Architects of Memory (1/3)

[lili_pad]

Title: Architects of Memory
Fandom: Harry Potter
Author: Lilith (lilithilien)
Summary: The battle of Hogwarts changes the wizarding world forever -- but not in a way that anyone could possibly expect. Can Harry put things back to rights when neither his friends nor his enemies remember The Boy Who Lived?
Rated: NC-17 eventually; the first parts will be Gen
Length: 116,500 words
Disclaimer: All rights to these characters belong to J.K. Rowling and her publishers and agents. I make no claim to ownership and expect no monetary gain, and I'm writing this story purely for enjoyment
Note: This is an AU, but its starting point is the end of Deathly Hallows and the first (in my version, only) time that Voldemort attacks Harry. Those who died in canon are still dead, R.I.P. And if the Hallows exist, they aren't known in my world. Thanks to sarcastic_jo for beta, advice, and all-around awesomeness.


Architects of Memory


Prologue


The Blood Sport was Diagon Alley's trendiest sports bar on match day, but at half two on this Wednesday afternoon, only two patrons sat amidst the swirling photographs and Quidditch scarves. One was a familiar face in the pub: Daffid Llewellyn-Jones, the Caerphilly Catapults' keeper, would have been swarmed by fans, were there any around at this hour. As for the other ...

"That's absolutely thrilling," Rita Skeeter cooed, running a scarlet nail along the rim of her sherry glass. "I always find Quidditch strategy fascinating … don't you?" Before her companion could answer, Rita added, "And I'm sure you've had no small part in turning the Catapults around this year."

("The handsome keeper blushed when asked about his part in leading the Catapults to their biggest victories in nearly fifty years," scribbled the Quick-Quill beside her. "His sea-green eyes grew distant, as if they could gaze back to the glory days of 1956, when Caerphilly defeated the Karasjok Kites in a momentous ...")

"Rita Skeeter?"

The quill sputtered on the parchment as Rita turned to see who had interrupted her thoughts. "Yes?"

"Rita Skeeter. Don't you recognize me?"

With a long, polished fingernail she lowered her bejewelled spectacles to give the young man a good once over, top to bottom. Or bottom to top, more accurately, since his scuffed loafers were the first things that caught her eye. Atop these were rumpled corduroy trousers, Muggle-style, and a threadbare homemade jumper on which she could just make out the letter "H." His face, like the rest of his body, was painfully thin, though his shoulders were broad enough. She guessed he was around eighteen years of age, although round eyeglasses made him look much younger. Unruly black hair completed the look, as if he'd just rised from bed amidst a frightful hurricane. He wasn't someone who most people would look at twice—more like one they'd stumble over as he lay drunk on some unnamed street corner—but Rita, who never forgot a face, studied him carefully.

"I'm sorry, should I?"

"I'm Harry Potter!" His voice held barely contained agitation, and his fists clenched and unclenched as he stood there. "Don't you know me? I defeated Voldemort!"

"Who?" Rita squinted at the strange name, then shook her blond curls dismissively. "I'm sorry, Mr ... Potter, is it? I'm in the middle of an interview, so if you'll just ..." Her words trailed off with the flick of her hand. Rita knew the boy hadn't moved, but she turned back to her companion with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, Daffid. You were saying ..."

A roar slowly grew, like the sound of a subway train emerging from a tunnel, bringing with it the splintering sound of liquor bottles exploding at the bar. Rita squealed as the Ogden's Old Firewhisky mirror shattered behind them, leaning into Daffid as he quickly covered her with his cloak. At any other time she'd be appreciating the athlete's finely toned body, but now all she could think of were the shards of glass raining down. She peered up just in time to see the bartender run over, wand drawn, forcing the young man to back toward the door. His protests rang throughout the empty pub:

"But I'm Harry Potter!!"


Chapter One

Memento mori
1. remember that you must die. [Latin]
2. an object, as a skull, serving as a reminder of death or mortality.


"Harry Potter ... the Boy Who Lived." Voldemort's words were sweet as a whisper, soft as a breath. They spoke of a lover's disbelief at being loved, of the wonder that something so special could be given so freely. They drew Harry forward as gently as a caress, belying the madness of the battle that swirled around them, and of the Death Eaters closing in like hungry wolves sensing wounded prey. There was nothing but unblinking red eyes and those words that Harry had heard all his life. He recognised the sounds, he knew what they meant, but they didn't make sense. He couldn't reconcile it with the other words he'd heard from a dead man's lips:

"So the boy ... the boy must die ..."

Truth be told, Snape's surprise had been greater than his. Harry had always known it would come to this final moment when he and Voldemort would stand face to face. For years he'd tried to deny it—for years he had struggled to live. But it made so much more sense this way. His fate was inextricably linked with this creature's—it had been since he was just a baby. And all this time, unknowingly, he had carried a small bit of the devil's soul inside.

In these last moments on earth, Harry had to wonder if that other's soul had always been apparent to the people around him. Was that why people called him a "powerful wizard," when what they really meant was that he had a penchant for the dark powers? Was that why Sirius had died, because in that parasitic part of himself Voldemort could plant anything he wanted Harry to see? Was that why Malfoy stared at him with those haunted eyes, drawn to the darkness that Harry hid inside him?

Red eyes blinked out the memory of grey and shook Harry from his musings. He would not waste these final moments thinking of Malfoy, of all people. He turned his mind to his friends, the ones still fighting for their lives in the castle, and the ones who had already given their lives that night. The ones who had given their lives over the years, with their own blood buying the time he needed to get to this point. This was what it had all been for.

"Come closer, Harry," crooned Voldemort, his high voice richer and more seductive than Harry remembered. "Come closer so I can see the boy who lived one last time."

As if enchanted, Harry moved toward his enemy. The ring of Death Eaters rose like a black curtain around him, but he hardly noticed. For the first time in his life he wasn't eyeing his escape. He'd come here for one purpose. "The boy must die." But as he took his next step, his foot flew out from under him, sending him toppling to the forest floor. At first he wondered if a Jelly Legs curse had been cast, but he hadn't heard any spell uttered; besides that really didn't seem to be Voldemort's style. When he lifted his hand, dripping of blood and slime, he knew what had transpired: he had slipped on the spilt entrails of Nagini.

Harry's stomach turned as he looked at the snake's deadened scales, still glistening with gore. Her lifeless body stretched out of sight, past the column of Death Eaters. And though he couldn't see it, Harry knew that somewhere out there, crushed under her weight, was the body of Fred Weasley. The twins' spectacular offensive had caught Voldemort by surprise, leaving the snake open and vulnerable to their airborne attack. Swooping low enough to graze Nagini's skull, Fred was struck with a Killing Curse from an attendant Death Eater—but not before the sword of Godric Gryffindor had lodged between the snake's onyx eyes. She'd tried to fight off the attack, his twin had reported, his voice choked with tears, but the weight of Fred's body drove the sword straight and true. In the chaos George had escaped, bringing news that the last of the horcruxes had been destroyed.

The last, save one.

Harry did not stand, and he did not raise his wand. He had no doubt that, in that instant, he could defeat the Dark Lord. The killing curse had to be intentional, and here on his back, surrounded by viscera, bile rising in his throat, he could say the words and mean them. Death was all around him, the very air hung thick with blood and venom, and Harry's hatred felt just as thick. And if Harry Potter couldn't say it himself, then that part of himself that was Tom Riddle surely could …

But Harry kept his wand by his side. The boy must die, and so he would, leaving the final task to someone else. Ron and Hermione, he hoped it was, or Neville, who'd shown his quality by sustaining Dumbledore's Army. Or one of the few remaining members of the decimated Order. He told himself again that his sacrifice was worth it. He tried not to remember that he was just a seventeen-year-old boy who would never see the end of the war.

The clearing grew deathly quiet, the witnesses to his murder waiting anxiously. Harry waited too, never moving his eyes from that inhuman face. At last he saw a ripple across the creature's pale throat, watched the thin lips part and flicker just briefly with satisfaction. And then the world exploded around him.

AVADA KEDAVRA!

As the green flame roiled toward him, Harry closed his eyes, fell to the ground, and died.



From far away came a low rumbling. Straining his ears to listen, Harry finally realised it was voices he heard, second by second growing clearer. He couldn't make out the individual words, though, nor could he tell who was speaking, so with great effort he cracked open an eye. The movement was almost painful; it seemed his eyelids had cemented themselves shut when he …

"When I died," Harry remembered.

He forced open both eyes at that thought, fixing his sight on the dim outline of two people sitting not too far away. The images were blurred, the colours running like one of Monet's paintings, but as the top was half-carrot red, half-fawn brown, Harry had a good guess who they might be. "Ron?" he croaked, his vocal cords hesitant to cooperate. "'mione?"

"Harry!" Hermione squealed in happiness as they both flew to his bedside.

Ron gripped his shoulder tightly. "How're you feeling, mate?"

Harry smiled to find himself with his friends again. "I'm alive," he mused as he strained to sit up. "I thought for sure I was dead."

"Oh, Harry," Hermione sniffled, taking his hand. Harry squeezed it tightly. From the way Ron moved, Harry suspected the boy had slipped his arm over her shoulders. Suddenly he had a desperate need to see his friends more clearly.

"My glasses…"

Ron handed over Harry's glasses and his wand. "Not that you'll have much use for this yet," he shrugged, "but when you need it."

Harry slid on his spectacles and gave his friends a careful once-over. Both looked tired, dark half-moons under their eyes giving away their many nights standing sentry in the infirmary, and too thin, which wasn't surprising after months living rough. But they were still here, still alive. And that reminded him of the others who weren't. "Who …" But no, he wasn't ready for the names, not yet. Instead he asked, "How many … were lost?"

Hermione looked nervous, as if she didn't want to answer, but after a minute Ron said, "Fifty-four." His voice choked, and Harry remembered that Fred was among them.

"He was a hero, Ron. I couldn't have done it without him." Harry reached out and clasped his friend's wrist, but Ron just stared back, an odd expression on his face.

"Couldn't have done what?"

At that moment, his bedside curtain was whipped back and Madam Pomfrey bustled in. "I thought I heard voices." She smiled kindly at Harry. "And how is our patient this morning? Finally awake, I see."

But Harry's mind was stuck on Ron's words. Maybe he hadn't succeeded after all. He was still alive—he wasn't supposed to be alive. "Do you mean we didn't …"

But Madam Pomfrey chose that moment to grip his jaw, tilting his head to the right and the left. Finally she seemed satisfied. "There, it looks like you're all mended," she announced, patting his shoulder. "You're a very lucky boy, Mr Potter. The earthquake destroyed most of the forest, it was almost impossible to get you out."

She sounded distinctly delighted with their difficulties, but that wasn't why Harry shrank from her grasp. "Earthquake? What earthquake?" He turned to his friends in alarm. "He's dead, isn't he? Please tell me he's dead. Tell me somebody killed him …"

"Killed who, Harry?"

"Voldemort!" Harry practically lunged from his bed. This wasn't the time for joking around. He'd just sacrificed his life, or tried to anyway. "I was the last horcrux, I should have died, but I'm here … just tell me he's gone, okay?"

Hermione looked like she was going to cry, while Ron just looked uncomfortable. But Madam Pomfrey said soothingly, "Don't worry. Just temporary amnesia. It's quite common in cases like this. He'll right as rain by the weekend." He knew her smile was supposed to be reassuring, but at the moment it didn't bring him any comfort.

"I don't have amnesia!" Harry insisted. "I remember it all, Voldemort, the battle … he was supposed to kill me…"

"Old Mort who?" Ron asked.

"Voldemort!" Harry almost shouted. "He Who Must Not Be Named! The Dark Lord! The one whose soul we've been hunting down for the past year!"

Now Ron really looked confused and Hermione looked ready to burst into tears. Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips, then nodded briskly. "Right, let me get a potion to help you sleep."

"I don't want to sleep," Harry insisted. "I need to see the Headmaster!" Then he remembered that Snape was dead, had died and given up his secrets, had sent Harry to his death. But now Harry was alive, his friends didn't recognise Voldemort's name, and fifty-four people were gone in what they thought was an earthquake. Harry felt like he must not really be awake. This was a nightmare, that must be it. He hadn't woken up yet, not really.

But if he wasn't awake, how could he smell the thick musky odour of the sleeping draught that Madam Pomfrey was stirring? How could he feel Hermione's thumb against the back of his hand, rubbing hard enough to abrase his skin? How could Ron's hair look bright as Crabbe's Fiendfyre?

Harry couldn't answer these questions himself. He needed help. "Where's McGonagall?" he demanded. "I need to see Professor McGonagall."

"Now, Mr Potter," Madam Pomfrey chided, "the Headmistress is far too busy to drop what she's doing and visit students. She sometimes stops by at dinnertime, you can see her then. Now, be a good boy and drink your potion."

And Harry knew then that something was terribly wrong, because in all his years at Hogwarts, the Headmaster had never been too busy to drop visit students in the infirmary. At least not when that student was him. But the thick purple brew the Healer handed him, flavoured with blackcurrent and holly, did its job well. Almost immediately Harry was tugged back into oblivion. The last thing he remembered, after feeling the glasses lifted gently from his face, was Hermione's hand clasped tightly in his.



Harry didn't wake up for dinner, and if Professor McGonagall stopped by to see him he wasn't aware of it. He slept straight through until morning, and would probably have kept right on sleeping if not for what sounded like thousands of glass vials tumbling from their shelves and shattering on the stone floor. Harry sat up with a start, instinctively reaching for his wand. Someone sitting by his bed jumped up too—it was Ron, he realised, recognising his friend's red mop.

"You clumsy girl! Just look what at you've done!"

Madam Pomfrey's admonishment from the other side of the curtain reassured him that they weren't under attack, and for just a second he imagined Tonks might come storming around the side, hair blazing in indignation. But then he remembered that Tonks was dead, and Remus, and so many others. "Fifty-four", Ron had said.

He'd also said "earthquake" and "who?" when asked about Voldemort, so Harry wasn't sure exactly what to think.

But as the boy approached him now, radiating with real joy to see his friend awake, Harry found that he wasn't all that bothered by all that. "Hey, Ron."

"About time you woke up," Ron teased. His hand brushed Harry's, which still gripped his wand tight. "You think maybe you should put your glasses on before you try using that?"

"Oh, yeah." Sheepishly Harry fished for the glasses at his bedside. The rims settled pertly on his nose, he grinned up at Ron. "So," he said slyly, "where's your better half?"

"My better half?" Ron asked, confused. "Oh, you mean Hermione?" He gave Harry a mock glare that slid into a resigned sigh. "She's in the library, of course. Where else would she be? She spends every waking minute studying for her N.E.W.T.s … or else hounding me because I'm not studying."

"Her N.E.W.T.s?" Harry exclaimed. "But surely she's not planning to sit them this year?"

Ron stared at Harry as if he'd just grown another head. "It's not like she has a choice, is it? Besides, she wants to do them. She's looking forward to them."

Harry shook his head in disbelief. "But there's no way she can catch up! Not after missing all …" He stopped when an idea hit him. "Wait, she didn't get ahold of another time-turner, did she?"

Ron frowned, as if weighing the chances of that. Finally he shrugged. "If she did, she hasn't told me. Not that I'd want to sit through those classes again…"

"Or at all," Harry smirked.

"Too right, mate. No use worrying about it now, right? In a fortnight it'll all be over, and I'll be joining George in the shop, I reckon."

Harry's face fell at the mention—or rather the lack of mention of Fred—before Ron's words registered. He looked at his friend in confusion. "But … you're not planning to take them, are you?"

"The N.E.W.T.s?" Ron scowled. "I kind of have to, don't I? Mum would murder me if another Weasley dropped out without finishing school."

"But … you're not ready," Harry insisted. "You'll fail them for sure!" At Ron's hurt look, he quickly added, "Oh, I will too, I know. Surely there's someone we can talk to about getting them postponed, someone in the Ministry … maybe someone in the Order …"

Ron was staring at Harry now as if he not only had two heads, but both heads were wearing full clown makeup. "Get them … postponed?" He repeated the words slowly, like a different language. "You can't just get N.E.W.T.s postponed. Can you?"

Harry didn't miss the slight hopefulness of Ron's question, and hastened to reassure him. "I'm sure we can. After we explain about the horcruxes, that we missed classes because we were hunting them down, I'm sure they'll give us as much time as we need."

"What are you talking about, Harry? We didn't miss any classes. Well, except for a couple of Herbology classes after the quake flattened the greenhouses. I'm not sorry those nasty mandrakes are gone, but I actually felt sorry for Professor Sprout. But now Hagrid's built a new greenhouse and for the last week we've been …" Ron stopped abruptly. "Harry? Are you okay? You're looking a little funny."

Harry's throat was tight, so tight he didn't know if he could speak. He knew he wasn't dreaming now. He was awake as he'd ever been. He could feel everything, from the cool spring breeze streaming in the open window to the burled curve of his hawthorn wand. "You don't remember the horcruxes?" Harry finally choked out. At Ron's blank look he tried again, his voice more powerful this time. "You came back—you destroyed Slytherin's locket!"

Ron rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. "Are you sure you're feeling okay, Harry? Maybe I should get Madam Pomfrey …"

Ron was backing away from the bed even as Harry called out, "No, Ron, wait." He held up his wand, certain that his friend couldn't mistake the light-brown wood for white holly. "Here, how do you explain this?"

The ginger-haired boy moved back closer, peering anxiously at the hawthorn stem, then back at Harry. "What?"

"Look at it!" Harry insisted, waving the wand in his friend's face.

"It's just your wand, Harry," Ron said in the aggravatingly steady tone one would use to calm a wild animal.

"But it's not," Harry insisted. "It's Malfoy's. Hermione broke mine when we were in Godric's Hollow."

"Malfoy?" Ron asked, seeming unsure about the name. "Do you mean Draco Malfoy? The prefect in Slytherin?"

Irritated, Harry said, "Yes, that Malfoy."

"But why would you have Draco's wand?"

And now Harry knew the world was turned upside down, because there was no way Ron would ever have said Malfoy's name so charitably. "Are you telling me you don't remember what happened at Malfoy Manor? When Bellatrix Lestrange wanted to turn us over to Voldemort?" When there was no recognition, he added what he knew his friend could never forget. "You don't remember when she cruciated Hermione?"

Ron's face had been blank, but now his look of disgust was impossible to miss. "Merlin, Harry, what are you on about? That's a terrible thing to say! I just can't believe you'd …" Faltering, he backed away from the bed. "I'm calling Madam Pomfrey, I think she'll want to see you."

Before Harry could protest, Ron was gone, leaving Harry's mind spinning faster than the wings of a Golden Snitch. Ron didn't recall anything from the last year. There must be a spell that affects memory … but no, it wasn't just a year. He'd had no recognition of Voldemort either, of the Dark Wizard who Ron had feared since even before meeting Harry. And he'd called Malfoy "Draco" without even a sneer. This was more than a spell. It was as if … as if everything related to Voldemort had been excised from memory, leaving all else untouched. Was that even possible?

Before he could ponder this dilemma, Madam Pomfrey swept in. She examined Harry's eyes, his tongue, his ears, all the while keeping up a steady stream of chatter. "I told the children that patients mustn't be distressed, but will they listen? You need rest if you're going to recuperate. Rest and sleep, and maybe a little more chocolate." From her apron she drew a cocoa square and handed it to Harry. "Eat that, Mr Potter, and you'll feel better in no time."

Then the nurse turned to Ron, still lurking in the doorway. "Have you no classes, Mr Weasley? Perhaps you could be broadening your mind rather than upsetting my patients."

Ron flushed, still looking uneasy from his altercation with Harry. "Yes, ma'am. I'll see you, Harry."

"See you, Ron," Harry called, dismayed that his friend was leaving before they'd made up. But he didn't know what he could say. His thoughts were still spinning, knotting together tighter than the witch's wool in Mrs Weasley's knitting basket, and he didn't have a clue how to begin untangling them. He hardly noticed when Madam Pomfrey pushed him forward to fluff his pillows, then pressed him down into the soft hospital bed.

"Now, Mr Potter, you just lie back and relax. You needn't worry about a thing."

But Harry knew that wasn't true. There was plenty to worry about.



Professor McGonagall's visit that evening didn't cheer him any. She sat for fifteen minutes as he ate dinner, answering his questions with growing incredulity and impatience. After she left, whisking her stiff plum robes before her so forcefully that they snapped, Harry went over what she'd said:

(1) No one had ever heard of Voldemort, Death Eaters, or the Boy Who Lived.

(2) The previous Saturday, Hogwarts had been rocked by the worst earthquake ever seen in the highlands. It being Parents' Weekend, the school was full of adults, many of whom were killed as they tried to flee the destruction.

(3) Professor McGonagall had assumed the headmistress position after Snape perished in an inextinguishable fire on the seventh floor. (Dumbledore had died the previous year, of natural causes. He was over 150 years old after all, McGonagall reminded him, a respectable age for any wizard.)

(4) As far as anyone remembered, Harry had been at Hogwarts all year, as had Ron and Hermione. And he would most certainly be sitting his N.E.W.T.s with the rest of his class.

(5) Now it wasn't just Ron and Hermione who thought he was barmy.

Harry poked at the bangers and mash on his bed tray; his appetite had vanished so completely that even the custard tart looked unappealing. His head was a muddled mess and getting messier as he tried to make sense of such a ludicrous story. For one, Harry doubted an earthquake could do any damage to Hogwarts, charmed as it was. Even more worrisome was the denial of Voldemort. It was worse than after the Tri-Wizard Tournament, when the Ministry denied the Dark Lord had returned. At least then his friends were on his side. At least they'd believed him.

But what if they believed him now, Harry mused, and were just trying to protect him? It seemed a half-cocked way to go about it … but then, most of their previous efforts to protect him had been clumsy and heavy-handed. Maybe this was just some crazy plan that they'd cooked up to get him to move on with his life.

This explanation made a certain amount of sense. The last seven years of his life had been overshadowed by He Who Must Not Be Named; he'd never had a chance to do all the things a teenager was supposed to do. He wasn't even really sure what those things were, but he had a pretty good idea that they involved lots of Quidditch and girls and maybe a few thoughts on what he wanted to be when he grew up. And maybe this was his friends' twisted way of giving him that life, now that Voldemort was dead.

Because he must be dead, mustn't he? Harry remembered seeing red eyes, the scent of blood and torn flesh, and the green flame of death hurtling towards him. If he survived, then surely the curse must have backfired, somehow, like it did before. And since the horcruxes were destroyed, then Voldemort was truly dead.

But the horcruxes weren't all destroyed. One that Ron and Hermione didn't even know about had remained, inside Harry.

