd get the most out of him."

Although they were not on the best terms, Draco had high hopes that a conversation about Potter's well-being would be held with high-regard. Ron knew Draco wanted the best for Potter's safety, now, and so he couldn't think Draco was up to anything but what he insisted he was. The only person who could closely watch Ginny, who was trusted enough to know about Harry, was Ron. Perhaps he already was watching her? Ron seemed to have a keen paranoia about everyone around him, including those closest to him. A side-effect of war efforts, no doubt, "Yeah, I'll see what I can do."

When they entered the office, they both stopped. There was no Harry Potter on the couch.

Cornwell went for the bedroom door, immediately, asking Harry's name.

Draco didn't know what to do, but, for some reason, he turned to his left and looked in the corner.

Harry was sitting there, in a brown chair, between two bookshelves, pale, exhausted, and slumped over.

Draco's lips parted, "Harry?"

"He's not in the..." Cornwell began, coming out of the room with Narcissa, but his voice trailed off when his eyes landed on the slumped figure.

Harry raised a bony hand to his throat, though it seemed to take a lot of effort, and croaked in the hoarsest, most painful voice anyone in the room had ever heard, "Something to drink, please?"