Oh Merlin, could he have a piece of Voldemort still living inside him?

The thought made his stomach churn, threatening to bring up what little dinner he'd managed to swallow. It was at that moment that Madam Pomfrey appeared carrying a basket of clothes.

"Oh dear," she exclaimed, dropping her basket and rushing to Harry's side. "You look terrible!" Already her wand was out and she was waving it over his body, head to toe and back again. "I was just coming to say you can go back to your dorm. But maybe it's too soon?"

"I'm fine, really," Harry insisted, suddenly desperate to escape the sterile walls of the infirmary. "My stomach's just upset. I … I think dinner disagreed with me."

Madam Pomfrey assessed his half-eaten dinner with a critical eye. "Here, eat this." She pulled a square of chocolate from her apron. "It should settle your stomach." As he bit into the charmed sweet, she peered into Harry's eyes and waved her wand over his head a few more times. Finally she conceded, "Well, I suppose you can go. But I'm going to send a message to have your friends collect you. Here are your clothes," she continued pointing at the basket, "and your robe is on the peg. Get dressed, but wait here for them. I don't want you leaving alone."

"Yes, ma'am," Harry murmured.

He peeled his pyjamas off as soon as she left, pulling on the same jeans and cotton jumper he'd worn the week before. The house elves had done a thorough job of cleaning them; there wasn't even a trace of blood left on his white runners. His school robe had been Scourgified too. Harry sniffed it, sure the stench of death would still be clinging to its fibres, but he smelled nothing save the vaguely citrus freshening charm.

Unwilling to return to the bed where he'd spent the past week, Harry settled into one of the visitor's chairs. They were stiff and terribly uncomfortable, and he wondered just how long Ron and Hermione had spent there, watching as he slept. Fidgeting into a better position, he gasped when something sharp poked between his ribs. Harry fished into his deep pockets and found two broken sticks held together by a nearly translucent thread. He rubbed his thumb over the splintered holly, feeling every bit as empty as that night in Godric's Hollow.

Ruefully, Harry looked to the cabinet where his other wand—where Malfoy's wand—lay. As if it'd been conjured by the thought of the other boy, he heard the Slytherin's haughty voice just on the other side of the curtain. "Here are your potions, Madam Pomfrey."

"And were you able to do up more sleeping draughts? Your last ones were excellent."

"Yes," Malfoy drawled, and Harry could almost see the prideful sneer on the boy's thin face. "And more Pepperup, too. And I've finally located Snape's powdered moonstone so I can finish the Draughts of Peace you wanted."

"That's wonderful, Draco. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Harry's felt like gagging again, but this time it had nothing to do with his dinner. His enemy was up to something, wheedling his way into the infirmary, getting on Madam Pomfrey's good side. This had to be part of some grand scheme to poison all of Gryffindor House or some equally malicious plot. Harry refused to even entertain the idea that Malfoy had changed his spots. He might have saved the boy's life not once but twice, but he had no doubt that this was the same old Malfoy.

Which is why he was so surprised by the next thing he heard.

"Millicent asked me to tell you she's sorry for breaking those potions yesterday." Harry had never heard before Malfoy use that tone before. He sounded almost … remorseful. "She feels terrible about not seeing the shelf floating there."

Shocked to hear his enemy speak up for anyone but himself, Harry peered through the curtain at the back of Malfoy's robes. A slight breeze made the fine fabric ripple like black ink up his back, like the black blood flowing from Nagini…

"Well, that's one of the dangers of having a mobile apothecary, I suppose," snapped Madam Pomfrey, shaking Harry from his memory. But then her voice softened. "If you'll tell the girl she must be more careful, she can come back. I can't really turn away volunteers, can I?"

Harry raised his eyebrow. Malfoy making potions, and now Slytherins volunteering in the infirmary? Without a doubt something was going on here. And Harry was going to find out just what it was.

As Draco turned to leave, Harry whipped open the curtain. "Malfoy," he said, a warning note in his voice.

The Slytherin stopped, looked at Harry as if he was surprised to see him there … and then, to Harry's amazement, half-smiled. "Potter, right? You've recovered, I see."

Harry eyes narrowed. Malfoy was definitely playing at something, acting like he didn't recognise him. "No thanks to you, I'm sure."

Harry's reply didn't have the intended reaction. Instead of flying at him, Malfoy looked taken aback, perhaps even a little … hurt. "What's that supposed to mean, Potter?"

At the last moment, Harry realised he shouldn't let on that he knew about the Slytherins' plan to poison his housemates. But Malfoy wouldn't try to protect him—he could get the truth of the battle out of him at least. If Voldemort was still alive, the boy wouldn't be able to keep from bragging. And if he was dead … well, after all these years, Harry knew his classmates' face would reveal any secrets he harboured. "Oh, just that I wouldn't even be here if not for you and your stupid Death Eaters. How's your family, by the way?"

Infuriatingly, the boy just stared at him through bored eyes and replied evenly, "Well enough, thanks. Why are you asking?"

Enraged by this acquiescence, Harry sputtered out, "So Lucius isn't in Azkaban where he belongs?"

Draco's eyes shot open wide and for a second horror banished his passivity, his features coming alive as surely as if he'd been struck. "Azkaban? Why ... what are you..." But suddenly blankness fell like a sheet before the boy's face. It happened so quickly, and so completely, that Harry couldn't tell if it was due to Malfoy's sense of control or, perhaps, some sort of Imperius spell. "Potter, I've hardly exchanged two words with you in all the time we've been at Hogwarts. I don't know why you feel the need to slander my father now, but I refuse to listen to this."

His boot heel clicked on the stone floor as he turned to go. In a last ditch effort to keep Malfoy talking, Harry blurted out, "Wait! I have something of yours!" That gave the Slytherin pause, and he even stepped forward past the curtain as Harry made his way to the bedside cabinet. Proudly the Gryffindor held up the wand, certain that the sight of the smooth hawthorn wood would jog memories. "I took it off you at the Manor. You were there for Easter break. Fenrir was there, and your Aunt Bellatrix, and she killed Dobby..." Harry gasped for breath, almost pleading, "You remember that, don't you?"

Malfoy reached into his pocket and drew out a long thin stick. It glistened, a rich chestnut red, as the boy rolled it between his fingers. "This is my wand. This has always been my wand. Father bought it for me on my eighth birthday. He didn't want me waiting until I was in school to start using magic." Finally this was the Malfoy Harry remembered, conceit dripping from his lips. "When I was younger, I was afraid its griffon feather meant I'd be sorted into Gryffindor." Harry drug his eyes from the gleaming wood to the boy's face, expecting to see a familiar sneer there. To his surprise, there was nothing. "But I wasn't," Malfoy continued in a painfully polite drawl, thick with affluence but none of the venom Harry'd come to expect. "And as I said, we've hardly ever spoken, so there's no reason a Gryffindor would have my wand. Now, if you'll excuse me, Potter, I've wasted enough time here." He paused, then added thoughtfully, "I do hope you return to normal soon."

Spinning on his heel, the Slytherin turned to leave, but his grand exit was ruined by Ron turning the corner. Their heads met with a crack and Malfoy fell onto the stiff chair; Ron remained standing, steadied by Hermione behind him, looking dazed.

"Draco? Are you okay?" Hermione asked, her concern shocking Harry even though she kept ahold of Ron's arm. "Do you need the nurse?"

Harry held his wand at the ready as he stared at Malfoy, expecting he'd need to curb the explosion of curses on all Weasleys past, present, and future. Instead, the blond boy stood with as much dignity as he could muster, smoothed his robes, and said through his clenched jaw, "I'm fine. Now, goodnight."

Harry's mouth dropped open and he couldn't even reply as Ron and Hermione bid the boy goodnight. He was still speechless when his friends surrounded him, not offering a single bad word against their mutual enemy. "It was an accident, I'm fine," Ron assured Hermione as she continued to fuss. It all felt too surreal for Harry, and he was quiet as they led him to Gryffindor Tower.

He had too much to think about and his head was a jumbled mess. The only thought that consoled him was that it was only a matter of time before Malfoy showed his true colours.


Chapter Two

Suo jure
1. in one's own right.
2. in one's rightful place.


The Gryffindor common room was almost exactly as Harry remembered. A blazing hearth fire banished the chill; radiating out from it were groups of students, some reading, others talking, some, like Ginny and Dean, engaging in mutual tonsillectomies. Lavender and Parvati laughed over the latest issue of Teen Witch while Joshua Nickels and Jimmy Peakes, the Gryffindor beaters, mended their broomsticks. The room smelled of cinnamon and old shoes, a strangely comforting odour that Harry suddenly realised he'd missed. He followed Ron and Hermione to their usual spot left of the fireplace. Along the way he passed Orion Henricks and Seamus Finnegan, engaged in a fierce game of exploding snap. "Howya, Harry," Seamus ventured, then cursed as his card burst into flames.

"Hey, Seamus," Harry laughed, grinning at his classmate.

His smile faltered when he saw Dennis Creevey idly punching buttons on a CD player. Muggle electronics didn't work at Hogwarts, but Mr Creevey had never figured that out, and each holiday he loaded his sons down with devices that became objets de arte in the common room. "Colin should be here," Harry thought. The boy should be looking up at him with that gormless grin that simultaneously annoyed Harry and made him feel like the king of the world. Now, remembering all the times he'd brushed him off, he felt low as a snake. "Colin, if I could do it over again..."

Dennis glanced up as if he'd overheard these thoughts, and Harry approached him. "I'm sorry …" he stammered, "about Colin, I mean."

The fourth-year boy looked up at him, his guileless face looking so much like Colin's that Harry wanted to cry. "Dad won't talk about it at all," he said quietly. "Is that normal?"

Panic raced through Harry; his legs wanted to flee, to carry him far away from Dennis and his family's sorrow. Facing a forest full of Death Eaters had never been this hard. But Harry knew he had to stand his ground. Colin wasn't supposed to have been there, he wouldn't have been there, if he hadn't thought Harry was a hero.

Not feeling like a hero at the moment, Harry kneeled beside Dennis' chair. "I don't think there's anything normal about any of this," he confessed, picking at the loose threads in the upholstery to avoid looking at Dennis. "It's not fair that he died just because he wanted to be there … here, I mean," Harry caught himself, "here at Hogwarts. And when things aren't fair, they can take a long time to get used to. But … I don't guess there's any right or wrong way to be. Just let your dad have some time…" Harry swallowed hard. He was hardly the one to give advice on grieving. It seemed only yesterday that Sirius had died, and not a day went by that he didn't long to talk to his godfather. Time didn't heal wounds, not really. It just made them bleed a little more slowly.

Dennis stared intently at Harry's fingers laced in the frayed golden threads. Finally he looked up with an almost embarrassed expression. Harry smiled gently. "Colin was a good wizard, you know. And he was a good friend to me. I'm going to miss him."

"I am, too," Dennis murmured.

His voice sounded so small and scared. Without really thinking about it, Harry wrapped his arms around the small boy. "He was proud of you, Dennis," Harry said against the boy's head. "And I'm sure he'll be keeping an eye on you, wherever he is now." He felt the other boy nodding against his shoulder, heard the sniffle he tried to hide. Harry was never at ease comforting people—hugging was much more Hermione's style—but he couldn't move away from Dennis. He waited until the snuffles stopped, until his thin arms loosened from Harry's back, and only then did Harry pull away.

"Thanks, Harry," whispered Dennis.

Harry nodded and patted the boy's shoulder before standing up. When he joined his friends by the fire, he realised he hadn't felt like such a hero for a long, long time.



It was after midnight when Harry made his way to the dormitory, leaving Ron and Hermione staring at each other with moony eyes. After a week in bed he doubted he'd be able to sleep at all, but it felt like his head no sooner touched the pillow than he was shaken awake by Ron and rushed down to breakfast. He didn't feel rested at all. He blamed it on those sleeping draughts that Malfoy had made.

As he entered the dining hall, Harry let Ron go ahead, taking a moment to survey the room. Still full, it felt more empty than it should. The Ravenclaw table seemed especially sparse; Harry spotted Luna Lovegood's shaggy blond locks and wondered if even she would think him crazy if he asked who'd fallen from her House. The Slytherins were all there, of course, with Malfoy in the centre lording it over all of them. Harry scowled as he remembered last night. He'd tried to tell his friends about the plot to poison the school, but they'd given him that dubious look he was beginning to know far too well, then assured him that a prefect would never do anything to harm Hogwarts students.

"Well," Harry reminded himself, "it's certainly not the last time you've had to go it alone. Just wait, they'll see."

He picked his way carefully through the hall, keeping his eyes down so he wouldn't have to look at the head table. He didn't think he was ready to see that Snape wasn't there. Harry still hadn't come to terms with all he'd heard that night. Years of distrust were hard to release, but his suspicions had done the man a grave disservice. And to imagine his Potions professor in love with his mother…

"Harry, mate, going to stand there all day?" Ron elbowed him in the hip even as he shovelled a mountain of bacon onto his plate.

Neville scooted over to make more room for Harry. When he sat, his gaze returned to the Slytherin table. It wasn't his enemy that caught his attention this time, it was the boy sitting to his left. Goyle was pale and stared at his food with a forlorn expression. Dark rings under his eyes gave away sleepless nights, which Harry figured made sense; no way would Goyle be stupid enough to touch Malfoy's deadly sleeping potions. Then again, Malfoy was no potions master. The draught might have gone wrong, or Goyle might have eaten something he shouldn't have—that was highly likely. Or what if the boy was simply one of Malfoy's guinea pigs?

"What're you looking at?" Ron asked, reaching over Harry plate for the jam.

"Don't you think Goyle looks ill?" Harry said. This might be just the proof he needed of Malfoy's plot. "You don't think he might've been poisoned, do you?"

Hermione twisted to look over her shoulder and then turned back, her forehead wrinkled. "He just lost his best friend, Harry."

Harry had actually forgotten Crabbe. Even so, he couldn't bring himself to feel the same sympathy for Goyle that he'd shown to Dennis. It was Crabbe's own fault, creating the Fiendfyre that he couldn't control. But then the boy had never been the brightest bulb. It was probably just as well that he wouldn't be able to use that maliciousness any more. There was enough of it still sitting at that table. Narrowing his eyes at them en masse, Harry pronounced, "All the Slytherins ran away."

"Everyone ran away," Hermione said harshly. He started to protest, but when Ron cast him a warning look, he bit it back. His best friends didn't even remember the past six months they'd spent together. And last night with Neville and the other Gryffindors had convinced him that no one else did, either. Hogwarts' earthquake had been a terrible tragedy, but nothing concocted from the evil mind of the darkest of wizards.

"So Seamus is starting a pool for the match on Friday," Ron said to crack the building tension. "I've got twelve Sickles left over from Hogsmeade, I'm putting it all on Ravenclaw."

"Yeah?" piped in Dean. "I need to get in on that. I caught the Slytherins' practice last week—they're looking strong.

"You wouldn't bet against Ravenclaw!" exclaimed Harry.

Dean shrugged one shoulder, the one not draped across Ginny's back. "If Gryffindor's not in the Cup, I'm not too bothered by who wins, really."

"You really should've been playing this year, Harry," said Ginny.

Harry should have consoled the girl, who he knew felt guilty for Gryffindor's poor Quidditch record, but his mind was miles away … or at the next table, at least. He'd looked over to glare at the team, but been caught short by the sight of Malfoy and Millicent Bulstrode leaning close and whispering. When the boy said something that made her giggle, Millicent tossed her black hair over her shoulder. Harry started in shock: the girl was flirting with Malfoy!

It was at this point that his enemy should have turned to Harry with a spiteful sneer, but he didn't. Instead, he reached for his coffee, grinned at Zabini, and leaned in to whisper something to his last remaining henchman. To Harry's amazement, Goyle's face brightened and he said something that made Malfoy laugh heartily. It was a look Harry had never seen on Malfoy … and it made his chest suddenly tighten, as if it wasn't big enough to hold his lungs.

"Harry?" Hermione's voice shook him from what he was sure were the early signs of a heart attack. Uncle Vernon had complained of them often enough; now he wished he'd paid more attention. "You need to eat. You're never going to get your strength back if you don't eat."

"Maybe you should stop by Madam Pomfrey's for some Pepperup," Dean suggested with a wink at Ginny. "It'll really get you going…"

"We don't need to hear what's got you going, Thomas," Ron interrupted, covering his ears as his sister giggled. "Keep that to yourself, thanks very much."

There was no way that Harry was going to touch any Pepperup potion, but he decided that, for now, he'd keep his reasons to himself too.



"Harry," Hermione had said as they left breakfast that first Monday, after he'd finally choked down some porridge and pumpkin juice under her watchful eye, "I know this week's set you back, so I've put together a study schedule. I thought that after Astronomy we could go over it."

Harry agreed at the time, but a few days later, looking over the meticulous grid entirely filled with Hermione's neat handwriting in different colours of ink, he was having second thoughts for at least the hundredth time.

"There's no way I can do this!"

Ron grinned, but wiped the smile away as Hermione frowned from across the table. "Of course you can, Harry," she reassured him with well-practiced ease. "You've only got two more hours of Herbology this afternoon, and then three hours of Charms. After dinner we really should try to do some Transfiguration exercises … Ron needs help with that too …"

Hermione's voice faded to a soft drone as Harry stared at the schedule. He wasn't sure he would have passed all his N.E.W.T.s. even with a full year to study. With just ten days the situation was hopeless. And after just a few days of intensive study, his head felt like it was going to explode.

And the worst of it was that no one believed why he was so far behind.

Each night he tried to make his friends remember, talking about the Basilisk and the locket that Kreacher had squirreled away or Death Eaters like Quirrell and the polyjuiced Barty Crouch Junior. He'd shown them the lines carved into his hand, hazy words scabbed, scarred, and paled, but they'd just said that of course everyone knew Miss Umbridge was evil; wasn't that why the Hogwarts Board had dismissed her? At times there seemed to be some vague remembrance. Ron recalled a dream about an enchanted version of wizard's chess and Hermione admitted that lately she'd had a strange urge to go camping. But whenever Voldemort came into the picture, it was as if their minds had been wiped. The night of the Quidditch World Cup, for instance, passed quietly enough … or as quietly as could be expected with the all-night celebrations of the victorious Irish team.

As awful as it felt to have Hermione and Ron doubt him, it almost felt worse to have forgotten all the good things that they remembered. Instead of battles with You Know Who darkening their days, their biggest worries had been grades and the outcome of the House Cup. And finding dates to the Yule Balls, which sounded every bit as terrifying as it was in Harry's memory.

"Don't you remember?" Ron had quizzed him the previous night. "Ginny was furious because you hadn't asked her." Harry tried to imagine enduring the redhead's wrath and realised that the Christmas week he'd spent with Ron and Hermione was quite peaceable by comparison. "That's when she finally gave in and went with Dean. And now look at them." He rolled his eyes at his sister, who sat perched on the chaser's knee.

But Harry didn't remember any of it. He felt like he'd been living in a different world. And the routine at Hogwarts, when so much had changed, was driving him mental. His time in the library was spent staring at textbooks that might as well have been Greek for as much as he got out of them. He couldn't even remember which subject he was supposed to be studying until he flipped over the book before him. Hortus Magicus. Herbology, then. Yes, the sketches of plants probably should have given that away.

Like the non-magical Papaver somniferum (opium poppy), Papaver moriferum induces a dreamlike and sometimes paranoid sensations. Unlike its stationary relation, however, Papaver moriferum stalks its prey and leaves victims in a moribund state that may prove fatal without the antidote (see Wake Robin). Once treated, they often report disorientation and a lingering chill as the opiate filters through the nervous system...

Harry shuddered, slamming the book shut. Disoriented he might be, but if he'd been attacked by a walking, stalking poppy, it certainly hadn't left him with any sense of well-being. "Do you know anything about how memory charms work?" he asked suddenly.

"Mhmm," Hermione murmured without looking up from her book. "And you'd better too or Flitwick won't be happy."

"No, I don't mean how to do them," Harry said. "I mean, how do they really work?"

Hermione paused as if she was about to push him back towards his Herbology book, but at the last second her curiosity took hold. "Do you mean like Obliviate?"

"Yeah. I mean, does it remove a person's memory completely? Is it like … like taking out part of their brain?"

Hermione shook her head vigorously. "There's no surgery involved, obviously. It just …" She smiled bashfully, surprising Harry. "Actually, I've been thinking a lot about this lately. I think it's more that the charm conceals the memory in a way that makes the person forget they have it." When Harry frowned, she continued, "Think of it like in the Autumn, when you pack away your summer clothes. Your clothes are still there, but they're put away where you don't think about them, at least not until you unpack them the next year. Just like Obliviated thoughts stay in a person's head, just confounded, until the charm is reversed."

Harry nodded. He didn't mention that he'd never had so many clothes that he had any to put away, but he thought he understood the principle. Which meant that if this was a charm, his friends' memories were still there. He just had to figure out how to crack through the spell.

"Oh, Harry," exclaimed Hermione, "it's got to be a memory charm! Madam Pomfrey thought so herself—nothing else makes sense. But she tried to reverse all the ones she knows about. I've been re-reading Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes to see if she missed any, but there are just so many ... and those are just the older ones. I'd love to get hold of Mnemone Radford's notes, but most of them are still classified …"

She was talking about him! Harry realised with a start. Nobody was even considering that they'd fallen victim to some Dark Magic. No, they thought he had his memory erased … he who'd been subjected to all sorts of mind-scrambling spell reversals while he slept in what was supposed to be the safety of the infirmary.

But nowhere was safe now, even without the spectre of Voldemort haunting the wizarding world. The infirmary was overrun with Slytherins and even his friends conspired to muddle his brain. Frustrated and angry, he stood, his hands balled into fists. "Maybe I'm not the one who's been confounded!" he exclaimed. "Why doesn't anyone question what really happened? Or is it just so easy to believe I'm crazy?

"Harry," protested Ron, leaping to Hermione's defence, "don't get so mad. Nobody thinks you're crazy. We just think you got hit by something accidentally … maybe something for a Muggle who got lost on the grounds…"

"Oh, is that what we think?" Harry indignantly hissed. "That some Muggle accidentally stumbled into a castle that's been hidden for centuries, and that I accidentally got in the way? Maybe the Harry you know would be so stupid, but I'm not."

Ron glared while Hermione wore the almost tearful expression he saw so often these days. But Harry didn't care. He would have gladly gone on, had not Madam Pince rounded the stacks, her pinched face blazing with anger. "Mr. Potter, I will not have you making such a ruckus! This is a library!"

"I was just leaving," Harry grumbled, shouldering his backpack. After a last glare at his two classmates, he stormed through the heavy door and out into the hall.

At the top of the staircase he paused. He hadn't thought about where to go, once free. He just wanted to go away, far from the people who didn't believe him and the world he didn't know. But his mind was made up when he saw a pale blond boy on the floor below, hurrying toward the hospital wing carrying a small wooden chest. Malfoy, up to no good, surely, and this time Harry might catch him in the act.

For once the stairways cooperated and he made good time to the infirmary. The Slytherin had a head start, though, and by the time Harry arrived, Malfoy had disappeared deeper into the ward. Harry crept quietly past the beds, most empty, but a few screened off to give their inhabitants some privacy. He hoped he wouldn't need to peer into the individual beds, but as each step took him closer to Madam Pomfrey's office, just out of sight behind the last curtain, he suspected he might.

But as Harry boy neared the end of the row of beds, he drew up short. Madam Pomfrey's office was dark but her door was open! The witch never left the infirmary without locking it, for that was where all the school's potions and enchanted chocolates were kept. Tiptoeing a tiny bit closer, Harry drew his wand and stared intently into the darkness. Suddenly a shadow moved inside and he saw the glimmer of sleek blond hair. Malfoy had broken into the nurse's office! And with a whisper of "Alohomora," Harry heard the faint tumble of the lock that meant his enemy had managed to break into the apothecary cabinet, too.

A shadow slid off the crystal doors as Draco opened the cabinet, but in the darkness Harry couldn't see what he was doing. He fervently wished for his invisibility cloak. But the Slytherin must've been just as blind, for a second later a faint light shone from the tip of his wand. Malfoy's skin looked almost translucent, floating there in the darkness as he examined the shelves. He seemed unable to find what he searched for—several times he took down a large bottle, unstopped it and took a quick whiff, only to replace it on the shelf. But after a few such attempts, he seemed to find the correct vial. His luminescent wand floating beside him, Malfoy carefully measured its contents into another smaller container before replacing the large bottle on the shelf.

Then the Slytherin did something even stranger. He started taking vials from the chest he'd carried in and filling the crystal shelf. It was the poisons he'd concocted, Harry realised, and Madam Pomfrey would dole them out without a second thought to the next sick student. What if it was Ron or Hermione who drank the death draught? Or Ginny or Dean or poor Dennis Creevey. Harry had to do something.

The infirmary's double-doors slammed shut suddenly. Inside Madam Pomfrey's office, despite the wand's dim light, Harry clearly saw Malfoy's face. It looked panicked, blanched even paler than before. Then the light blinked out, leaving the room in darkness. The cabinet tinkled as it was shut and then Malfoy appeared, shifty and distrustful, in the doorway. He looked ready to make a run for it, but his wand was still drawn …

"Madam Pomfrey," Harry realised. "He'll spell her to keep her from catching him." In desperation, he did the only thing he could think of.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

Malfoy went stiff and toppled, with a thud, to the stone floor. His wand, which had been pointed at the door lock, was now standing straight up.

"Mr. Potter!"

Harry whirled around to see the nurse's face, red with anger. He had no idea that Poppy Pomfrey could ever look so imposing, but as she bore down on him with fiendish fury he knew even Voldemort could have learned a few tricks.

"What in Merlin's name do you think you're doing? Attacking a student in my hospital?"

"I can explain..." Harry started, but she cut him off with a wave of her short wand.

"Tell the Headmistress to come right away," she instructed the painting by her office; the child sleeping in the painted bed tumbled out and skipped out of the frame. "You'll explain all right, but it can wait." Madam Pomfrey knelt down by the frozen boy and waved her wand carefully over his limbs. "You're very lucky that nothing was broken," she admonished. "Students should not even know the binding spells! Whatever were you thinking?" She didn't wait for an answer as she cradled Malfoy's head. "Ennervate."

Malfoy squeezed his eyes tight together before opening them, looking with surprise at Madam Pomfrey and then moving his gaze to Harry. "You..." he started, but faded into a groan as the nurse helped him to sit. "I'm awfully sore," he complained. "Did you check that I'm not injured … my arm…"

"You're fine," the Healer assured him. "And in just a minute the Headmistress will be here and we can find out why Mr. Potter felt the need to curse you. Would you like a chair?"

Her solicitous tone angered Harry. "I was trying to save you," he cried out.

"Save her from what," Malfoy scowled. "As far as I can tell, you're the only one who's a danger to anyone." He settled into the chair that the nurse levitated over, readjusting himself gingerly as if every tiny motion caused him excruciating pain.

Professor McGonagall came up behind Harry. "What appears to be the trouble here, Madam Pomfrey?" Despite her stern countenance, Harry was happy to see her. Now, with the potions deposited in the apothecary, he could prove Malfoy's maliciousness.

"I was just returning to my office when Mr. Potter here stunned Mr. Malfoy," Madam Pomfrey replied. "I have no better idea of why than you do."

"Nor do I," chimed in the Slytherin.

"Well, Mr. Potter, would you like to try to explain yourself?"

"I saw Malfoy break into Madam Pomfrey's office," he explained. "He was putting poisons on the shelf. And then she startled him, and he was going to run away only she was too close, so he had his wand out and he was going to do something terrible to her..." Harry's words came out in a rush. He knew Malfoy was glaring, but Madam Pomfrey and the Head of his House both looked shocked. "Before he could curse her, I cast a Body-Bind to stop him."

His story appeared to have rendered Professor McGonagall speechless. He hoped beyond hope that she was debating how many points to take from the Slytherin boy. After a long second had passed, however, she turned away from Harry. "Well, Mr. Malfoy, what have you to say to that?"

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at Harry, their weird absence of colour making them almost disappear into slits. "Just like a snake's," Harry thought. Then Draco said, in a much haughtier voice than he should have after being caught red-handed, "It's true, I was in Madam Pomfrey's office." He turned to the nurse. "I brought up another batch of Blood-Replenishing Potion, I knew you were running low. When you weren't here, I thought I'd surprise you by filling the apothecary."

"Oh, you dear boy," gushed the witch. "That was so thoughtful of you. Mind, you shouldn't have broken into my office..."

"I won't do it again," purred Malfoy.

"But it's poison!" Harry cried out. "At least check it."

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but McGonagall nodded at the nurse. Madam Pomfrey took one of the new vials from her office. She waved her wand over it, then opened the stopper and sniffed it. "No poison, Mr. Potter. It's only potion, and very fresh." She smiled at the blond boy. "Very nicely done, Draco."

"But that can't be," Harry insisted.

"Perhaps it'd be poison if you made it, Potter," Malfoy drawled, "but my potions are of the highest quality."

McGonagall drew her lips into a thin line. "So you decided to petrify a student because he was refilling the empty apothecary?"

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. There had to be something else, Malfoy wouldn't act so sneakily if he was just delivering potions. But he wasn't just delivering, he was doing something else ...

"Check his pockets!" he demanded.

A look of fear ripped across Draco's face before his cold mask descended again. "You'll do no such thing," he said scornfully.

"He was taking something, too. He wasn't just filling the cabinet ... he took something out."

Malfoy gave him such a look of pure hatred that Harry knew he was on to something. This must be what he was doing. After all, he'd filled the vial first. Refilling the potion was just a ruse in case he got caught. "Check his pockets," he repeated eagerly.

"You have no right to search me," insisted Malfoy. "The word of that Gryffindor is no cause for you to violate my rights. He petrified me—I'm the victim here, you know."

"Mr. Malfoy, I have no desire to violate your rights," the Headmistress said. "But if you took something from the apothecary, I need you to tell us what it was. It will save Madam Pomfrey the trouble of trying to determine what's missing."

"It was in a big vial," Harry offered. "He poured it into a smaller container."

"Mr. Potter, I'll thank you to be quiet; you've done quite enough tonight," McGonagall reproached him. Harry wanted to protest, but when he looked at Madam Pomfrey he knew that he really might have said enough. From his description of the vial, she seemed to have teased out what Malfoy had taken.

"Draco, it wasn't..."

The pale boy looked up at her contritely and nodded once. "I know you said it's dangerous to use unsupervised, but Greg needs it. He's not getting better. I was going to supervise him..."

Madam Pomfrey looked like she was torn between reprimanding Malfoy and hugging him. She settled on turning to Professor McGonagall. "It's Dr. Ubbly's Oblivious Unction. Draco asked for some last week, but I told him no. He'll give it back now," she added, turning to the boy. "Won't you?" With a scowl, Malfoy nodded and pressed the vial into her hand.

"So now we have you to deal with, Mr. Potter," commanded McGonagall. "Detention in my office, I think, through dinnertime. I'll have some sandwiches brought up, but I believe you need some time alone to think about what you've done here." She waved her wand. "Your lines are waiting on the chalkboard."

"But..." Her stern look stilled his tongue. "Yes, ma'am."

Harry spared one last look at Malfoy, who graced him with a triumphant stare. He'd managed to slither out of this one, just like the underhanded snake he was, but Harry was on to him now. And this battle was far from over.



It was late by the time McGonagall finally released him from detention, ten parchments covered with "Petrificus is only to be used on my enemies, never on my classmates" in a neat stack on her desk. Harry stumbled into Gryffindor Tower massaging his hand, his earlier fight with Hermione and Ron all but forgotten.

But they hadn't forgotten, apparently.

Hermione looked up as soon as he came through the door but, remembering that she was still angry, immediately dropped her head back down into her book. Ron just stared with a glum expression. When Harry sat down beside them, neither of them greeted him.

But Harry was so weary that he couldn't find the will to fight anymore. They were still his friends, even if they didn't believe him.

"I'm sorry. I know I've been acting weird lately. Things just haven't been right since the ... since the earthquake." He grimaced even having to say that, but writing his lines had given him plenty of time to realise what was important. Malfoy was still his enemy, more so now than ever. He thought of the boy's colourless eyes, that vacant look tinted with hate, his voice dripping with pretension and deceit, and that smile—not the smile he'd seen Malfoy bestow upon his friends at the breakfast table, but the victorious one he'd flashed at Harry as he left the hospital. The Slytherin was definitely up to something—and if Harry was going to stop him, he needed his friends.

Hermione beamed at him so happily that he knew his apology was accepted. "Oh, Harry, we're just worried about you, you know."

Ron reached over and clasped her hand, and Harry gave them both a genuine smile. "I know, and I know you're just trying to help me. I just … there's been a lot on my mind lately."

Ron nodded. "It's all right. We're all suffering these days. Our brains weren't made to take this much reading." At Hermione's arched eyebrow he amended, "Okay, maybe yours is, but not mine."

"I feel so far behind!" moaned Hermione. "It seems I've forgotten more magic than I learned this year."

Harry was about to say that this was because she had, that traipsing through the back country of Britain wasn't as conducive to learning as reading in the Hogwarts library. But then he caught himself. "I'm sure that's not true. Aren't you the brightest witch of our age?"

Hermione blushed, but Ron chimed in, "She sure is. And…" he added, pulling a wad of tissues from his bag, "she was bright enough to save you this from dinner."

Harry unwrapped the parcel and out fell a handful of chocolate biscuits. "Brilliant, Hermione." As the sweet chocolate coated his tongue, the taste of hope filled his senses. His friends were still his friends, Malfoy was still his enemy, and at least one small corner of the world was as it should be.


Chapter Three

Ægri Somnia
A troubled man's dreams


The Forbidden Forest was deathly quiet. Not a creature stirred on this black night; even Harry's footsteps were muffled in the humus. Harry wanted to stop—he didn't want to see what lay in the clearing ahead—but still he shuffled steadily forward. It was too quiet, preternaturally quiet, as if the very forest was holding its breath, and with every step his dread grew. Too soon he reached the edge of the trees. The shining crescent above cast a pale light on the clearing, empty now. This wasn't right. He wasn't supposed to be alone. Not here.

"You're not alone."

The voice came from nowhere, sending a sudden chill racing up Harry's spine. He spun around to see the silver-haired boy who seemed to be floating behind him. His black school robes swallowed the night, his pale face even more ghostlike in the moon's faint glow.

Harry glared at his enemy. "Piss off, Malfoy."

A faint smile teased up the corner of the boy's lips and then disappeared. "Suit yourself, Potter. But he's coming back." Malfoy turned back towards the forest. Just before the velvety darkness swallowed him up, he paused and said, "And you've forgotten something."

"I didn't forget," Harry retorted into the black. "Everyone else forgot, but I didn't. I remember this, I remember dying, I remember him..."

As if beckoned, the winds picked up, a rustle that began in the highest branches and whisked down, whipping through Harry's hair. Shadows swirled into substance, darkness become somehow darker, denser, and the night's quiet stillness was ripped apart by the torrential howl streaming from the heart of that mass. Harry was no longer alone. Moving in a line as solid as the trees were masked figures bearing down on him, edging him closer to the centre of the clearing, to the centre of the darkness. Panicked, Harry drew his wand, but it fell, flaccid, its tip hanging by a slender thread. He heard an evil cackle, Bellatrix Lestrange's laughter as she murdered Sirius, and then the darkness had a voice.

"Harry Potter," it said, and then the darkness had a voice and red, red eyes. "The boy who lived..."

And then the voice and the red, red eyes and a shimmering green flame filled his senses, and Harry screamed...


"Harry, wake up!"

Harry opened his eyes, still clutching his forehead, to see his friend's face just inches away. "Oh, thank Merlin. You were screaming to wake the dead."

"Sorry," Harry mumbled, propping himself up on his elbows. "Just another bloody nightmare." He cast a groggy glance around the room. No red eyes, no green flame, just lumps of boys in their beds. "What time is it?"

"Just gone half three," Ron said. "You okay, mate? You don't ..." He paused and then continued reluctantly, "you don't want to … talk about it, do you?"

Harry smirked. "You've been spending too much time with Hermione." His friend snorted softly, not denying it. "No, it was just that same old dream, Voldemort and his Death Eaters..." Harry stopped when Ron stiffened at the name. Seemed he hadn't woken from his real nightmare, the waking one that had marred every day since he'd left the infirmary. "Anyway," Harry said wearily, "I'm sorry I'm always waking you with my nightmares. It seems like they should be gone now, at least."

"What do you mean, Harry? You've never had nightmares before."

Harry couldn't say anything without choking. He wished he could remember this life that wasn't plagued with bad dreams and dark wizards. And he wished he didn't feel so alone.

"You're not alone."

The phrase triggered his memory, and for an instant he thought he could grasp the fading fragments of his dream. But then, as dreams do, they slipped away. When Ron's yawn drug him back to the present, Harry kicked off his bedcovers. "It's nothing. Listen, I don't think I can sleep now. I'm going for a walk to clear my head."

"Want me to come with?" Ron asked through another sleepy yawn.

"No, I'm fine, I'll take my cloak. You go back to bed."

"Alright," his friend replied, already half-asleep. He was already softly snoring by the time Harry had slipped a robe over his pyjamas.

Silently, Harry tiptoed across the room and out the door. The tower was chilly, the fire nothing but embers, and shivering he draped his cloak around his shoulders. It didn't actually add much warmth, but Harry felt comforted just wearing it. It reminded him of all those times when he'd snuck out with Ron and Hermione, the three of them undivided as they worked to foil Voldemort's plans.

The pain of being alone gnawed at him again. He'd tried to stop mentioning Voldemort, giving a whole new spin to "He Who Must Not Be Named." It wasn't that he'd given up trying to convince his friends, but it just made them uncomfortable and until he had some proof to change their minds, it would be a futile exercise. He just didn't know what that proof could be. And with each passing day, he was giving up hope that the world would wake up and be set to rights.

Harry needed to talk to someone who understood. Sirius would, he was sure, or even Dumbledore. The thought of his late Headmaster pulled Harry in the direction of Dumbledore's office, but then he remembered that McGonagall was there now. In the past weeks she'd given no indication that she had any more patience for his story than she had when he was in the hospital. So he forced his feet to turn left instead of right and was soon climbing the steep staircase of the Astronomy Tower.

By the time he reached the top, he was out of breath and so warm that he shrugged out of his cloak. Gasping for the fresh air awaiting him on the ramparts, he pushed open the door—and drew himself up short when he saw he wasn't the only one here.

"Malfoy! What the hell are you doing here?"

In his dream, the blond boy had appeared from nowhere in black robes floating on the dark night. Now he was a solid form on the battlements, his thin frame squeezed between a gap in the stones. Despite the cool evening he wore a short sleeved black shirt, dark slacks, and the wizarding world's attempt at runners—they almost could have passed for Muggle clothes, much to Harry's surprise. The thought of casual wear and Malfoy just didn't go together.

But Malfoy and his scorn-filled voice did. "I could ask you the same thing, you know."

"But I asked you first," Harry replied defiantly.

Malfoy paused, as if weighing whether to answer or challenge Harry further. At last he spoke. "This is my place." He leaned against the stone, the possessive press of his shoulder supporting his claim. "I come here to think. Alone," he added pointedly.

"Think? About what?" For an instant, Harry felt a glimmer of hope. Malfoy might remember challenging Dumbledore, or the mercy the Headmaster offered even while at the end of the Slytherin's wand.

But instead of talking about the past, Harry was surprised when Draco answered, "My future."

"Well, that should be pretty easy," Harry scoffed, silently adding, "Join the Death Eaters, kill Muggles, the normal career for the Malfoy heir."

But Draco gave a little snort. "You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

His voice carried such a sharp edge that Harry couldn't stifle his curiosity. "Seriously, you're a Malfoy. What've you got to worry about?"

"You don't get it, do you?" said Draco scornfully. "Hogwarts has been the best thing that ever happened to me. It's been like a holiday. Now I'll have to be a proper son. Get a boring Ministry job like my father wants and start producing grandchildren for Mother."

Harry grimaced at the thought of a pack of tiny, sneering children, but he wasn't particularly surprised by the thought of Malfoy in the Ministry. He could imagine his enemy's zeal as he enforced regulations against half-blood wizards, gleefully stripping them of their powers and even their lives. Yet Draco looked so forlorn that still he had to ask, "What do you want to do instead?"

"Potions," Malfoy replied without hesitation. He smirked at Harry. "Believe it or not, I'm good at it. Snape said I could be a potions master if I put my mind to it."

"I believe it. I believe you could make anything you wanted." "Even poison," Harry almost added, but stopped when he saw a pained expression flitter across Malfoy's face at the mention of their departed potions teacher. Harry's feelings about the man were still conflicted. Granted, he had judged him ill, but the man had made his life a living hell for years. That was hard to forget. But to Draco, Snape had been a mentor. And even if Harry had hated the man, and still hated Malfoy, he knew the loss must sting. Without realising it, his voice softened. "Why don't you just tell your father what you want to do?"

"It's not that easy," Draco snorted, but try as he might Harry couldn't detect any malice in it. "Snape promised to talk to him at graduation, and offer to let me continue at Hogwarts as an apprentice. Now …" His voice trailed off. Harry waited, wondering whether he could bring himself to offer some comfort to his sworn enemy, but he was glad he hadn't when Malfoy snapped, "So why are you here, Potter?"

Struck by Malfoy's honesty, Harry confessed. "I couldn't sleep. Nightmares." He hated the words as soon as they left his mouth. Now he was due for all sorts of mockery from the other boy.

But he didn't expect Malfoy to ask, "Are they bad?"

"Yeah, they're pretty awful."

The Slytherin eyed him with surprising sympathy. He seemed to be debating something, and then to Harry's horror he drew his wand and took a step forward. "I've been working on a calming charm, if you want me to try…"

Harry's wand was already drawn before he finished. Malfoy froze, looking as if he'd been struck. "Fine," he grumbled, "I was just trying to help."

He lowered his wand, but Harry didn't. As Malfoy had taken the first step towards him, Harry noticed something that made his blood run cold. Now he pointed the tip of his hawthorn rod at Draco's left arm. "You fucking did it, Malfoy, didn't you?"

"What?" the boy said in what might have sounded like real confusion, had not Harry known better.

"That … that thing on your arm!" Harry spit out. "You're a Death Eater."

"What, this?" Draco held his arm out to Harry, who flinched away. The coils of the dark mark were always horrific, but on Malfoy's thin arm seemed especially gruesome. "This is just the mark of an old wizarding society, the Order of Walpurgis. My father wanted me to join."

"The Order of what?" Harry asked, then shook his head as Draco started to explain. "Who do you think you're kidding, Malfoy? It's the Dark Mark—you're one of Voldemort's followers!"

Draco's brow knit in confusion. "Who? Merlin's teeth, Potter, what are you talking about? And put your wand down."

"No." Harry held his wand steady, pointed right at Malfoy's heart. "No, you're trying to kill me. Admit it, this whole thing is a Death Eater plot, isn't it?"

To his great surprise, Malfoy laughed. It was the same laugh Harry'd seen at breakfast that first morning back—an easy laugh, one that rolled up from his belly and poured from his throat. "Potter, I don't get you at all. Here we've gone seven years without speaking to each other, and now you suddenly think I'm trying to kill everyone." Draco shook his head so vigorously that his blond locks fell out of place. He didn't seem to care. Instead, he kept chuckling. "You're fucking mental, you know that?"

Harry should have reminded Malfoy that mocking the person pointing a wand at your heart wasn't the wisest move, but he was too taken aback by the boy's words to speak. His entire existence at Hogwarts had centred on his rivalry with Draco Malfoy, wanna-be Heir of Slytherin and all-around prat. If that was gone, like everything else in his life seemed to be, then Harry wasn't sure what he could believe. At last he said, in a much less confident voice than he wished, "Malfoy, we've always been enemies. You've been hounding me for years."

The other boy just scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself, Potter. I hardly knew your name before you slandered my father last week." His steel-grey eyes fixed on Harry's. "Now, for the last time, put down your wand, I don't care to be petrified again. I've got a match this afternoon and I'll get enough bruises from the bludgers, thanks very much."

Harry glared at his would-be enemy. He felt like he'd been struck by a bludger himself, like his broom had been knocked from under him and he was hurtling towards the earth. His wand hand no longer steady, Harry lowered it to his side. "You'd better go then. But I'll be watching you, Malfoy."

"You're absolutely potty, aren't you?" Draco rolled his eyes and his amused chuckle returned. "'Potty Potter.' I like that—I should make some badges."

Harry felt a deep sense of déjà vu. "Get out, Malfoy," he croaked. The Slytherin met his eyes for a moment, and Harry saw none of his enemy's normal animosity. Now there was just vacant amusement. To his surprise, that hurt more than anything. Then the boy brushed past him; his chuckles echoed all the way down the stone staircase.



"Harry, would you come on already? We're late!"

Harry gave up looking for clean school robes and dashed out wearing just his Muggle jumper and jeans. Hermione's schedule had allotted fifty minutes to the Slytherin-Ravenclaw match, with fifteen minutes on either side to get to and from the pitch. Ron had never given up protesting that this wasn't enough time, but after his early morning run-in with Malfoy, Harry thought it might be too long.

The boy's parting words had filled Harry with a sense of deep annoyance. His enemy had spared no time or expense creating "Potter Stinks" badges in fourth year; now, with even more magic skill, there was no telling what extremes he might go to. So it was with more than a little trepidation that Harry followed Ron down the Hogwarts halls and through the courtyard, with each step bracing himself for the whirling badges decorating his classmates' robes. Instead he saw …

Nothing.

Oh, there was a sea of bodies streaming down to the pitch. The Ravenclaws and Slytherins were proudly displaying their school scarves despite the warm May sunshine, the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors were placing last minute bets on the outcome of the Cup, and even the teachers were surrendering to the festive atmosphere and the imminent end of term by actually enjoying themselves. But not a single soul seemed to notice when "Potty Potter" passed by. It seemed too good to be true.

"Something's happened to Malfoy," Harry realised as he and Ron entered the stadium, adding with not a small amount of satisfaction, "and I'm sure he deserved it."

The thought lifted his spirits so much that he was grinning by the time they reached the Gryffindor stand. Hermione was already there; a book bag bursting at its seams was slung across the seats she'd saved for them. She shut her weighty transfiguration text as soon as they arrived.

"Can't even enjoy the match without a book," Ron grumped, but he sounded amused.

"I'll put it away once they start, I promise," she replied cheerily, stuffing her bulging bag under the bleacher seats. As if on cue, a voice boomed out:

"Welcome, Hogwarts Quidditch fans, to the last match of the year—and the one to decide the Quidditch Cup. Ravenclaw House versus Slytherin House, the raven or the snake … who will be crowned this year's Cup champion?"

Harry didn't listen as Zacharias Smith detailed the records of that year's games. He wouldn't have seen the point anyway—he didn't remember any of them—but that wasn't why the cause of his distraction. His attention was stolen by the Slytherin team shooting into the stadium, led by a pale blond boy who raced in as if a host of Dementors was on his tail. Malfoy steadily rose until his broom was level with Harry, high above the pitch, and then swung sharply around. He cast his eye around at the stand, at all the cheering students, and Harry braced for the cold glare he knew would fall on him any second.

But the second passed, as did the Slytherin's glance, with no sign of recognition. Malfoy hadn't noticed that Harry was even there! And as the boy plunged his broom downward at breakneck speed, skimming the edges of the pitch, Harry's unnerved feeling returned in full force. Much as he hated his enemy's attentions, they'd been a staple in his life, something he could count on as surely as Uncle Vernon's spite, shepherd's pie in the dining hall on Mondays, and the school year ending with him facing Voldemort.

"Don't flatter yourself, Potter. I hardly knew your name before you slandered my father last week."

Malfoy's words fluttered across his mind. It was a brutally sharp reminder that he was a stranger in this world—a stranger ill-equipped to sit his exams, cautious about his words lest they worry his friends, and not even really sure of the standings in the Hogwarts Cup. Truly, he didn't belong here.

"Harry, where are you going?"

Ron stared as if he was nutters to leave the match so early. And frankly, Harry felt like he was. He didn't even remember standing.

"I'm just … I'm not feeling well," he stammered. "I'm going to walk around a bit."

"Would you like us to come with you?" Hermione asked, Ron beside her looking like he'd be willing but not really eager to leave.

"No, you don't need to. I just want to get on solid ground."

The crowd whooped as Slytherin scored and Harry made his way down the stairs. Their roar grew muffled as he ducked under the stands, but the stomping footsteps above made each step he took on the wooden steps feel shakier than the last. He was grateful when his runners finally sank into the soft earth. Overcome with fatigue, he sat on the last step, covering his face with his hands. His brief light-heartedness had completely disappeared, just as his sanity had. Could he actually want Malfoy to pay attention to him? "Barking," Uncle Vernon would have said. "Howling mad."

"Would you like to wear these?" said a girl's voice so close that Harry almost jumped. He opened his eyes to see Luna Lovegood holding out her Spectrespecs. "Sometimes they help me when my head hurts."

Harry shook his head, but smiled at Luna. "I'm fine. I just needed some air."

He realised how strange this sounded, seeing as the stands were out-of-doors, but Luna just nodded sagely. "It's hard to breathe with all the Bumberglees out today."

"Bumblebees?" Harry repeated, but Luna shook her head.

"Bumberglees. They live in the wind, but if there are too many people they get trapped. It makes the air too thick. It's okay," she reassured him, "there's no wind under here. They don't like it unless it's moving."

As he often felt around Luna, Harry was unsure whether to laugh or think she knew something he didn't. This time he had the added and unwelcome fear that she might be saner than he. To avoid thinking any more on that, he asked, "Why aren't you announcing today, Luna? Seeing as it's Ravenclaw and all."

"Zacharias asked me not to—he said that I confused people last time. I don't think it was me, though. I think it was the Bumberglees."

"I'm sure it was," Harry consoled her, feeling quite uncharitable towards Smith. Loony Lovegood might not be what anyone called normal, but she'd stood by him in the Ministry and never missed a single DA meeting. And without that past that no longer existed, even fewer people were probably giving the girl a chance. The thought made him reconsider when she grinned and held out the spectrespecs again.

"Are you sure you don't want to try them on?"

"Oh, why not—what've I got to lose?" Harry asked. What did he have to lose indeed? Everything that mattered had already been taken away, from his memories of the past to his future as an Auror. And what was the point of being an Auror anyway, in this world that he didn't know? The Spectrespecs might not help him see any more clearly, but they certainly couldn't make things any more bleak.

Or so he thought.

As soon as Harry slid the psychedelic spectacles over his own glasses he felt the earth tilt at least ninety degrees. Shapes multiplied before his eyes, colliding into each other, spinning around each other. The visions battered Harry's body and his mind, leaving him feeling bruised and helpless. Fortunately he was already sitting down or he would have fallen; even so, he gripped the stair railing to help him ride out the waves that rocked his body. The sounds above grew deafening, the crowd's roar sounding like a freight train speeding toward him.

"Closing one eye might help."

Somewhere in the din Luna's soft voice managed to find him. Harry fought one eyelid closed and the spinning slowed to a tolerable pace.

"Don't worry," Luna's voice broke through again. "It won't always be like this."

Using just one eye to squint through the lens did help. Even without their full effect the Spectrespecs did make the world look a lot different. The kaleidoscope vision that had so unsettled him was gone, leaving a vision of just the angles of things, brightened with colours rich and essential. Luna's too-blue scarf looked as stiff and square as the wooden supports holding up the bleachers, and the curve of her pink ear seemed remarkably close to her small pointed nose. Harry felt like he was seeing the world like Picasso must have, with multiple planes visible at the same time. It was nothing like the real world, softened by time and emotions, but he sensed that what was before him was somehow more real without those obscurations.

"How do they do that?" Harry asked, peering up at Luna.

Through the psychedelic shades she rose up beside him like a wall, more solid than he remembered her ever being. Her shoulder slanted at a dangerous angle, its shrug almost threatening to tip her over. "It's magic, Harry."

At that moment, Harry heard a terrible scream, followed by a thud that sounded exactly like a bag of wet cement falling on concrete. Instinctively he stood, but the world spun again. It took a second to realise he was still wearing the Spectrespecs, and by the time he'd whipped them off and found an opening in the tarp, a small crowd had already gathered on the green. Luna was already there, as was Madam Hooch and several of the Ravenclaw players. On the ground lay the too-still body of Kylie Kriz, and above her, to Harry's horror, stood Millicent Bulstrode, her wand pointed straight at the Ravenclaw seeker's heart as she mumbled some Dark Magic.

"No!" Harry lunged at Millicent, knocking the wand from her hand, but the girl was sturdy and didn't fall. She made a grab for her wand, but Harry pushed her again, oblivious to the shocked cries around him. He was about to try for another tackle when his arms were grabbed from behind.

"What the devil are you doing, Potter?"

Harry struggled against the voice, against the strong hands pinning him, but Malfoy held him fast. "She's killing her," he cried out to anyone who would listen. "Stop her!" But the others weren't listening; in fact, Terry Boot had picked up Millicent's wand and handed it back. Harry wrenched again against his captor, but the Slytherin's grip didn't loosen. He held Harry firm against his lithe body, his leather quidditch gloves chafing Harry's skin. For just an instant Harry remembered these same arms clinging tightly to him as roaring Fiendfyre gnawed at the hem of their robes. He banished the thought quickly, replacing it with another fierce lunge for freedom. "Let me go!"

To his surprise, Malfoy acceded to his demand, hurling him towards the stands and away from the injured girl. Harry tripped backwards, falling hard on the ground. He looked up to see his enemy's wand drawn against him, and despite the sun shining brightly down, Harry felt again the horror of that night when he lay helpless before those gleaming red eyes.

Harry did not stand, and he did not raise his wand. The boy must die, and so he would…

Maybe he had died, and he'd been living in hell ever since. Or maybe this was supposed to be the end. He'd been meant to die, and if Voldemort hadn't done it, then it was fitting that Malfoy, his follower, Harry's enemy, make the final Killing Curse.

But Malfoy didn't utter the spell. Instead he lowered his wand and said through clenched teeth. "Get him out of here, Luna. Now. Before I do something I'll regret."

Harry felt an insistent tug on his shirt sleeve. "Come on, Harry, let's go see if there's any pudding in the kitchen." After several attempts, the girl at last got him to his feet. Somehow his feet moved away, although he nearly stumbled when he looked back and saw Millicent again bending over Kylie. Luna held him steady, though, and didn't let him stop until they were almost out of sight.

"She's going to kill Kylie, or worse," Harry tried to explain, remembering the agony of having his bones liquefied by Gilderoy Lockhart during second year.

"No," Luna simply replied, "it's not like that anymore. Look."

Harry looked back and saw Kylie sitting up, Terry Boot reaching out to help her rise. It couldn't be true—a fall from that height would surely have broken something. And from the sound she'd made when she hit Harry was pretty sure she hadn't bounced.

Dazed, Harry let Luna lead him back under the bleachers. The once-empty space was now full of students making their way out onto the pitch. In the sand, about to be trampled, Harry spied the psychedelic glasses he'd dropped earlier. He snatched them up, still in one piece, but looking as wounded as Harry's own spectacles usually did. "I'm sorry, Luna," he said, his voice rough. "I think I broke your Spectrespecs."

"Keep them, Harry," she said lightly. "I have another pair."

Even thinking about the kaleidoscope visions and swirling planes made Harry feel queasy. "Thanks," he said, "but … I think it's better if I see the world the way it is right now."

She shrugged. "Okay. But still, keep them. You never know when you'll need them."

A crowd of Gryffindors were coming down the stairs now, crimson and gold descending like a spectacular sunset. "Luna," he said, "I'm not really in the mood for pudding right now. I think I'll wait here for Ron and Hermione."

"All right," Luna said, smiling. She started toward the exit, but before she'd gotten more than a few steps she stopped and looked back. "I meant it, Harry. It won't always be like this." And then she walked on, leaving Harry alone under the bleachers.



The N.E.W.T.s turned out to be every bit as bad as Harry feared. As Hermione had predicted, Hagrid gave him "Acceptable" marks in Care of Magical Creatures, despite bungling the exam and letting two Knarls out of their pen. He couldn't even blame the havoc they'd caused in the greenhouse for his "Poor" grade in Herbology. No, that was due to mistaking a Bubotuber for Dungeongrass and ending up with boils covering his hands for two hours until Madam Pomfrey's antidote took effect. He did equally as badly in Charms. He started off strong with an Incarcerous spell, but then failed to cast, in quick succession, an Imperturbable Charm, Orchideous, and a Cheering Charm (which really was not a fair test at the end of such a dismal exam, he thought).

As bad as these marks were, they were better than the "Dreadfuls" he received in Astronomy and Potions. The former wasn't surprising—despite Hermione's attention to the subject, Harry had hardly cracked his textbook and ignored the extra hours she put into Professor Sinestra's lunascope. He was sorely disappointed with his Potions grade, however. He'd wanted to do well—somehow he felt he'd be letting Snape down if he didn't. But his wishes came to naught. His Euphoria Potion came out not cheerful yellow but a dull burnt orange, and when asked to list four uses of frog brains all he could remember were that they'd been splattered them across the dungeon ceiling during his second year.

It didn't help that Malfoy's potion turned out the same bright shade as the dandelions that dotted the Hogwarts lawn.

Only in Defence Against the Dark Arts did Harry earn an "E." The exam was a bit unconventional. Instead of a traditional wizard's duel, each student had to face a gang of attackers. "Muggings," Hermione confirmed in a whisper when she saw his surprise. "Haven't you been reading the Prophet?" In truth, Harry had been avoiding the paper, hesitant to see that the whole world—not just Hogwarts—had gone mad. But he did remember headlines proclaiming a spate of attacks on wizards and witches in London. The articles hadn't interested him enough to read. If this was the exam, though, Harry was well up for it—even if it meant he had to swallow his distaste of Amycus Carrow. With a few well-placed Expelliarmuses he disarmed his three opponents and then bound them with Petrificus spells. The (former?) Death Eater was soundly impressed, and even Malfoy's complaint that of course Harry would be good because he'd practiced on his classmates didn't dim his professor's enthusiasm. "Exceeds expectations!" he proclaimed before the whole class. "With those reflexes you'll make a fine Auror."

But Harry needed more than reflexes to become an Auror, and with such a dismal showing on his N.E.W.T.s he didn't stand a chance. He tried to be happy for Ron and Hermione, though. She was sorely disappointed with only three "Outstandings" and five "Exceeds Expectations," but Harry couldn't bring himself to feel too sorry for her. At least she'd helped Ron pass everything, albeit with only "Acceptable" grades. Still, it would get him into the less demanding provisional Auror ranks, as Harry reminded his friend. He could retake his exams there, and assuming he did well, be promoted to full status in just a few years.

In turn, his friends were both overly sensitive to Harry's situation, changing the subject whenever he approached. Frustrated by this constant reminder of his failure, Harry was almost glad when the final day arrived. His trunk was already packed, crammed with seven years of memories that he hadn't really had, and the cover tightly sealed. He wondered how long it would be before he opened it again.

With another hour before the Hogwarts Express departed, Harry set out for one last walk of the grounds. He soon found himself on the familiar path to Hagrid's hut, where his friend was tying up raspberry canes in the garden. "Hello, Hagrid," he called.

"Harry!" the big man answered back. "So what brings you out here? I thought I'd be seeing you off at the station."

Harry shook his head. "I had some extra time so I thought I'd come say bye to you and Fang."

The dog, sacked out in the door to the hut, lifted his head but showed any inclination to move from his spot in the sun, even when Hagrid stepped over him. "Let me just put the kettle on, I'll make us a spot of tea."

Harry nodded. He sat on the step scratching Fang's ear, looking out over the serene little meadow stretching before him. Instead of giving him peace, though, the sight sparked a deep sense of melancholy. This was Hogwarts, the one place he'd ever felt he belonged. This was where he'd learned to use the powers that had always frightened him. Where he'd discovered who his parents were and found and lost his godfather. Where he'd made his first friends, and his first enemies, and been both an outcast and a hero. Soon he'd be leaving forever, and he felt like he knew less than he had when he'd arrived seven years before.

"Here you go, Harry," Hagrid announced, handing him a chipped cup and saucer. "A touch of milk and sugar, just like you like it."

Just like he liked it indeed, and it almost hurt that Hagrid remembered that little detail when so much else was forgotten.

"Do you remember when we first met, Hagrid?" Harry asked, half fearing the answer he'd hear.

"Course I do, Harry. I even remember when you were just a wee thing, when your mum and dad died. Terrible accident, that." Hagrid settled across from Harry on an oversized camp chair, stirring his tea thoughtfully. "But you're probably asking 'bout when I brought you to Hogwarts. Couldn't get you away from those awful relatives of yours fast enough, could I?" Despite his unhappiness, Harry snickered. In any alternate dimension, it seemed the Dursleys were still hated. "But you're free of them now, ain't you? What'll you be doing with yourself now, do you think?"

"I … I don't know." This was the big question, and Harry didn't have an answer, although as soon as he stepped off the train at Platform 9 3/4 he would need one. "I … I don't think I even know who I am anymore."

"Who you are?" Hagrid seemed shocked by the question. "Why, you're James and Lily's boy, and you're a fine wizard, no matter what those N.E.W.T.s say. There's lots of jobs you don't need marks for. I reckon you can do just about anything you want to do."

Harry tried to smile. Hagrid's confidence should have bolstered his own, but he was afraid it was too late for that. True, there were shop jobs he could take up, maybe he could even learn a trade, but nothing he'd thought about doing before was possible now. "I guess I never really thought about what I'd do after the war," he admitted. "Being an Auror seemed a good way to keep going, but now…" Harry sighed heavily.

But he'd lost Hagrid somewhere. "The war?"

Harry stifled his next sigh behind his teacup. He really wasn't up for explanations right now. "It's a Muggle thing," he lied. "Just how they keep time."

"Ne'er understood Muggles," Hagrid admitted, shaking his head.

To change the subject, Harry asked, "What'd my father do? Isn't that strange—I don't even know what my father did?"

Hagrid seemed to give this matter some thought. "Well," he finally said, "James Potter had money. He didn't have to do much of anything, I reckon."

Harry was shocked by this revelation. "You mean he didn't have a job at all? My dad just lay about, like Malfoy's?"

"Now, Harry," Hagrid admonished, "I know being a Ministry politician isn't the most difficult job in the world, but it's got to be hard work, being fair to everybody equally."

Harry snorted. "Fair? Lucius Malfoy?" He remembered the Death Eater right here in Hagrid's cottage demanding Buckbeak be put to death. Fair was the last word he'd ever associate with Malfoy. "If there was any fairness in the world he'd be in Azkaban or worse."

Hagrid put down his cup and regarded the boy sternly. "Harry, it's not like you to speak so ill of people. Far as I can tell, Malfoy's done a good job, else he wouldn't be kept on there. Say what you want about Thicknesse, but he's not the type to tolerate idlers."

"But ... he's a Malfoy!" Harry insisted. "He's rich and mean, and a Slytherin through and through."

"Of all people..." Hagrid started, then shook his head. "I never thought you'd end up so narrow-minded, Harry, hating people just for what house they're sorted into. Why, I haven't seen that kind of bigotry since my own Hogwarts days. Dumbledore would've put a stop to that kind of talk right quick if he was here, I can tell you, and I'm sorry he's not." Hagrid looked out over his garden, at the leafy canes half-tied to a wire, and grumbled, "I hate to think what you've thought of me over the years."

"Oh, no," clamoured Harry, feeling their conversation careening out of control. "I've never thought badly of you! You've been one of my best friends here. And one of my best teachers," he quickly added. "I really don't think I could've made it through Hogwarts without you."

"Well," said Hagrid, his ruffled feathers smoothed a bit by Harry's declarations, "I appreciate that. I'd just hate to see you turn against anybody who's the least bit different." He cocked a thick eyebrow at Harry. "Besides, once you get back to London you might find you've got more in common with the Malfoys than you might think."

Harry frowned. He didn't want to imagine he had anything in common with that arrogant family. But before he could ask Hagrid what he'd meant, the sound of a shrill whistle came blowing across the fields. The Hogwarts Express had arrived.

"You'd best run along now, Harry," said Hagrid, standing tall. "You don't want to miss the train."

But Harry did want to miss it. He wanted to stay here at Hogwarts until he'd figured everything out, until everybody remembered what had happened, until Hagrid realised why he wasn't like Malfoy, until he could figure out who he was. He felt like he'd been cheated out of seven years—years he'd spent learning about a world that no longer existed. And as he swung his arms around Hagrid's girth, and felt the man's huge hands gently patting his back, his eyes stung with the injustice of it all.

"You can do anything you dream of," Hagrid's voice was choked with emotion. "And I know you'll do me proud."

With regret, Harry finally tore himself away. He hurried to Hogsmeade for the very last time with Hagrid's words still ringing in his ears, and wishing he could remember what it was he really dreamed.


Chapter Four

Casus belli
An act used to justify war


The aged witch freed an exhausted sigh as she pushed the door shut. "Can you believe that rain?" she said to no one in particular, hanging her Macintosh on the hook beside an assortment of antiquated hats. "Coming down in buckets, it is."

Fat grey droplets clung to the black brolly, reluctant to disappear into the growing puddle around her Wellies despite the good shake she gave it. The witch sat on the stool at the base of the landing and tugged off the rubber boots, then slid her stockinged feet into pale pink house shoes, warm beside the radiator. "Well, that's better," she announced. Huffing with the exertion of the very old, she made her way to her overstuffed armchair. One swish of her wand ignited a roaring fire, another brought a piping hot cup of tea flying from the kitchen, and a final one filled the air with music—Nelson Eddy and Jeannette MacDonald crooning about eternal love. With everything just so, she let her wand fall to the thick rug and cradled the teacup in her shaky hands.

Her peace was shattered by a crash from the floor above. The witch sat up slightly, careful not to spill her hot drink. "Aengus? Is that you?"

A snarling black furball flew through the doorway fast as a hurricane and disappeared under the settee.

"Oh, now, Aengus, what have you gotten into." The witch's gentle chiding did nothing to calm her pet, who hissed from his hiding place. "Made a right mess, I'm sure."

The cat didn't respond, despite the witch's childlike cooing. After a few unsuccessful attempts, she sat her cup on the side table and leaned over for the flap of upholstery that hid him, but this was made rather difficult by her overly generous torso. When bending in half proved unsuccessful she finally gave up and slowly lowered herself to her hands and knees. "There now, Gran's not upset," she assured the animal as she peered under the settee. "Come out and we'll see if we can't find you some fishy. You like fishy, don--"

A gloved hand strangled her next words. It roughly pulled her back, slamming her head against a man's thigh. "I like fishy," he slurred. "Fishy and chips, just the thing after too much firewhisky." She craned her neck up to look at him, terrified, but he'd masked his features with a charm—all she could make out was straggly brown hair and a sharp angled jaw, and gums with too many missing teeth. "I like things that smell fishy too..." His other hand fell to her shoulder, then his palm slid downwards along her heavy breast, and the witch squeezed her eyes shut tight. "I'll give you three guesses what that might be..."

"I'll give you three guesses what Boss'll say if you don't cut that out." The witch opened her eyes to see another figure stride across the room. He had the same accent, one that reminded her of dark alleys around Spitalfields when she was a girl—not the ones by the church yard, but the ones on the other side where her mother said ghosts lived and young witches vanished forever. "Business first," he said, then his eyes dragged down her body, "then pleasure."

The witch's heart, already racing, sped up even more. She twisted her head just a fraction, just enough to see her wand where she'd dropped it carelessly on the pile. Just a little over a metre away, if she could just reach it she could...

"Nuh uh uh," scolded the wizard by the hearth, pointing his wand straight at her heart. "Try that and you'll be toast before you can say 'Accio.' And trust me," he added, leaning in close, so close that the sharp bite of onions and cigarettes almost made her choke. "What I'll do to you is nothing compared to what my associate here will come up with." He straightened and looked down at her. "Now can you be a good granny and behave yourself?"

She hesitated because she'd forgotten how to move. Paralysed, the bitter spread of blood across her tongue almost made her faint—it took her what seemed like hours to realise it was because she'd bitten her own lip when the leather-clad hand tightened on her mouth.

"Think she might need some encouragement," said the voice behind her, and the other responded with "Accio cat!"

The creature rose like a puff of dirty factory smoke into the man's grasp. Spewing hisses did him no good, however; the hold on his neck scruff was too tight. The witch shook with helpless fury as the man examined the cat with disgust. "Have you ever seen a cat cruciated?" he asked? "It's really a good laugh. Can't stop twitching for hours after. Almost makes you want to put them out of their misery." He pointed his wand deliberately at the squirming black mass, then looked down at the woman. "Ready to cooperate?"

She nodded vigorously, at least as much as she could with the too-tight grip on her jaw. But it was enough for the two men. She was released abruptly, barely having time to reach out her hands to break her fall. Before she could even think to lunge for her wand it was too late—the man behind her snapped it in two. At the same time, magical bindings crawled up her fingers and laced her wrists together. She would have cried if she wasn't so frightened, and if Aengus hadn't looked so angry, hanging in mid-air.

"Pl-please," she stammered, "my knees..."

The wizard before her narrowed his eyes—she knew she wouldn't remember the features of his face, but those eyes black as coal she would never forget—and then nodded to the other, who took her arm. She hated herself for needing help, hated that she let this violator of her home touch her, but she was an old woman and at the moment felt older still. At least she didn't hear the cracks in her strained joints; her heart was beating so loudly it drowned out any other sound. Her captor lowered her to the sofa, then settled casually on the arm beside her, leering, his smile chipped and vacant.

She looked to the other man, the one with his wand still trained on her. "H-how did you get in?" The authority that quailed her grandson was gone from her voice; she sounded like the helpless old woman she knew she was.

The man beside her snickered, a cruel sound that made her body shake even more. "Those measly wards you had? Took us all of ten seconds to crack 'em."

"Took me, you mean," snapped the other man. "And that's not important. What we need to know, Granny, is where you keep the good stuff. Your Galleons, jewellery, that sort of thing."

She breathed in slowly. Her grandson had told her she was foolish when she closed her Gringotts' accounts. There had been so many thefts there, though—whole vaults emptied and no one could explain it. Oh, not the larger vaults underground, of course; no, the wealth of the richer wizarding families was well-guarded. But for those of more modest means, Gringotts Wizarding Bank was proving untrustworthy.

"Well, where is it, Granny," said the man leaning on her—a Squib, she supposed, or maybe he just hadn't needed to draw his wand. He was curdling her blood enough without it, dragging his fingernail from the tip of her chin down her throat.

"Th-there's n-nothing here," she lied, clenching her teeth. "It's a-at G-Gringotts."

"Oh, Granny, you shouldn't have said that," he said, though his smile betrayed his pleasure with her answer. She stared at him in horror, waiting for his next terrible move, when she heard "Crucio" uttered from the other side of the room.

"No!" the witch cried out, trying to rise, but a gloved hand on her shoulder pushed her back down. Aengus was writhing on the floor, his head thumping against the hard hearthstones, shrieking in the most hideous pain. "Stop," she sobbed, "please stop!"

The howl went on for another minute before quietening, leaving a low discomforted whine in its place. And the voice of the wizard. "And you'll give us what we came for?"

"Yes," she agreed, wondering if she could get away with revealing just one of her hiding places. No need to mention the one in the root cellar, or the one hidden behind her heavy four-poster bed...

As if reading her mind, the man smiled. "Now, no secrets from us, Granny." He wasn't missing teeth like the Squib, but his smile was no less horrific for it, especially when he waved his wand in threatening circles over the cat still lying prone on the hearth. "Pussy didn't like that too much, did he?"

"No," she quickly agreed. "No secrets, please, just stop." She closed her eyes tight, firming up her resolve. She could do this. She'd weathered the death of her husband and the insanity of her only son; she could certainly give these two creatures enough of what they came for that they would go and leave her be, perhaps feeling a bit more vulnerable than before but still in one piece. Opening her eyes, she murmured. "There, in the lintel." Both men looked at her blankly. "The arch, above the fireplace."

The wizard directed his wand at the corbelled brick and recited the revealing spell. The masonry seemed to crack down the middle, then swung open to expose a glittering mass of gold and jewels.

"All that's left of the Longbottom treasure," she sniffed. "It's been in the family for hundreds of years."

"Nice try, Granny," said the Squib, who'd left her side to start scooping the treasure into his pockets. There were obviously charmed, for even when he reached far into the bowels of the safe to drag out the last jewels, there was no telltale evidence in the slim lines of his coat. "Where's the next bit?"

The witch clenched her hands tightly. "There's naught but some Galleons left..." she started, but was interrupted by a curse and the renewed wailing of her cat. "It's the truth," she insisted. "There's Galleons, in the cupboard. There's no charm on them, they're just in a stoneware jar."

"Go ahead," said the wizard. "I'll keep an eye on her."

"All right," smirked the other man, leaning in uncomfortably close to the witch. "But don't do anything I wouldn't do." She jerked her head away, making him laugh heartily. "Oh, you'll be a fun one, Granny. I am looking forward to finishing our business." He was still laughing as he left the room.

And the other wizard was eyeing her coldly. She shuddered as he walked slowly toward her and sat, too close, on the sofa. "Now, why don't we get a head start, Gran? You just tell me where we look next, and I..." he tapped his wand on her knee before waving it toward Aengus, who was panting shallowly and looking like nothing more than a discarded rubbish bag, "I won't make this worse for the poor pussy."

The witch's throat was dry. She'd believed she was being so clever as she'd hidden things. "Who needs those greedy goblins?" she'd thought as she divided the Longbottom wealth, passed down from one generation to the next. And now she was being burgled like a Muggle, her careful wards useless and her magic neutered. Her mouth opened but she couldn't find her voice. And then it was too late.

"Stop it!" she screamed over her pet's howls. But the wizard didn't stop, he just grinned cruelly. She knew then that she wasn't going to get out of this, not even if she gave them everything they asked for. Especially if she gave them everything they asked for.

"Gran? Gran, are you there?"

Aengus' howls stopped abruptly, making the curses of the wizard beside her seem even louder. "Aurors!" he shouted, and she heard her great-grandmother's stoneware crock crashing on the kitchen tile.

"Gran, I'm coming..."

The voice sounded like it hailed from another world, one where she was safe, where she could sit and enjoy her cup of tea and share a spot of milk with Aengus while Jeannette MacDonald sang of the mystery of life and fat raindrops provided a counterpoint rhythm on the windowpane. It didn't belong in this one, where her cat whimpered pitifully and cursing men Disapparated away while she shuddered helplessly. "Neville," she murmured, closing her eyes, but not before seeing her tall grandson duck out of the hearth with his wand drawn.



The bell over the door at Critswold's Creatures wasn't an energetic jingle like at Madam Milkin's, or even an authoritative jangle like at Ollivander's Wand Shop. The closest thing that Harry could liken it to was a cowbell's clang, the dull thud of metal on metal. It was fitting, he often thought, for the clientele attracted to Critswold's were neither the energetic nor the authoritative kind. This out-of-the-way shop straddled the corner of the first bend in Knockturn Alley, just far enough from the Diagon High Street to be shunned by respectable folk, but not so deep as to attract the shady sort that haunted the dark potions makers and the pubs where patrons never shared names or did anybody any favours.

It was the perfect place for Harry to disappear.

Critswold's Creatures was the last place he would have imagined he'd end up, but he'd needed a job—money seemed to seep through his fingers like a dripping faucet that refuses to be fixed—and after all the other Diagon shops turned him away, Harry had appealed to the non-existent goodwill of Crispin Critswold. Failing that, he asked Hagrid to send a letter recommending him. Harry wasn't sure what it said, but the very next day a startled-looking long-eared owl brought a message that simply said, "I need someone to clean out the bats cages. You can start tomorrow at 10." Harry had kept showing up every day for the next two years, except for Sundays and Mondays when the shop was closed.

It was late Saturday afternoon now, and Harry was looking forward to his weekend. It began, as it always did, with dinner at Ron and Hermione's. After leaving Hogwarts, Harry had explored the wizarding enclaves of Europe, from the Left Bank in Paris to the ancient plazas of Óbuda, the winding mountaintop city of Toledo to the canals of St. Petersburg. He'd wandered alone among strangers, and it was better somehow. These were people who had never known his name, which meant they'd never forgotten it. And that was how he liked it. But on his twenty-first birthday, lost somewhere in the maze-like pathways of the Fes el Bali, he looked up through hazy hookah smoke to see a weary grey owl winging its way toward him. It was Errol, carrying a single line in Ron's scrawling hand:

Come home—I can't get married without a best man.

And so Harry did. Mostly for Ron and Hermione, but also because he couldn't bear to send the decrepit owl back all that way alone. When he Apparated to the Burrow and handed the flustered bundle of feathers to Molly Weasley, she'd hugged him so hard he couldn't breathe.

The wedding was held at the Autumn Equinox. And as soon as Hermione and Ron had moved into an old Essex farmhouse (to be near Hermione's parents who, she reminded Ron, could not floo in whenever they felt like visiting) they started having him over every Saturday night. Sometimes Harry thought it was so they could check up on him. Sometimes he didn't mind that. Even at its most annoying, Hermione's fussing had always been strangely comforting to him, the boy who'd never had a mother to fuss. He sometimes teased them about when they'd have a boogle of Weasleys all their own. Hermione would invariably turn up her nose and remind him that she was on a career track and would consider it after she was heading up the Magical Catastrophes Department. Ron would just shrug and give Harry a look that said she could do whatever she wanted, that she always had, and that he still didn't quite believe she'd wanted to be his wife.

Harry rarely saw his friends during the week. They all worked in the magical corridor, but he pointedly avoided their Ministry offices. And he liked wandering out into Muggle London at the end of the day, shoulder to shoulder with the millions of other Londoners pouring into the streets like a burst water main. Sure, it would be easy enough to Apparate directly to his flat, but as he shuffled onto the No. 73 bus that took him to Stoke Newington, Harry could almost forget he possessed any kind of magical powers or been destined for any kind of greatness.

Mr Critswold made sure he forgot that at work too. On many days, Harry's most challenging task was to try to predict whether to fill the Knarls' bowl completely, as Mr Critswold had barked at him to do the day before, or to only fill it halfway, as he had ordered the day before that.

"Harry!" Critswold bellowed now from the front of the shop, and before Harry could even answer he heard, "Where is that blasted boy?"

"Coming, Mr Critswold," he called as he removed the soiled paper from the bottom of the black vulture's cage. He gave up trying to replace the cage lining and clicked the door latch shut. The bird squawked its disapproval and promptly dribbled on the bare floor. "Nice," muttered Harry. "If a duck hunter ever comes in, you're going on sale."

"HARRY!"

Grumbling, he ducked through the low doorframe that led to sales floor. At the counter stood a blonde woman wearing a Muggle mini-skirt that was far too short and heels that were far too high. She towered over the balding man beside her, who looked bored and none too happy to be there. Harry tore his eyes from them to look at his boss. "Yes, Mr Critswold?"

His boss' narrow glare almost made his eyes disappear. "Mrs Archer's cobra eggs, are they ready?"

Crap. All day Harry had felt like he was forgetting something. And what an order to forget. A dozen cobra eggs, all laid within two days. The fertility potion he'd given Simbi to produce such a bounty had made her so listless and grumpy that Harry had ignored her since last night's dinner. And now she would be even more miserable.

"Coming right up," said Harry, returning to the store room. He'd moved Simbi's crate into the quietest corner where she wouldn't be disturbed, and even plugged an electric heater in beside her. He hoped that it had worked, and that they had enough eggs for the order. "Ssssimbi," he hissed as he approached her box. "I'm afraid I need your eggs now."

The snake moved with lightning speed, coiling around her eggs before standing erect. She swayed menacingly. "Suppose I do not let you steal my children?"

Harry frowned. "Then Mr Critswold will do it, and you know he doesn't care if he hurts you." The snake's hood flared, and Harry guessed she was remembering the last order, when his boss had used a specially designed pitchfork to pin the snake's head while her eggs were snatched. A dozen cobra eggs were easily worth a thousand Galleons, enough to keep Mr Critswold smiling for at least a week, and he would do anything necessary to get them. "I'm sorry, Simbi, I really am."

Weaving slightly side to side, the serpent seemed to consider her options. Then she withdrew to the corner of her box, still looking at Harry warily. "Steal my children, then. Let her crush the life of my children, take it for her own."

"I'm sorry, Simbi," Harry hissed again as he picked up the last egg. It wouldn't fit in the box, though, and he counted quickly again. "Simbi, there's an extra egg! You laid an extra one—you can keep it!"

The snake's hood widened in excitement, then collapsed. "He will take it too ... sell it too."

Harry shook his head. "No," he assured her, "I'll help you hide it. I'm the only one who cleans your cage, you'll just have to cover it when he's around." "And when it's born, then what?" But Harry could figure that out later. Right now he could save one of Simbi's children. He carefully set the egg back on her green coils, which rustled as she lowered it back to the box. "I'll be back in a minute to check on you. Cover it now, just in case."

Simbi's forked tongue darted out at him. "Thank you, Harry."

Feeling strangely proud of what he'd done, Harry delivered the tray of eggs to the front. "Finally," Mrs Archer sighed, snatching the eggs so roughly that Harry winced for the soft shells.

"I'm sure you'll find everything to your satisfaction," gushed Mr Critswold. "I can expect a goblin delivery by tomorrow, I assume?"

But before he got an answer, Dividina Archer made a funny squeak that grew into a wail. "The egg is cracked," she whined, staring at her husband with tearful eyes.

"What's this then, Critswold?" demanded her husband. "Are you trying to cheat me?"

Critswold rounded on Harry angrily. "You cracked an egg?"

"I didn't!" Harry protested. He knew he wouldn't get very far by saying that Mrs Archer had cracked it herself, but he never could stomach being falsely accused. "They were fine when I brought them out!"

"Are you calling my wife a liar?" Mr Archer seethed.

"No, I ..."

Harry started to explain that he'd said nothing like that, but Mr Critswold leapt into the fray. "He wasn't saying that, I'm sure, were you, Harry?" Not waiting for Harry to reply, he said, "He just meant that we'll try to get another egg for you right away. Won't you, Harry?"

Harry peeked into the box where one of the fragile little eggs was leaking its life's essence into the cardboard. He thought of the egg still laying in the cobra's nest, but now he was even more loathe to give it up. "I don't think she's up to it, sir," he said instead. "She's really weak ... she didn't even put up a fight when I took the eggs."

"Well, you cannot expect what we'd agreed on for a dozen..." scowled Archer.

"No, no, of course not," Mr Critswold assured him. "What if I take off ten percent?"

"Ten percent? That's an insult! At least twenty—the spell will be practically useless now."

"But these are the very freshest eggs are money can buy—you won't have any trouble with potency," argued Mr Critswold. "And it takes such a toll on my snake. It'll be weeks before she's any use to me at all."

As they negotiated, Harry withdrew to the back room and quickly arranged some stones in Simbi's crate to better hide her egg. He had just finished when he heard the store bell clang and a minute later was joined by Mr Critswold.

"Nine hundred galleons for eleven eggs!" he exclaimed. "That man's a thief, I tell you. Bastard probably had her break the egg on purpose just to lower the price."

Harry blinked, registering that Mr Critswold didn't blame him for the damage. At least not entirely. But that didn't mean he couldn't find blame for something else. It was at that moment that Mr Critswold spotted the mess in the augery's cage.

"Have you learned nothing about animals in all this time? There are two constants—they eat and they shit. You can't forget either one."

"Sorry, Mr Critswold, I was in the middle of..."

His excuse was dismissed with a brusque hand. "Well, you'll stay until it's clean. And put that snake back out front before you go. I don't care if she just lies there, customers like to see her. And there's rubbish to take out..."

And so Harry's workday ended as it had every day for the past two years, with Mr Critswold ticking off an endless list of things that needed doing before he left for the night. But in the back of his mind he couldn't help but think of the tiny little egg sheltered in the cobra's tail.



Shadows stretched long across the pavement before Harry made it to the Weasley-Granger residence. He often arrived late, however, and as none of them had to work the next day, they never seemed to mind. One if not both of them were usually waiting in the sitting room for him, so he was surprised when he found the room empty.

"Ron? Hermione?"

"In here!"

Harry made his way to the kitchen where he found Ron wearing a full cook's apron. He started to smirk, but his friend shook a wooden spoon in warning.

"Not a single word."

Harry grinned. "I'm not saying a thing." He pulled out one of the Muggle beers he'd brought and popped the cap off, handing it to his friend. "Just a little surprised to see you looking so ... domestic."

"Yeah, well, Hermione's busy so I promised I'd handle dinner. She said to get take out, but I thought Mum's beef stew might suit her better." He took the offered beer and gave Harry a careful eye. "Well, you look chuffed. Did your boss get eaten by a python?"

Harry smirked, but shook his head. "Not quite. But I did do something he won't like." He told his friend all about the Archers' order, and what he'd done with the snake and her egg. As usual, Ron seemed uncomfortable when Harry mentioned Parseltongue—it just wasn't natural, he claimed—but cackled with delight at the thought that Dividina Archer's beauty potion might fail because Harry was harbouring a fugitive egg.

"Just watch—the next Witch Weekly will have a whole spread speculating it's because of all the stress she's dealing with."

Harry snickered. "With before and after pictures."

"Of course," Ron nodded. "And then the Prophet will pick it up as a sign that the Archer Empire's in ruins." He took another sip of beer, eyes growing wide, and he slammed the bottle on the counter. "Merlin's knickers, Harry, your egg could be responsible for the collapse of the entire economy!"

Harry laughed. "Hermione will love that. Speaking of, where is she?"

Instead of answering, Ron frowned and turned back to the stew. His movements were so deliberate as to make Harry very nervous. "She's at St. Mungo's sitting with Neville," he finally said.

"Neville!" Harry exclaimed. "What's happened to Neville?"

"It's his grandmother. Some burglars broke into her house and attacked her."

"Merlin! Is she all right?"

Ron nodded. "She is. She was shaken up pretty badly, though. They kept her at the hospital last night to watch her. I don't know what's happening now. We just heard the story this afternoon from Neville, and Hermione Apparated over straightaway."

"Gods, that's terrible," Harry muttered. Ron grunted his agreement as he swallowed down more of his beer.

The two years that Harry had been back in London had been marred by a fear worse than anything he remembered from his years at Hogwarts. What had begun as the seemingly random muggings that came up during their N.E.W.T.s had grown to break-ins at homes and almost all the Diagon shops. The once-impenetrable Gringotts had been burgled repeatedly, causing a run on the bank the likes of which no one had seen since the Great Slump. It left the wizarding community feeling increasingly vulnerable. Even if a person avoided the news, as Harry did, they couldn't help but hear stories—everyone knew someone who'd been touched by the violence. In recent months, Harry had even had to wind his way through several demonstrations of witches demanding Ministry action.

Harry knew the Ministry was acting—every Auror squad was involved in the investigations—but when asked how things were going, Ron would shake his head in frustration. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the attacks, other than that they seemed incredibly well planned and were becoming exceedingly savage.

Harry shuddered to think what they'd done to unsettle the formidable Mrs Longbottom so completely. "How did they get in? Wasn't her house warded?"

"Yeah, it had some of the strongest wards I've ever seen." Ron scrubbed his palm on his forehead. "Some were even cast by Neville's great-grandfather—you know how strong those old wards are."

Harry did know. The discomforting thought that the Black family had originally warded number twelve, Grimmauld Place (with Merlin knew what kinds of holes woven into the spells) was one of the things that had driven him from England years before. It was definitely one of the reasons he'd chosen to make his home in a Muggle flat instead.

"And the crazy thing is," Ron continued, "not only did they break through her wards, but they cast some new ones while they were there. Really strong ones—Roger Davies is the best ward-cracker we've got, and Neville said it took him ages to get through."

"Why? What was so special about them?"

"Neville said that every time they unravelled one piece, it knotted back into another section. They finally figured out they had to neuter the ends before they could go on to the next bit."

Warding was one of the seventh year subjects that Harry had missed, so he only knew the bare bones about it, but even so he knew that wasn't normal. "Can't you figure out who cast the wards?"

"We're working on it," Ron said, but his voice was heavy. "To be honest, with all the security companies offering 'new and improved' warding, we're in over our head. They're coming out with something new every day." He grimaced as he added, "I couldn't even tell you how our wards here work anymore."

Harry thought of all the customers who'd been through the shop, talking about their new warding systems. He'd never given it much thought before. "Those security companies must be making a killing."

"They are. And it's getting to where, if you don't have the latest wards, you're practically wearing a target. You might want to look into it—especially for the old place, since you're never there."

Harry had to smile at that. Burglars were welcome to any of the Black's decayed gothic treasures. "I really don't think they'd want anything I've got."

"I suppose not," agreed Ron. "Though I wouldn't mind getting my hands on your old flying broom."

"Oh, really?" Harry laughed. "So if there's a break in, I'll have them search here first?"

"The real crime is that you don't take it out more. When's the last time you flew?"

Harry thought back. It had been a while. "Must've been at the Burrow, I guess, on your birthday."

Ron was preparing an indignant response when they heard a loud crack in the sitting room. "That must be herself." He handed the wooden spoon to Harry and pointed at the soup. "Keep an eye on that, will you?"

It was several minutes before he reappeared, followed by Hermione who was cradling a small grey parcel. She gave Harry a peck on the cheek before falling into the chair Ron had pulled out for her. She looked exhausted, and her package seemed to be ... shivering. Harry looked closer. It was a cat with long, dull hair that was trying to burrow further into Hermione's lap.

Hermione caught him looking and smiled sadly. "It's Gran's cat," she explained. "They cruciated the poor thing to get her to cooperate." She stroked the cat's dull fur. "You've got to find these people, Ron."

Her husband squeezed her shoulder. "We will."

He was looking at her so tenderly that Harry had to turn away. He busied himself by pouring cups of tea, and as he put Hermione's before her, he asked, "How's Neville's grandmother doing?"

"Better, but she's still shaken. At least she's out of the hospital. But when Neville asked if she wanted to go back home to get anything, she couldn't stop crying. I went over and picked up her things ... including Aengus here." She gazed sadly at the cat. "She didn't even recognise him at first—he used to be black as pitch."

A chill ran through Harry as he looked at Hermione, his head echoing with her screams as she suffered Bellatrix's curse. Thankfully this terrible memory was interrupted by Ron asking, "Is Neville working on any leads?"

Hermione shook her head. "Not that I know of. He was pretty shaken himself. I mean, this is his grandmother. She's the only person he's got in the world anymore. Although," she smiled slightly, "there may be something going on between Neville and Luna Lovegood. She'd been at the hospital with them all morning, and Gran will be staying with her and her dad while Neville's working."

"Sure you're not just playing matchmaker again?" Ron teased, darting a quick look at their friend. Over the years, Harry had been paired up with any number of Hermione's work colleagues—all high-achieving witches whose eyes went blank when he told them he was an assistant shopkeeper at a pet store. He'd not yet gotten up the nerve to tell Hermione that, even if they didn't turn up their noses at him, he still wouldn't be interested. "Does Neville have anything to say about this?"

"I think they'd be good together."

Hermione looked surprised by Harry's statement, but he'd meant it. He hadn't thought about the odd little witch for years, but picturing her with Neville made perfect sense. "Neville would ground her, and she'd help him to forget."

Hermione was smiling at him with a look of pride; Harry hoped this didn't mean she was planning another match for him. But Ron wasn't so impressed. "Whatever," he scoffed. "Maybe the two of you can go into matchmaking together. Anyway, supper's ready."

Hermione smiled at her husband as he slid a bowl of stew in front of her. Harry sat down beside her, laughing as she tried to push Aengus to the floor. The cat immediately pressed against her legs, refusing to budge. "I guess he feels safer there," Harry noted.

"He does, poor thing," Hermione sighed as she charmed her hands clean. Then she froze, suddenly remembering something important. "Oh goodness, I nearly forgot, Neville did mention that Gran closed her Gringotts account not two weeks ago. She said she didn't trust the goblins anymore. She had every single thing she owned hidden in that house."

Ron spun around so quickly that his soup sloshed from his bowl onto the floor. "How could you forget that?" When Harry looked at him, completely befuddled by his outburst, Ron explained, "Some of the recent burglaries have been after people closed their Gringotts accounts. It's like they know who's keeping their valuables at home—it means it's got to be an inside job."

Hermione nodded. "That's what Neville thought too. But he said the goblins won't even give the Ministry details of who has closed accounts. Do you really think they'd help the robbers?"

"Sure they would," Ron shrugged, "if there was enough in it for them."

But Harry wasn't so sure. He remembered his dealings with the goblin at Shell cottage, his open contempt for "wizarding masters," and Bill Weasley's warnings about goblin notions of payment and repayment. If Griphook was typical of the other goblins, it would take something very powerful to make them betray their stations. Or someone.

Someone as powerful as Voldemort once had been.

"Well, we'll look into it on Monday I'm sure. D'you need another beer, mate?"

Ron's question jerked him back to the present. "Oh, um, sure."

"So how've you been, Harry?" asked Hermione. "Anything exciting happen this week?"

"Yeah, tell her about the snake..."

They fell into their usual banter, which took them through dinner and well into the evening. Eventually they gathered around the cheerful fire in the sitting room. Aengus planted himself firmly on Hermione's lap while Ron and Harry crouched over the chessboard. It was much, much later that their conversation returned to the robberies.

"Ron, don't let me forget," Hermione said sleepily. "Neville wants the name of the warding company we used. I couldn't remember the name ... Avery and Crowe, was it? Something like that?"

"Avery and Crabbe," Ron said absently. "I think he was related to the Slytherin in our class, one of the ones who died."

Harry froze with his fingers just grazing the top of his knight. "Avery and Crabbe?" He hadn't heard the Death Eaters' names in years, yet they still made his blood run cold. "They're running a security company?"

"Yeah," said Ron, "one of the many that've sprung up over the past year. It's hard to keep track of them all."

With a deep sense of foreboding, Harry asked, "Who are some of the others?"

"Oh, there's Allied Carrow, the Lestrange Brothers ... who else, Hermione?"

"Salus, that's the big one..." She let her book fall shut as she thought, then said, "Oh, Accio Prophet." The newspaper fluttered through the door and into her hand, and she handed it over to Harry. "Have a look at the classifieds. They all advertise in there."

Harry opened the broadsheet to see she was right—two full pages of adverts dotted the pages, featuring pictures of lockboxes and keys and cartoon figures dressed in striped prison outfits, and amidst them scrolling across the page like a theatre marquee:

Don't get robbed ... get Rookwood.

Allied Carrow Plc.: Keeping your family jewels in the family

Walden's Wards & Watchers, Walden Macnair prop.

The Lestrange Bros.: You want us on your side.

The list went on and on: Antonin Dolohov, Yardley Yaxley, Nott & Son, all names that should have been on the roll call at Azkaban, not doing business—and thriving, from the sound of it—across Britain.

Harry's eye fell to the bottom of the page where, stretching across the entire width of the page, was the biggest advert of all. In impressive white letters on a black background, it read:

It's your family's safety. Why choose anything less?
SALUS SECURITIES
Protecting Wizarding Families Since 1998

In the corner of the ad was a small "W" with a circle surrounding it. It looked like the kind of brand you'd find on cows in old Muggle Westerns. "Do you know what this symbol is?" He handed the paper back to Hermione.

"That's the Order of Walpurgis. It's one of those old boy networks like the Freemasons—you know, secret handshakes and all. Was Arthur never invited to join, Ron?"

"Hmmm?" Ron advanced a pawn and then looked up from the board as if he was coming out from under the water. "Oh, Walpurgis? No, I don't think so. We were never the right sort, you know." Hermione rolled her eyes, but Ron just said, "It's your move, mate."

"Oh, um..." Harry had forgotten all about his strategy—if he'd ever really had one. He certainly hadn't gotten any better at Wizard's chess since leaving Hogwarts. And with the strange name of Walpurgis tickling some forgotten corner of his memory, it was even harder to concentrate on the game. He'd been about to move the knight, he remembered that, so he slid it into place now with hardly a second glance. Then he turned back to Hermione.

"So this Salus Securities," he asked warily, "you said they're the big one?"

She looked up from her book again, frowning. "Well, I'm not sure about big, but I think they're the most successful. They were the original warding firm—they started before anybody even knew they needed wards."

"Yeah," Ron chimed in, "And from what Roger's said, they're the ones inventing most of the new wards. The other companies just take their ideas and dress them up a bit." He slid his bishop across the board. "And check."

Harry hadn't seen that coming at all. He realised that he really needed to open his eyes and pay attention to what was right in front of his face. There was one rook open, and he swapped places quickly, then asked the question he somehow already knew the answer to. "It's the Malfoys, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is. How'd you know?" asked Ron.

But who else could it be? It made sense ... as much as any of this made sense. The Death Eaters had cornered the home security industry and who else would be in the centre but the Malfoys. Who else would be capitalising on the misfortune of others?
"Checkmate!"

Ron's glee, contained as he tried to be to be, roused him from his thoughts. As it did Hermione, who closed her book, stretching. "Okay, I need to go to bed, I'm bushed. Harry, you're staying over, right? The guest room's all made up for you." The guest room was always made up, and Harry had used it every Saturday night for nearly a year, but his friends always made an effort to invite him anyway. It made him feel good, as if they really wanted him there. Tonight, there was an additional reason for the invitation. "We're going to visit my parents tomorrow and they'd love to see you."

"Yes, Harry, stay over," Ron urged, with a little more insistence in his voice. And he knew just what temptations to offer Harry. "We can go flying over the ocean while they're visiting."

"That sounds great," Harry said, yawning when Hermione yawned again. "Guess it's bedtime for me, too."

He followed his friends up the stairs, said goodnight, and entered his cosy little room. It was the perfect mix of their joint tastes, with dried flower arrangements on the dresser and a Chudley Cannons poster on the closet door. A pair of Ron's pyjamas and a dressing gown were hanging on the hook behind the door. He slipped them on and got into bed, but now couldn't sleep. His mind racing, he got back up, slipped on the robe, and went out into the hall. Thanking Merlin that Ron was still in the washroom, he waited to ambush him when he came out.

"You all right, Harry?"

"Yeah, I was just wondering ... can I send out an owl?"

"Sure." Ron looked at him sleepily. "Is anything wrong?"

"No, I just forgot something I need to do."

"Yeah, there's quills and parchment downstairs in the kitchen sideboard. Just call Tobias from the back door, he'll come around."

"Thanks, Ron. Goodnight."

Harry padded downstairs and found everything he needed to write a letter. Except the words he wanted to write. Even the salutation was impossible.

Dear Malfoy,

No, that didn't look right. He crossed out the "dear" so it just read "Malfoy," but that wasn't right either. He carefully tore off that bit of parchment and started again.

Mr Malfoy,

I am inquiring about security services for my residence.

No, that didn't sound pressing enough. He tried for a third time.

Mr Malfoy,

I am in urgent need of security services at my residence. No doubt you are quite busy, but based on our

Our what? Our mutual hatred? Our rivalry? No, the Malfoy that left Hogwarts hadn't recognized any rivalry. "He hardly even knew my name," Harry reminded himself. He dipped the tip of his quill back into the ink and continued writing.

our past association at Hogwarts, I hoped that you might attend to my needs yourself. I will be at home on Monday.

How should he end it? Sincerely yours? With undying animosity, your enemy? At last he settled for, simply,

Harry Potter

He scribbled the address of his Muggle flat after his name, read the letter over once more, then folded it carefully and slipped it into the envelope.

"Draco Malfoy" he wrote on the front, shuddering at the thought that Lucius might show up on his doorstep. Then he went to the kitchen door and whistled sharply.

"Tobias!"

The barn owl fluttered toward him, surprised to be called so late. Harry realised that, in his determination to get to the bottom of this, he'd forgotten all about the time. Malfoy would think it very strange to be getting a letter in the middle of the night. Harry debated holding it until morning, but he didn't want to give himself time to change his mind.

"Take this to Draco Malfoy at Malfoy Manor. Do you know where that is?" The owl ruffled his feathers as if insulted by the question. "Good boy," Harry said, rewarding him with an owl treat from the box next to the door.

Harry stared at the horizon until Tobias disappeared. Then he smashed his palm over half his face.

"Oh hell, what've I just done?"


Chapter Five

Nihil sub sole novum
Nothing new under the sun


Harry didn't work on Mondays; therefore, they were usually his favourite day of the week. Morning would tiptoe in late, gently teasing him from the oblivion of sleep. He'd try to ignore the attention as long as possible, knowing that Noon would eventually arrive, doggedly insisting he rise. Eventually he would obey, and after a piping hot shower that drank up the last of the hot water in the tank, wander into the kitchen to find what Kreacher had set out for breakfast. Afternoon would be calling him out to play by that point, and Harry would see what adventures the two of them might find. At some point he'd be handed off to Evening, often without even being aware, usually in some pub where he'd enjoyed a few hours watching the Muggle sport of the day. Finally, Night would deposit him back to his flat, find him a late night snack, and tuck him carefully into bed.

Such was the ambitiousless life of Harry Potter, hero of young Colin Creevey and thorn in the side of the darkest wizard to ever live.

This day, however, would not go down in the history books as one of the good Mondays. His deep sleep was shattered by an uncomfortably bright light shining in his eyes. Peering through cracked fingers, Harry looked up to find Kreacher pulling back his drapes. "What are you doing?" Harry groaned. "What time is it?"

"Seven o'clock," Kreacher replied brightly. "Master said last night that he was entertaining company, so Kreacher has taken the liberty to prepare all of Master's favourite foods."

Harry groaned louder, pulling his pillow back over his head. "'Malfoy,' I said. Not 'company.' And I'm not entertaining. He's coming on business."

"But Master has not had company for a long, long time. Not since that horrible Muggle tried to kill Kreacher ... although Kreacher deserved it, of course he did, Kreacher should have stayed hidden like Master asked..."

Even with his head covered and eyes shut tight, Harry could tell that the elf was looking for something with which to punish himself. He didn't think he could take that this early in the morning. "Kreacher, please don't hit yourself. It doesn't matter." It really didn't. The Muggle was just someone Harry had pulled at his local on one of those nights that seemed too long. He couldn't even remember the man's name now, but he did remember to avoid that bar. Obliviate would probably have been an easier solution, but Harry never could bring himself to use that spell, opting instead to scurry past the inviting pub door. "Really, that's all forgotten." Harry yawned into his pillow. "I think I need more sleep though."

"More sleep?" Kreacher sounded like he wasn't sure of the wisdom of this idea, but finally conceded. "Well, if that is what Master wishes, then he will sleep. Shall Kreacher close the drapes?" When Harry didn't answer, the elf continued, "Yes, it will help Master sleep better. Now Kreacher will continue preparing for Master Malfoy's visit."

Harry didn't relax until Kreacher had bustled out of the room and the door clicked shut behind him. As he let the pillow slide off his face, Harry decided that he could think of nothing worse than an overexcited house-elf.

Well, except maybe the reason the elf was so excited.

This brought a fresh round of pain. Second thoughts about the wisdom of his invitation started almost the moment the owl had taken it away. With Hermione's parents he'd tried to block it from his mind. Their comfortable Muggle home was exactly the type that Harry, as a young boy, had always imagined his friends would have, if he'd had friends. In other words, it was as far from Aunt Petunia's chintz and porcelain as could be. But even in their welcoming cottage, he was unable to shake the dread feeling of seeing all the Death Eaters names.

It hadn't been easy, these past five years. At first he'd been certain that Voldemort would swoop down and catch the wizarding world unaware. Then he'd been certain that the Obliviation spell, for that was surely what it was, would wear off, as they eventually did. Even Mnemone Radford, the most talented Obliviator the Ministry had ever had, could only contain a memory for a short time. That was usually sufficient; memories faded on their own, and hazy thoughts that surfaced in dreams were usually discounted as just that. But as weeks passed, then months, then years, and no one remembered a thing, Harry'd had to wonder, "Could they be right?"

As much as he hated this thought, he learned to live as if it was true. He learned to temper his speech, avoiding the subjects that would earn him cautious stares or pitying looks. He stopped reading the newspapers; the Ministry's machinations did nothing but bore him, and he knew Ron and Hermione would give him the highlights anyway. And more and more, he moved among Muggles who had never been bothered one way or another about who Harry Potter was. He became a very ordinary man.

But deep inside, he knew he'd been waiting for this peace to be shattered. And an industry made up entirely of Death Eaters was a sure sign that it had. He had to find out what was going on.

Harry punched his pillow. Damn Kreacher and his over-eagerness. Damn the Death Eaters and their plotting. And damn Malfoy because ... well, it was enough that he was Malfoy. Harry was wide awake now, with no chance of escaping back to sleep, and angrily he kicked the covers off. "Kreacher!"

There was no response. Harry sat up, pinching the sleep from his eye, and called again. "Kreacher?"

This time he heard a 'crack' and the house-elf appeared right beside his bed. He wore a strangely guilty expression. "Yes, Master? What does Harry Potter require of Kreacher?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Where were you?"

The house-elf seemed to shrivel before his suspicion. "Kreacher was only wanting to please Master. Kreacher was only wanting to show young Master Malfoy that Master is a good host, the best host. Kreacher does not want to cause Master to lose face."

His double-speak was always confusing, but this early in the morning it was impossibly annoying. "What did you do, Kreacher?"

Kreacher hung his head, reluctantly turning his huge eyes up to look at Harry. "Kreacher was visiting Lubby at Malfoy Manor to find out what young Master Malfoy prefers to eat. Lubby gave Kreacher a list of things he likes."

"Oh, Kreacher," Harry sighed, "I told you, Malfoy's coming here on business. You don't have to serve him anything."

"But Master must serve something," Kreacher replied, as shocked as if Harry had suggested Kreacher kill Malfoy as soon as he walked through the door. "It is Kreacher's responsibility to show that Master Harry Potter is the perfect host. Kreacher cannot let Master down."

The elf was so insistent that Harry knew he couldn't win this argument, save by ordering Kreacher to stay out of the flat during Malfoy's visit. He rubbed his face in his hands and then looked at Kreacher. "Fine, you can make whatever you li--" Then, realising what he'd just said, he quickly added, "Hang on … what exactly does Malfoy like?"

"Oh, young Master Malfoy has exquisite taste," Kreacher boasted. "Lubby says he enjoys caviar, fugu fish, plums in port wine, foie gras, pheasant…"

"No, no, no!" Harry stopped him, imagining his tiny dining table collapsing under the weight of Malfoy's luxurious palate. "You are not making any of that for him—I absolutely forbid it."

Kreacher looked utterly broken-hearted, and when he bowed low and said, "Yes, Master," in a choked voice, Harry took pity.

"Doesn't Malfoy like anything normal? Some kind of sandwiches, maybe, or some dessert?"

Kreacher thought for a second, then brightened. "Lubby said that he likes lemon tart."

"Fine," said Harry. "You can make lemon tart for Malfoy."

"Oh, thank you, Master. Kreacher will make the best lemon tart that Master Malfoy has ever had," the elf gushed. "And Master Harry Potter will be the best host, Kreacher will make sure of it."

"I'm sure you will," Harry said with a pained smile. "Now can you go? I need to shower. Oh, and Kreacher," Harry added, suddenly remembering the reason he'd called the elf in the first place, "can you get me a lot of newspapers, say the past three or four months at least? I'd like to catch up on the news today."

"Certainly, Kreacher will have them waiting after Master's bath."

"Thank you, Kreacher."

Harry waited until the elf Disapparated before shaking his head vigorously. He'd never been woken up before to discuss Malfoy's dining preferences. And he hoped he never would be again.



Harry should have known better than to expect Malfoy at a reasonable hour, but when three o'clock came, then half three, then four, still with no sign of him, Harry was starting to get angry. He knew this was an odd reaction. Yesterday he'd wished he could go back in time and withdraw his invitation. Now the thought that Malfoy couldn't be bothered to see him—or even to owl that he couldn't make it—nagged him like a missing tooth.

Kreacher was being especially bothersome too. The flat was too small for the elf to carry on his work unnoticed—for once Harry almost wished they were back at Grimmauld Place—and even when it was as tidy as it could possibly be, he still seemed to lurk. When he noticed the elf's drooping ears and the downcast eyes, Harry wondered if he was disappointed that Malfoy wasn't going to show.

He didn't ask, though. He rarely talked to Kreacher; although the house-elf wasn't a deep thinker, his meanderings were usually too convoluted for Harry to follow. Kreacher's age seemed to be truly catching up with him; he seemed to mix the past and the present, often referring to his beloved Mrs. Black as if she was still alive, and Harry knew he returned often to visit her portrait. But he'd been a loyal servant to Harry, even following him to this Muggle flat despite his unmasked disdain at its non-functioning fireplace and its size that he thought insufficient for someone of his master's stature. To tell the truth, Harry wasn't sure how he'd have managed without the house-elf. He knew this didn't please Hermione—even in this world, S.P.E.W. was a cause near and dear to her heart—but Harry didn't think the elf would appreciate being given his freedom. He did, however, beam whenever Harry offered any gratitude. To cheer him up now, Harry said, "You were brilliant getting the newspapers, Kreacher. First rate job."

Kreacher's drooped ears immediately sprung to attention. "Master said he wanted a lot, and Kreacher wanted to make sure they were sufficient for Master's needs. Kreacher hopes that Master thinks there are enough. Kreacher can find more if Master wants…"

"Oh, I definitely think there are enough," Harry assured him quickly. Every surface in the main room of his flat was stacked with newspapers. He'd forgotten that the Prophet had both morning and evening editions, and Kreacher had seen fit to get both versions going back at least six months. He'd also picked up the lesser-read Wizarding World Weekly plus a goodly amount of the Quibbler; the latter had made Harry think of Luna, and then Neville and his gran, and had reminded him of why he'd wanted the newspapers in the first place.

If Harry had wanted an article explaining the rise of the security firms, he would have been sorely disappointed. But what he did find was enough to keep him occupied as he waited for Malfoy. There wasn't one single thing he could put his finger on, just unrelated bits of news that made him feel increasingly uneasy. For one thing, the Prophet had reported each and every attack on a magical person. They were admittedly brutal; the thieves seemed to relish the terror they inspired as much as the treasure they could steal. At least, that's how Deborrah Mason, the Prophet's designated crime reporter, presented them. Each account of torture and degradation was written in the most lurid detail, and Harry was certain that if she hadn't been there to witness these acts herself, then Deborrah Mason had the most terribly vivid imagination he'd ever encountered.

Alongside these, Harry was struck by the noticeable lack of any arrests or even potential suspects. It was one thing to hear from Ron that the Aurors were at a complete loss; it was quite another to feel the vague sense of helpless that stirred as he read about this unchecked wave of terror.

Not that the Ministry of Magic was silent. No, Minister Thicknesse was unceasingly vocal about the need for vigilance in these troubled times. It was the kind of rhetoric that Uncle Vernon would have appreciated, jam-packed with words like order and discipline and sacrifice. The Ministry didn't seem to be sacrificing much, though. Buried at the bottom of the article was the mention that the Auror ranks had more than doubled in the years since they left Hogwarts, followed by another piece praising the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for implementing a new Auror division "in response to public demand." Harry remembered Ron mentioning something about that, about it being a kind of "elite" branch. Ron's beef had simply been that they acted like they were above the rest. But as he scoured the issues more carefully, Harry noted that were above the rest. This independent division had been given increasingly broad powers with each decree that Pius Thickness enacted. These decrees enabled them to search homes at will and recover anything they thought might be used as evidence. Wizards and witches could be detained at will, too, although the Minister made assurances that this measure would be used only in extreme cases. Fidelius charms were outlawed, as were any wards that compromised the ability of these Aurors to gain entry to a residence.

Pius Thicknesse insisted that these measures were necessary to "untie their hands" so they could "do whatever it took to halt this vicious attack on wizarding society and our way of life." The wording didn't sit well with Harry. As far as he could tell, the break-ins in warded homes and in the Diagon streets suggested that magical beings were responsible. Considering his memories of the war, it might be that he was overly sensitive to demonising the Muggle world. He was fairly certain that no one else would connect the Minister's statements with the newspaper's historical series on Muggle Britain's anti-witchcraft legislation. But still, it gave him a wary feeling that he couldn't shake.

"Master is looking distressed," said Kreacher, the worry in his voice shaking Harry from his suspicious thoughts. "Perhaps he has been reading too long?"

"Maybe so," Harry agreed. "It's a lot to take in." He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his fingers across his eyelids as he asked the question he'd asked countless times before, "And I suppose you still don't remember Voldemort?"

The house-elf looked confused. "Master, I only remember…"

"You only remember what I remember, yes, Kreacher, I know." It was the same response as ever, and as ever it seemed to be said for Harry's benefit. The once-contrary house-elf had turned into the always obedient servant who, although he would never contradict Harry, would never give him anything more substantial than annoying acquiescence.

And yet Kreacher was still eager to please. "Would Master care for a cup of tea? Kreacher would be more than happy to prepare a light snack."

Feeling defeated, Harry gave in. "Yes, a cup of tea sounds good. And … and do you have any bubblegum pie?"

"Of course, Master! Kreacher will bring them straightaway, sir."

The elf looked so happy that Harry cursed Malfoy anew. It was nearly half five now and painfully clear that he wasn't going to bother showing up. All that work Kreacher had put into preparing for this visit and he'd stood them both up. Harry hoped to never see lemon tarts again.

He cast the Prophet to the side and reached for the latest edition of the Quibbler, hoping for some more amusing if not more accurate accounts of recent events. True to form, Mr Lovegood had filled his paper with his own unique take on current events. Issues of security seemed paramount here too, with articles on natural wards using a concoction of dried carnations and marjoram, and extensive numerology charts advising the best days to venture down Knockturn Alley. And unlike the mainstream paper, Harry noticed that the Quibbler had turned into an activist mouthpiece. The paper reported on the most recent demonstrations, the lawsuits being brought against Gringotts by the victims of the robberies, and to Harry's interest, a petition to appoint a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts, a position that had been vacant ever since the Carrows had joined the more lucrative world of home security.

Harry was searching for more news of Hogwarts when he heard a sharp rap at the door.

Malfoy? Would he really be here, this late?

Apparently Kreacher thought so. He Apparated in with a pop, not carrying a tea tray as Harry expected but just to gather up the newspapers that were spread around the room. He only missed the Quibbler in Harry's hand; Harry tossed it onto the coffee table and reached for his wand.

A pass of his wand over the doorway revealed that it was indeed Draco Malfoy outside. He had the same features—Harry would surely have recognised him on the street—but where as a boy his nose had been too pointed, his chin too sharp, they seemed to fit the man he'd become. His hair was still so light as to be almost white, but he wore it longer now, down to his shoulders, and straight as threads of corn silk. His lips were set in a straight line, expressionless; Harry knew they would pinch into a sneer as soon as he opened the door. He'd invited Malfoy here to answer his questions, though, not to resurrect old spite, and after a day of reading he had a whole lot more he wanted to know. Resolving to not let his old nemesis slither out of any answers, Harry cleared his throat and cracked the door.

"Hello, Malfoy. Glad you could stop by."

The corner of his visitor's lip quirked upwards. Harry was caught out by the almost-smile instead of the expected sneer. "Hello, Potter," Malfoy replied, putting an amused stress on the name. Harry realised it wasn't an expressionless face he'd seen; rather, it was one trying to rein in amusement as he gave Harry a once-over. His efforts seemed to fail as he stood there, waiting, and then finally grinned mischievously. "So are you going to invite me in then?"

"Oh," stuttered Harry, thoroughly embarrassed, "yes, please come in." As Malfoy brushed past, a fragment of memory shot through Harry's head, something about not inviting vampires into one's home. He shoved the thought away and followed his guest into the flat. "Can I take your coat?"

Malfoy shrugged imperiously out of his long leather coat, far too heavy for the mild autumn day, but then Harry had always figured fashion was more important to the Slytherin. He was dressed all in black underneath, with an untucked silk shirt and slacks that looked like they'd been airbrushed over his narrow frame. As Malfoy handed over his coat, Harry saw he was wearing expensive-looking silver cufflinks embossed with a heavy M. This subtle reminder of class reminded Harry of his hosting duties.

"Please, have a seat. Can I get you some tea?"

His guest was busy surveying the room, seemingly oblivious to the question. Harry felt oddly undressed as his possessions were catalogued and, he was sure, found wanting in his old enemy's esteem. Harry couldn't pretend to possess any real sense of style in either dress or décor. He'd surrounded himself with items picked up on his travels; some were valuable, but most were just things that intrigued him. And like his clothes, his furniture was chosen for comfort, not looks. It wasn't shabby, but it certainly couldn't measure up to the standard of Malfoy Manor.

Feeling slightly annoyed, Harry called for Kreacher. The house-elf's appearance was enough to shake Malfoy from his inspection; as he eyed the elf with surprise, Harry repeated, "Tea, Malfoy?"

"Sure, okay, if you're having some."

Harry sat and motioned for his guest to sit on the sofa opposite him. "Some tea, please, Kreacher, and some of the snacks you've prepared."

Kreacher bowed low and Disapparated, leaving Malfoy looking at him in amazement. "You have a house-elf?" "Here?" was unspoken, but Harry heard it loud and clear. He wasn't sure whether to feel smug or defensive in the face of the other man's surprise. "I inherited him from my godfather," he explained in the most minimal terms possible as a tray appeared beside him, bearing a pot of tea, a slice of bubblegum pie, and the biggest lemon tart Harry had ever seen. "Sugar?"

"No, just a little milk."

Harry handed him the tea and the lemon tart. He caught the smile that spread across Malfoy's face and he didn't think it was because he was so happy about the pastry. Harry couldn't shake the feeling that Malfoy was laughing at him. And determined not to care, in typical Gryffindor fashion Harry dove headfirst into the reason for the meeting.

"I'm glad you could stop by," Harry began; he silently added, "Even if it is nearly six o'clock, after I waited all day for you."

"Well, how could I resist such a charming invitation?" Malfoy said wryly. Definitely laughing at him, Harry decided, so he barrelled on.

"I've been reading about the recent attacks…" Harry started, faltering when Malfoy's eye landed on the issue of the Quibbler still on his coffee table. Harry cursed Kreacher for not getting rid of it with the rest. "And, well," he went on, "I'd like to find out more about your security services."

Malfoy's eyebrow shot up high across his forehead. "You really want to ward this place? Whyever for?"

The arrogant tone made Harry bristle. His enemy hadn't changed one whit—he was still the conceited bastard who'd looked down his nose at everything Harry had, at everything Harry did. And Harry hated it just as much as he had that day in Madam Malkins' when the not-yet-Slytherin boy first scorned him. "What? You think I don't have anything worth stealing?" he demanded to know, clenching his fists. "You have to be a Malfoy to be worth robbing?"

"Hang on, Potter, that's not what I meant at all." His guest looked seriously aggrieved, so Harry gave him a chance to explain. "You've got a lot of valuables here. That charmed picture box from Slovenia would fetch a fortune at Borgin & Burkes, and that carved gryphon—you would have a gryphon, wouldn't you?—looks to be about twelfth century." Harry's astonishment must've shown on his face, for Malfoy quickly added, "Don't look so excited, Potter. They're nice enough, but it's not like I want to move in with you."

Harry looked aghast. "No … no, of course not," he stuttered. But he couldn't explain the odd sense of pride he'd felt when Malfoy commended his treasures. "I … I'm just surprised that you knew all that."

Draco shrugged as if it was nothing. "Mother spent the entire summer after fifth year dragging me through ancient castles in France. They're chocker-block with gryphons like yours."

Harry imagined why Narcissa Malfoy might have wanted to escape England that summer, with a husband in Azkaban and Voldemort breathing down her neck, but he found it harder to picture the young Death Eater-in-training absorbing the local culture. He forced his attention away from that irreconcilable image and back to the matter at hand. "So why aren't they worth protecting then?"

"They are!" Malfoy insisted. "It's just … well, you have a house-elf, for one thing."

Harry frowned at the thought of Kreacher withstanding the kind of villains who had attacked Gran Neville. "He's hundreds of years old. Do you really think he could fend off a burglary?"

Malfoy shrugged. "It's hard to say. Elves have some remarkable powers, Harry. I think you'd be surprised at some of the things they can do."

It couldn't possibly be any more surprising than hearing his name on his enemy's tongue. It took Harry a second to recover enough to ask, "You said 'one thing,' Malfoy. What else?"

The man chuckled to himself, his blond hair swaying as he gently shook his head. "Erebus, I can't believe I'm suggesting you don't get wards. Father will have my head." He looked back up at Harry. "Do you understand how warding works?"

"Sure I do," Harry answered. He did, in principle; the subject had been one of the many he'd crammed in those last weeks before his N.E.W.T.s. He just hadn't had any call to use the knowledge since. But then Malfoy cocked his chin just the way Snape used to when he was waiting for an answer, and Harry felt a strange compulsion to go on. "It's like a big net made of charmed threads. Anybody can pass out of it, but only certain people can pass in."

Malfoy half-nodded, not completely happy with Harry's answer but still with more approval than Harry had ever gotten from Snape. "That's how they used to be done, yes. But when I was repairing the wards at the Manor I started playing around with shrinking potions. I eventually came up with a warding system that … well, instead of a net, think of … of a burlap sack." He locked his long fingers together to demonstrate. "The individual wards are compacted and then woven, with holes too small for any corporeal being to slip through."

Harry couldn't help but be impressed. Combining charms and potions was a complex and dangerous art—one that he'd never attempted himself—but he knew it was responsible for some of the strongest magic. If Malfoy had managed it, it meant he was a more powerful wizard than Harry had ever thought.

"Now of course they're even more advanced," Malfoy continued, "with each ward doubling back and weaving into the others—more like knitting. It makes the whole system stronger."

That fit what Neville had said about the burglars' wards, the ones that had knotted back together as soon as they were severed. But it still didn't explain why Malfoy didn't think it would work here. "Okay, so what does that have to do with my flat?"

"You're in a Muggle apartment building." Malfoy said it as if it explained everything, but when Harry shook his head in confusion, he continued with just a note of irritation. "The primary wards are put on the main entrance of the building—always have been, that's just the nature of wards. Magic is concentrated in the moment someone steps from the world outside into the protected space. That was fine with the old wards—they could be set wide enough so that non-magical people could get through, but not anymore."

Harry did remember something about the importance of entrance and egress in warding; it'd been more of the tedious facts he thought he'd never have a use for. And this explanation made sense, but… "What about Squibs?" he asked, suspecting he'd found the flaw in Malfoy's reasoning. "How can they get through these new wards?"

"Wards are always tied to the will of their creator," Malfoy explained simply, as if he were instructing a child. "If you've granted entry to a Squib—or an animal or a Muggle even—the wards will always respect that. But you want to try doing that in a building like this, with all sorts of people coming and going? You'd have to know every single person intimately." Malfoy seemed to suppress a shudder at the thought.

"Surely you've warded flats before?" Harry asked.

"Sure, we just did Fortuna Towers," Malfoy confirmed, "but all its inhabitants are wizards. Wards are why wizards don't live in Muggle buildings—one of the reasons anyway. Not saying it can't be done, just … maybe you should think about moving." He looked around the cosy flat. "I'm surprised you live here anyway."

"I like it here," Harry said, his defences rising again. "I guess I'll just use carnations and marjoram like the Quibbler says."

"Hey, don't knock carnations and marjoram. Some of the most powerful anti-theft potions use them. In fact…" Malfoy tucked his hair behind his left ear, his fingers pulling the long strand down to the very end. Harry found himself entranced by the gesture; he could almost see the man's thoughts churning. "I think you may've just given me an idea, Harry."

The look Malfoy gave him was so bright—radiant, even—that Harry felt his cheeks warm. It was a strange feeling, made even stranger by the fact that it was Malfoy causing it. He hid it by reaching for his cup of tea. Just as he brought it to his lips he asked, "So you don't want to sell me a security system. Why are you here then?"

"Honestly?" Malfoy smirked, staring Harry right in the eye. "I thought you were asking me out."

Harry nearly choked on his tea. Amidst the sputtering and the certain feeling that his eyes were going to fall out of his head, he managed to get out a single word. "What?!"

"Well, what was I supposed to think?" Malfoy didn't look the least bit apologetic; nor did he try to save Harry from what was surely imminent death by choking. And actually, Harry was quite glad the other man kept his distance. "You didn't contact our office," he went on, "and you can see for yourself that I'm no salesman. Not to mention, you sent an owl to the Manor. My father loved getting woken up with my post in the middle of the night, by the way."

All true points—and Harry cringed at the thought of Lucius reading his letter—but they didn't add up. "But … why would you think I was asking you out?"

His guest grinned, not seeming the least bit embarrassed. "Just wishful thinking, I suppose."

If Harry had been drinking tea, he would have choked a second time. Instead, as soon as he could stop his mouth from hanging open, he asked, "You think people just owl you out of the blue, asking you out?"

His question made Malfoy smirk. "It wouldn't be the first time. Normally they don't request my 'services' through my father, though."

Harry didn't know what to say to that. This conversation was veering wildly out of his control, unstable as the Weasley's Ford Anglia. To regain some measure of control he said, in a decidedly firm voice, "Trust me, Malfoy, I wasn't asking you out."

"Fair enough." He didn't seem at all bothered either way, which discomfited Harry even more, and he didn't want to examine that too closely. "I just didn't think you really invited me here to talk about wards."

And fair enough, he hadn't.

"I was curious about how your security systems work," Harry admitted, "but you're right, I wasn't really looking to buy one."

"That's a relief," grinned Malfoy. "In that case, I didn't lose a sale."

Harry couldn't help grinning back. It was awfully hard to remember that this was the same person who'd bullied him through school, who'd dressed as a Dementor to terrorise him, who'd tried to kill his headmaster. He seemed so guileless now—and Harry was having a little trouble believing this could all be an act. It inspired him to respond with as much candour. "No, you didn't lose a sale. But I was hoping you could tell me about some of the other companies. There seem to be an awful lot of them now."

Malfoy steepled his fingers and tapped them together. "Ah, I see, dismantling the competition. I might be able to do that." He eyed Harry thoughtfully. "I might even enjoy doing that … on one condition."

"Here it comes," Harry thought. "An oath to secrecy I bet. Hopefully just a vow not to tell the Aurors, I could get around that somehow, I'm sure, maybe talk to Hermione instead. But what if it's something more—if it's something involving Voldemort, well…" Harry realised he didn't know what he'd do then. Finding where Voldemort was might be worth a hefty price … as would even finding proof of his existence. He swallowed hard and asked, "What's the condition?"

"That we continue this discussion over drinks in a pub."

Oh. Not what he'd expected.

His expression must have given away his surprise, because Malfoy laughed out loud. "Well, since you're not asking me out, I figured I'd have to do it."

"Drinks?" Harry finally croaked out.

"And maybe some supper. Really, Potter, bubblegum pie? Are you twelve?" But there was no malice in his voice. In fact, he had the same teasing tone as Ron when he'd discovered that Harry still collected wizard cards.

But it wasn't the same—this was Draco Malfoy, long his enemy, and this could all be a disingenuous attempt to draw him out. He imagined himself in a dark Knockturn Alley pub surrounded by Death Eaters, all slightly aged but none the less evil.

Then again, Harry hadn't exactly been living incognito for all these years. If Voldemort had wanted to find him, it wouldn't have been difficult.

But there was no reason to make it easy on them.

"Fine," he agreed, "but I'm picking the place."

"Paranoid as ever," Malfoy laughed. "It's good to see some things never change."

But things had changed, and of all the changes in his world that had ever befallen him, perhaps none was as great as the fact that, as he left his flat, his old enemy fell into step beside him.


Chapter Six

Inter pocula
Over their cups


It didn't take long to get to Harry's local. Soon they were squeezed like sardines between punters who smelled of sardines. Malfoy turned his nose up in disgust. "Nice place, Potter," he snarled as a stocky red-faced man sloshed lager onto his leather coat. "I can definitely see why you wouldn't want to leave this neighbourhood." He muttered a quick Scourgify to clean off the beer, then leaned in closer. "Next time I pick the place."

"Who says there'll be a next time," Harry retorted sharply, handing Malfoy his beer and edging back as much as he could from the source of the smell.

Malfoy just flashed him a knowing smirk before calling out to the barkeep. "Two Bensons, please." He reached out his hand to Harry, curling his fingers to make a grabbing motion. "Money, Potter."

"So much for you asking me out," Harry sniffed, rolling his eyes even as he handed over two pounds.

"So much for you picking a place where my Galleons are no good. Ah, here we go." He took the cigarettes from the bartender and handed over the coin, pocketing the change he got in return.

Harry eyed him warily. "I don't smoke."

"Neither do I," Malfoy winked. Holding the cigarettes low and sliding his wand down his arm, just as he had done to clean his coat, he whispered, "Refresco aeris." Their tips began to glow and smoke wisped upwards, but instead of bitter tar Harry breathed in the scent of a fresh summer day, just after a cooling rain. He smiled, soundly impressed.

"Hey, that's a nice spell."

Malfoy accepted the compliment graciously as he handed one of the cigarettes to Harry. "I'll tell Pansy you said so. She invented it for the Muggle clubs in Soho. The smoke's so thick you can't see, but that girl loves to dance."

The image of the Slytherin girl enjoying herself amidst a crowd of Muggles was too much for Harry. Noting his look of confusion, Malfoy shot him an inquisitive look. Harry hesitated, not particularly wanting to set off his defences prematurely. "I always thought you and Parkinson were..." he started, but broke off mid-sentence, somewhat shocked at himself. Never in a million years did he imagine he'd be inquiring after Draco Malfoy's sex life.

But Malfoy didn't seem to think the question inappropriate. "We tried, but it didn't work out." He held Harry's eyes with a knowing look. "I'm guessing you know how these things go?"

And yes, Harry did know, too well. His own Hogwarts romances had been doomed from the start. It was only after he left school that he understood why—why, after recovering from his initial fascination with Cho, he'd quickly lost interest. Why, when he saw Ginny with Dean, he'd never felt any real sense of loss. Why, when his own friends had paired off, he'd never felt a pang of jealousy. But he wasn't eager to share any of that with Malfoy. Instead he asked, "At least you're still friends, right?"

The Slytherin started to nod, but froze with his chin up, his eyes fixed on a spot over Harry's shoulder. "C'mon, Potter," he said, picking up his beer. He whispered something as he brushed past; curious, Harry followed him through the crowded pub. In the very back, tucked away in the corner, was an empty table—one that he was surprised was still empty by the time they got there.

"Let me guess—another of Parkinson's tricks?"

Malfoy grinned as he nabbed one of the low stools. "Hey, I just held the table. Believe me, you don't want to see what she does to clear one. Oh, the stories I could tell you." He discreetly Scourgified the sticky tabletop before setting his drink down. "There was this one time we couldn't even get up to the bar, so she made it look like Blaise had these…" His hands froze in the shape of claws around his face, his long fingers clutching at whatever horrors Pansy had cooked up to drive off the Muggles. But he lowered them, smiling slyly at Harry. "But no, you'd rather know all the dirty secrets of the warding world, don't you?"

As curious as he was to hear about the Slytherins' night out, and even more eager to see his nemesis so animated, Harry was nonetheless relieved that Malfoy wasn't beating around the bush. "I do," he admitted. " How do you manage to stay in business, all doing the same thing?"

Malfoy looked more than a little disappointed that Harry had jumped right in, but he recovered quickly. "Well," he shrugged, "security's a going concern, you know. It's not like any of us are hurting for business." He leaned closer, staring at Harry intently as he lowered his voice. "Just look around next time you're in Diagon Alley, Potter. People are scared. If a rag like the Quibbler's picked up on it, then you know it's too big to miss. And the Auror Division's a joke. They haven't caught a single soul!"

Harry opened his mouth to defend the Aurors—well, to defend Ron—but he found he couldn't. Malfoy was right; the Aurors hadn't had a single success. "So I'll grant that people are worried," he agreed. "But I don't see how so many companies can stay in business. Why don't they all just come to your company?"

"Oh, Merlin, you sound like my father." The jest made Harry blanch, and he forced his focus to the cigarettes smouldering in the ashtray, trying to ground himself by breathing in the clean air. Malfoy didn't notice anything amiss. "You should hear him go on about the people who choose the Carrows because they 'specialise' in old houses. As if witches live in anything but old houses. And don't get him started on Uncle Rodolphus. They're just cheap imitations, as far as he's concerned."

Harry pushed his glasses up the brow of his nose. He was trying hard not to let these once-terrifying names affect him, but hearing them thrown about so casually made his gut clench. "So … so these other firms, they imitate your company's wards then?"

"They imitate my wards, yes," Malfoy replied smugly, taking a drink from his pint glass.

Strangely, even despite the man's proud smile, Harry found the smugness wasn't as offensive as it once was. Or maybe he was still so dazed by the thought of wizards voluntarily inviting Death Eaters into their homes that Malfoy's arrogance couldn't compare. "You started the company then?"

"Oh, no, that was Father. He'd grown tired of politics and thought it'd be an interesting venture, building a company. It all just fell into place, really. You know there were all those attacks during our last year of school…" Harry nodded. Not that he remembered, exactly, but he did recall their Defence Against the Dark Arts final and his surprise at having to disarm a mugger. "Mother was nervous, so I started mucking about with our wards. At first Father thought it was just something to keep me busy until I got into the Ministry." Malfoy smiled again, and this time Harry could see the relief shining from his eyes. "Fortunately they worked, or I'd be stuck in some office pushing paper."

Malfoy finished, and it was only a few seconds later that Harry realised he'd been paying more attention to the expression on the other man's face than to his words. Harry had seen that smile many times, but always it had been tinted with malice or scorn. Now … now it was genuine, filling his whole face. And it didn't disappear as he looked at Harry now; instead it brightened a bit, curious, as if curious what Harry might say next.

"So … so what do you do?" Harry finally remembered to ask.

"I cast the wards," Malfoy explained. "And when I have time, I invent new ones. That's the interesting part of it, the spells and the potions. I stay away from the business end."

"Yeah," said Harry, his enemy's incongruous smile still on his mind, "I remember you were really into potions in school."

"You remember that, do you?"

For a few seconds he scrutinized Harry, those pale eyes that had always seemed so empty dancing over Harry's face. It was a disconcerting feeling, seeing such levity where he remembered only malice and scorn, and not one he would have expected tonight. Hoping to change the subject, Harry said, "It's probably good you stay away from the business anyway. You're rather terrible at sales, you know."

Such a statement would have sent the boy he knew flying into an unholy rage, but the man across from him now just laughed. "This is true. I never could convince anyone that they needed something they didn't. That's Father's job."

Malfoy spun the dregs of ale in the bottom of his glass before tipping his head back and draining it. Harry stared a second too long at the perfect arc of Malfoy's throat, noticing how the pale skin shone like a crescent moon against the shadows of the bar. Enthralled by its glow, Harry didn't look away fast enough, and Malfoy caught him staring. As soon as he noticed, Harry dropped his gaze to his glass. "And … and these other companies, they use your wards?"

Malfoy seemed to study him again, a glint of amusement sparkling in his light eyes. Then he pushed his empty glass towards Harry. "If you want me to keep talking, I'm going to need another drink."

Harry was starting to think that another beer might not be such a good idea. Sure, he might be getting some of the answers he wanted, but he wasn't sure where this conversation was headed. Not to mention that he was staring at Malfoy's throat. "Malfoy…"

But before he could protest, his companion clutched his hands around his neck. "Can't talk … parched."

Malfoy rocked to the side, tipping his stool a bit too far, and then scrambled to hold himself up with the table and the wall. He even made an undignified squeaking sound that was so unexpected, so playful, that it shattered everything Harry thought he knew about his old nemesis. He couldn't help his laugh, a full-out laugh that felt like it swept through his every cell. That earned him a mock-glare from Malfoy, but the gleam in those grey eyes took out its sting.

"Drink, Potter. Now."

Harry was still chuckling as he made his way to the bar, much to his disbelief. He was having drinks with Malfoy. In a Muggle pub. Even stranger, he was enjoying himself! It wasn't any surprise to find that Malfoy was still demanding and smug. What Harry hadn't expected was that there might be a legitimate reason for his arrogance, or that he'd have any hint of self-deprecation. The Malfoy he'd known would never have laughed at himself like that. Hell, the Malfoy he'd known would never have set foot in a place like this. The fact that he was this comfortable in Harry's run-down local was more than a little unnerving.

But not as unnerving as the fact that Harry had been staring at his throat.

As he waited for the bartender to draw his pints, that troubling thought returned to haunt him. "It's been a while," Harry reassured himself, "that's all it is. It's been a while since I've been out with anyone attractive. Not that I'm 'out' with Malfoy, we're just talking, this is just … educational. And not that he's 'attractive' either. Just because he happens to be my type … that doesn't mean a thing." But he was Harry's type, to the letter. His taste in men could not be more different than the girls he'd dated in school. Once he'd let himself follow his real desires, he'd tended towards men with a bit of height on him, slim frames hanging off wide shoulders, and light hair, worn long and perfectly straight, so different than Harry's own, and looking so soft that he yearned to feel the fine threads between his fingers. Add to that an almost unearthly paleness that made his knees feel weak and Harry would have said he'd found the perfect man. But that couldn't in a million years be Malfoy.

Not the Malfoy who was smirking at him as he made his way back with two pints and packets of crisps caught between his lips. No, certainly not the Malfoy who snatched up the cheese and onion and greedily tore into it before Harry even sat down.

"You're welcome," Harry said reproachfully.

"Oh, yes, thank you, Potter, for so generously providing this handful of over-processed salt and reconstituted likeness of potato. If I wasn't so famished I'd get down and kiss your feet."

No, definitely not this Malfoy.

"So," Harry said, after rolling his eyes, "I was asking if all the companies work togeth–"

"No, I don't think so." Malfoy shook his head vigorously. "I've been answering your questions. Now it's my turn."

"But you haven't told me all I want to know–" Harry protested, but he was interrupted.

"And that's just what I want to know. Why are you so curious about all this?"

Harry crossed his arms, feeling a bit like a petulant child but not really caring. "I didn't come here to buy your drinks and be interrogated."

"One for one, then," Malfoy said. "You answer one of my questions and I'll answer one of yours."

"Fine," agreed Harry. He snapped up the other packet of crisps when he saw Malfoy reaching for it; he didn't really like how the tart vinegar bit into his teeth, but he wasn't about to give away another concession. "What do you want to know?"

"Exactly what I asked before. Why are you so curious?"

Harry bit the inside of his lip as he considered what to answer. He obviously couldn't reveal the root of his suspicion, how these companies were bound by their association with Voldemort. Instead he decided to offer half the truth. "I'd never really noticed that this was such a business until Ron and Hermione bought a system. I always thought people did their own warding, so I just wanted to understand how you did it."

Malfoy looked wholly unconvinced, but Harry decided to ignore that and push on through with his question before he was called out. "Right, it's your turn. Are all the companies connected? I mean, are you all using the same wards?"

Before answering, Malfoy took a long drink of beer, and Harry wondered if he'd call his bluff as soon as the glass was lowered. But at the last minute, Malfoy seemed to shrug and give in. "For the most part, yeah. Other firms have their own methods, and I don't know if they use the same compaction that we do, but I'd bet they do—it's no secret anymore—and they're all linked into the Eye, of course. Ours are still the best, though."

"How come?"

"Because I developed them," Draco smirked, swirling the beer in his glass. "And it's my go. Are you seeing anybody?"

Harry almost choked on his drink. That was the last question he'd been expecting. "N– no…"

Malfoy nodded, as is this confirmed what he already knew. "And you are gay, right?"

Now Harry was genuinely choking, and Draco just grinned, seeming perfectly happy to let him expire. "That's … none of your business," he finally stammered out.

"And that answers my question," beamed Malfoy. "Sorry, Potter, that was two. You get a free one then."

In that moment, Harry hated his old nemesis as much as he ever had—hated his know-it-all smirk and his eyes shining in amusement, hated him for putting Harry on the spot like this, for asking questions Malfoy knew would unsettle him, questions that the Slytherin had no right to ask. "But he's gay too,” Harry reminded himself. "He already admitted that, more or less … that is, if I can believe him." And believing Malfoy had never come easily to him. "But why would he care anyway?" Harry didn't even want to entertain the possible reasons. Instead he watched the smoke curl as his hatred dissipated, bringing him back to the present, to the reason he was there. To his memory of seeing the little W on all the adverts. "There's this organization that all the companies are in…"

"The Order of Walpurgis? I think that's more coincidence than anything."

"A coincidence?" Harry had never believed in coincidences.

"Sure. Order members all run in the same circle, so it makes sense that they'd get involved in the same kinds of work." Malfoy shrugged. "People talk, you know, it happens all the time—didn't you ever wonder why hairdressers are always alchemists?"

But Harry wasn't sure it was the same thing at all. "What's this Order do? Hermione said it was like the Freemasons…"

"Yes, and like the Masons I'd be expunged if I shared our secrets. Don't worry, Potter, it's not anything nefarious—it's not as if we're out to take over the world."

Harry wasn't so sure. "Can you at least tell me if you know anything about the violence? You said security was a going concern. You wouldn't know who's behind the attacks, would you?"

A flash of resentment raced across Draco's features, bringing his face alive as he strained to rein in his fury. "Are you insinuating that, since we benefit from them, we might be responsible?

"No," Harry rushed to say, although he was thinking, "Yes, as a matter of fact." But the blaze of anger on the other man's face held his tongue.

It seemed that Malfoy was fighting to hold his tongue too. After a moment he said in a disturbingly even tone, "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt for not knowing how offensive that question is, especially to someone who's sworn to defend the lives and livelihoods of magical persons. And yes, Potter, that is one of the secrets of the Order."

Harry gnawed the inside of his lip as he considered how to answer. He wished that he hadn't revealed the root of his suspicion, but he wasn't sure if it was because he wouldn't get any further with his questions or because he didn't want Malfoy mad at him. He decided that at the very least, he might be able to make the other man understand the urgency of his questions. "I'm sorry … I didn't mean anything by that. It's just that there was a break-in a few days ago. The burglars cast some wards while they were in there and it took the Aurors far too long to break through." And left Gran Longbottom defenceless for far too long. "It was Neville Longbottom's grandmother. She was … it was horrible."

Malfoy was silent. Harry thought he might still be upset, but he wasn't sure what else to say. He looked up at the man and was shocked to see the anger was gone, leaving in its place a picture of troubled sympathy.

"I'm really sorry to hear that. There are terrible things happening, you don't even know…" His voice faded, then came back with the assertiveness that Harry had grown used to over the course of their evening. "Neville Longbottom, I remember him. He did quite a lot with plants, right?"

"Yeah, that's right," Harry said, surprised the Slytherin remembered. "He's an Auror now."

"That's a shame."

Harry wasn't expecting that. "What do you mean by that?

"Some fields have a measure of dignity—they're worth studying just for the sake of studying them. Potions, Herbology, those types of things. Those people are involved in a vocation. That's where I expected someone like Neville to end up. Not carrying out orders because somebody else tells him to."

"It's a valuable job," protested Harry, feeling very much like Hermione as he added, "It's very important to society."

Malfoy held up his hands in surrender. "I'm not saying it's not, Harry. I'm just saying it doesn't have any intrinsic value. Look," he said, leaning in as if he really wanted Harry to understand, "a herbologist does his work because he loves plants. He's not looking for wealth or fame or even any power. But somebody who enforces laws just because they like to enforce things is little more than a thug."

Harry felt disarmed by Malfoy's closeness, and even more by the thought that he might have a point; several of Ron's workmates did have a bit of a bullying streak. But truth of his words aside, Harry was most unsettled by the way his name had been used so casually, as if they were friends engaged in a normal debate. "Malfoy", he said pointedly to regain his ground, "have you ever thought that Aurors enforce laws because they believe in how society ought to be?"

"I'm sure some do. I suspect others are just thugs." He shrugged. "Don't mind me. I'm told that I'm overly hard on others because I didn't follow my own vocation. Millicent says I project, the silly witch." He nudged his empty glass across the table towards Harry. "Shall I go up this time?"

Harry looked down at his half-full pint. "Sure."

"I need money." The grabby hand was back.

Satisfied with the notes that Harry passed over, Draco turned and made his way to the bar. Much to his embarrassment, Harry realized that he rather enjoyed the sight of Malfoy walking away. Even in this packed room he moved with the same natural grace that Harry had grudgingly admired on the Quidditch pitch so many years ago.

Once he disappeared into the crowd, Harry turned his mind back to their conversation. Not just to what he'd learned about the security firms, although he did have a better idea of how the wards worked now, even if he wasn't sure how that would help him. No, much more intriguing was how Malfoy was challenging him. From his indignation about harming anyone to his talk of vocations and their worth, Harry was being pushed in a way he hadn't been in a long time. Much as he loved Ron and Hermione, he knew them so well that there were few surprises. Mr Critswold wasn't one for thought-provoking discussions, little deeper than Kreacher. But Malfoy…

Harry was having, against all expectations, a very good time.

"What're you smiling for?"

The beer that landed in front of him caught him unawares. Without thinking Harry answered, "Just feels a bit odd, being out with you like this."

"Good-odd or bad-odd?" He looked like he really wanted to know.

"Different-odd." When Malfoy's brow crinkled, Harry added, "With a distinct lean towards good-odd."

Looking pleased with that answer, Draco replied, "Fair enough. And it's my turn now." He straddled the stool as he came out with, "So why did you think I was going to murder everyone at Hogwarts?"

Harry felt his face suddenly go warm. "Well, you know how kids can be."

The Slytherin raised a pale eyebrow, indicating that he didn't know and that perhaps Harry should explain. But Harry sat silently sipping his pint, wondering when the pub's radiators had fired up. The other man sat quietly too, staring into his drink, and at first Harry thought he would wait him out. But at last Malfoy said, in a rather distant voice, "You were convinced that I was your enemy, Harry, and I've always wondered why. I really think I deserve an answer."

So that was it then. There was so much that Harry could have said, and so much that he couldn't say, and even more that he didn't want to say. He'd only just realised that he was enjoying the company of this familiar stranger; whatever he answered, that was bound to change. And why should it sting to know that the whole reason Malfoy had asked him out was just to rake up their old animosity?

At last, he decided to be honest, offering the answer that was truly at the root of their hostility. "You hated Muggles."

Malfoy's mouth dropped open; Harry saw that he wasn't expecting that answer. "Hate Muggles?" He shook his head firmly. "I don't know where you come off thinking that, Potter. I mean, I don't trust them, and I certainly wouldn't want to marry one, but I hardly hate them."

"But that's just it!" insisted Harry. "You despised the Muggle-borns most—'Mudbloods,' you called them."

Malfoy visibly flinched at the word. "I don't believe I've ever called anybody that, Potter. And I'm certain that you never heard me if I did. But you're right, to a point. I didn't like Muggle-borns. I still don't."

Whether he really wanted to know the answer or just wanted to keep Malfoy talking he wasn't sure, but Harry had to ask, "Why?"

"I think they're bad for the magical community."

"Bad for the community?" Harry repeated in shock. "How can you say that? Some of the best witches I know are Muggle-born."

"Sure, there are some good ones," Malfoy conceded, "but they're the exception. For every one that excels are three who fall behind. You can see it just in the O.W.L. results—Muggle-borns consistently score lower than pure-blood witches and wizards."

"That's hard to believe."

"You can look it up for yourself," Malfoy countered, and Harry made a mental note to ask Hermione later. "Not that you could expect anything else. Really, it's not fair to them. You know as well as I that a Muggle-born first year can't be expected to know what we learned in the decade before we ever started school."

"I think everybody in our year did well enough. I don't remember anybody being too far behind." Harry was about to add that he hadn't been raised with magic, but before he could get the words out Malfoy was off again.

"Well, see, that's why it hurts the community. The whole class gets held back so a few don't fall behind. I know you haven't forgotten how they babied us in our first flying lesson."

"I don't think being raised by Muggles has anything to do with how well you can fly," protested Harry. "Look at Barry Ryan. He's Muggle-born, and nobody flies like he does."

"He is? Really?" Malfoy seemed impressed that the star coach for England wasn't a pure-blood wizard, or that Harry knew that, or maybe a bit of both. "Okay, maybe flying isn't the best example." Harry was surprised by the concession, although his hackles reappeared a second later when Malfoy said, "But it doesn't even matter how good they are with magic. Their loyalties are always going to be divided, especially if they were raised only by Muggles."

"I was raised by Muggles," Harry blurted out.

"You were?" Malfoy started, almost dropping his pint glass. He sat it down extra carefully. "Did I know that?" Harry didn't want to speculate what Malfoy might remember, so he ended up just shrugging. The Slytherin smirked. "Well, you don't act like it. And I mean that as a compliment."

Harry wasn't sure how to respond, so he just countered Malfoy's other argument. "And it's not as if I have any loyalty to my aunt and uncle, but if I did, would it really matter? When would I ever have to choose one over the other?"

"Do you not remember anything from History of Magic, Potter? The Inquisition? Salem?" Malfoy's voice took on a terrible urgency. "Betty Parris' Muggle parents made her testify against her magic teacher? Or Helen Duncan…"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Harry said, waving his hand. "Thrown in prison for séances, not fifty years ago."

"That's right—the Muggles were threatened by a witch who made Trelawney look like Nostradamus. Things are quiet these days, thanks be to the gods, but that's no reason not to be vigilant." He chuckled and shook his head. "I've been warding too long, apparently."

"Apparently so," agreed Harry. "But what would you do? Obliviate away their magic?"

"No, that would never work," Malfoy replied, as if he'd already thought this through. "Obliviation would prevent them controlling their magic, but it wouldn't take it away. Besides, those spells don't last. No, there's nothing to be done with the ones now, we have to think of the future. Muggle-borns don't come out of nowhere—there's magical blood in their line somewhere."

Harry narrowed his eyes at the other man. "You're back on that blood purity thing, aren't you?"

"Back on?" Malfoy eyed him quizzically. "Well, I do think breeding with Muggles is the root of the problem, yes. It shouldn't be allowed."

"Allowed? You think the Ministry should regulate it?"

"Why not?" said the Slytherin, nonplussed. "They regulate everything else."

"So you're going to tell people who they can fall in love with? They can't control that."

Malfoy smiled. "Why Potter, I had no idea you were such a romantic!"

"I … I'm not," sputtered Harry. "I just don't think that would work."

"But you're not saying it's a bad thing to keep magic and Muggles separate."

"I am!" Harry insisted, irritated that he'd not made his point clearer. "It's fundamentally wrong. Magic or not, we're all the same inside—we're all human beings. If you'd separate us on those grounds you're no better than the racist Muggles, saying you're determined by skin colour. "

"But that's just a superficial difference," Malfoy said, shaking his head. "Magical beings are poles apart from Muggles. Why do you think we have our own hospitals? Our medicines don't work on Muggles, and vice versa. It just makes sense to keep us apart."

Harry was frustrated that, at least on the surface, Malfoy's arguments seemed to make sense. He knew they didn't, he knew deep down that they were wrong, but they were making him think hard to defend his beliefs. As frustrating as that was, it was also quite exhilarating to be challenged like this.

Malfoy looked exhilarated too. His eyes were shining brightly as he watched Harry, his gestures becoming livelier as they waded deeper into the debate. Harry wondered briefly what the young Slytherin would have looked like engaged in this kind of mental duel, but dismissed the thought quickly. He'd certainly have never had such a debate with his enemy of old—their wands would have been drawn and hexes thrown long ago. Was it simply age that had quickened Malfoy's mind and stilled his desire to strike out? Or was it the way history had diverged, creating this man who he could argue with and still respect?

"We have more similarities than differences, though," Harry finally said, smiling to himself when he saw his double-meaning. "I bet if you talked to any Muggle here, you'd find you had more in common with them than you think." Ignoring the other man's sceptical look, Harry continued, "And if I wanted to be with one of them … well, I don't think the Ministry or anybody else should have anything to say about it. That's my own business."

"It's your own business up to a point," conceded Malfoy. "But you said yourself that the Aurors enforce how society ought to be. I don't see that this is any different. I want our society to be strong. Your way sounds nice and politically correct—yes, I do keep up with Muggle news, Potter," he smirked, catching Harry's surprised look. "But your way means we keep diluting our blood. The more we do that, the weaker we'll be."

"But my way doesn't kill Muggles and Muggle-borns!" exclaimed Harry.

"I never said I wanted to kill them!" The Slytherin looked shocked. "I don't want to kill anybody! I just don't want to lose our magic." He cocked his head and studied Harry as if he'd just figured out something important. "Really, that was why we were enemies?"

Harry thought about it. There was more, much more. There were Voldemort and Lucius and Dumbledore. There were Madam Malkins and Buckbeak and the Hogwarts Express. There were "Potter Stinks" badges and "Weasley is Our King" taunts. But all of that felt like another lifetime, like long-buried childhoods. It seemed almost irrelevant to the men they'd both become.

"Yeah," he admitted a little bashfully, "that's basically it."

Malfoy made a funny huffing noise. "Potter, I believe that's got to be the single most ludicrous reason I've ever heard to be enemies. It's definitely not worth drawing wands over—does make for a good pub chat, though." His lips curled into an inviting smile that turned lascivious when his tongue slid out to lick the bottom one. "You know, I think we should do this more often."

Harry stared at the man who suddenly seemed closer than before. It wasn't that he didn't agree; it was more that Malfoy looked good, surprisingly good. When Harry nodded, uncertain of his voice, Malfoy lifted his hand and gently touched his fingers to Harry's cheek.

"In fact," Malfoy said, confusing Harry with the sultry tone his voice had taken, "I think we should do a lot more than this."

Before he knew what was happening, Harry found his lips pressed against Malfoy's. He gasped in surprise, only to find that he'd just granted an opening for a slick tongue to slip through. Harry reached out, thinking that he would push Malfoy back, but when his hand touched the smooth silk shirt, his resolve to escape crumbled. Shocked to discover that the Slytherin could kiss, Harry gave into the overwhelming temptation to just enjoy the feeling. He let his eyes drift closed, let his hand slide up the cloth, felt his fingers brush against strands of blond hair softer than silk.

It wasn't a very long kiss—it was in the middle of a crowded pub after all—but it was one that promised more. Harry felt Malfoy's lips curl into a smile before he pulled away, and he was left with his hand resting awkwardly on the other's shoulder. He dropped it to his side, willing the redness he felt heating his cheeks to disappear. Malfoy looked as pale as ever save for his lips, still smiling, flushed red and full. He dropped his hand to Harry's and squeezed it.

"Now, for the love of Merlin, will you please call me Draco?"

"Draco." The name felt strange on his tongue, and Harry wondered why that should be when his kiss had felt so comfortable there a few seconds before.

"That wasn't so hard, was it? Now I take it we're not enemies anymore, even if we mightn't agree on everything. If you're convinced we still are, I might just have to kiss you again, and I'd prefer to wait until we leave because that fellow standing by the lav's been eyeing us and I'd rather not give him a show."

If Harry had been paying attention, he would have noticed that Malfoy's rambling betrayed his nervousness. He might even have taken some pride in knowing that he was at least partly responsible for that nervousness. But as it was, his eyes were locked in horror on the hand that had entwined with his, at the faint coils imprinted on the pale skin of Malfoy's wrist. The Dark Mark, dormant now, but ready to ignite at any moment. "It's just that Order, that stupid organisation," Harry tried to reassure himself, but he knew it wasn't. That Order was an alliance of the Death Eaters; they might not remember who they were anymore, but Harry did. He could never forget it, no matter how much Malfoy seemed to have changed, no matter how many kisses he gave him.

"Of course, if you're really into that kind of thing, giving a show I mean, I could be up for that too." Malfoy hadn't stopped babbling yet, but his voice was becoming increasingly urgent, pressing Harry to respond.

"I can't do this." Harry pulled his hand away and leaned back, away from Malfoy. "I thought I could, but I just can't."

Malfoy's eyes blazed with hurt and confusion. Harry wanted more than anything to erase that look, but he knew that he could never say anything that would make Malfoy understand. It was better just to get out while he could, before things got any worse. He stood up and grabbed his jacket from the stool, trying not to look at Malfoy again. And wanting to avoid that, of course his eyes were drawn back to the pale man who sat there, glaring at him.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy."

The reply was cold and as bitter as Harry would have expected from the boy he knew all those years before.

"It's Draco."


Part Two

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Notes: Betty Parris, along with her cousin Abigail Williams, sparked the Salem witch trials in 1692 when they accused Tituba, the African slave who had taught them to tell fortunes, of witchcraft. Helen Duncan was the last person imprisoned in the U.K. (in 1944) under Britain's Witchcraft Act of 1735.