Learning to Live

Chapter One: Old Beginnings

A blast of cold air.

A hint of pine fresh.

Pine fresh?

He lifted his head, looking up curiously. Where in this bloody dungeon would one find pine fresh? A light blasted into the small stone well, bleaching everything around him, although nothing could possibly make his hair lighter. A rope was thrown down. He squinted into the circle, trying to see who had thrown the rope, hoping against hope that it was not his tormentor for a week. Anything but that.

"Grab the bloody rope already! It's me!" a voice shouted, and the man below needed no further encouragement. His skinny fingers twisted and looped around the rope, making it secure, and tugged on it. A grunting sound was heard, and slowly, he was lifted into the light.

Shielding his eyes from that which had been deprived from him for so long, he lay on yet another cold stone floor, groping for some familiar face. Something was put in his hand--it was his wand, long-missed, long taken away from him. Not daring to look up, not even at his saviours, he drew the sleeve of his black robes back and inspected his left forearm. It dripped with blood, bleeding slices outlining where there should have been black ink. With a sigh of relief, he finally looked up into the faces of Potter, Weasley and Granger-Weasley, and smiled, wanly, for the first time in a very long while.

"All right there, mate?" Ron asked him, holding out a hand, which his fellow Auror immediately accepted.

Twirling his wand in his fingers with a practised air, the Auror nodded. "Nothing a bit of rest won't cure," he said hoarsely, carefully, his throat parched. He looked around at the empty stone room, sans windows, sans tapestries, sans lights. Except for the one glowing from Hermione's wand, the one that hurt his eyes from being kept in darkness for so long. Words were coming out of him he hadn't known were possible. "Who had the interior decorating impulse?"

To his surprise, Harry raised a tentative hand. "It was a bit necessary...we couldn't get through the stench of the dead bodies otherwise," he said quietly. Whereas the other Aurors attempted to cope with death with nonchalance, Harry Potter never tried to talk about things like that casually. "You know I've always had a problem with that."

"Let's get out of this hellhole. Please. I've been sick to death of it," replied the Auror, and the four headed for the heavy wooden door that was studded with bolts. "Did you have trouble?" Of course they had trouble. Who stands up to Voldemort and doesn't get trouble? What he really wanted to ask was how many Death Eaters had they had to kill before getting to the Dark Lord, and how many more before getting to himself. How many spies, like him, had lost their lives for this final victory? Harry helped support weak legs, previously-accustomed to curling up in a corner of the stone well, manage the stairs.

"Your father..." Hermione began, aware of precisely what the former-Death Eater and current Auror needed to know.

"I hope it was a quick death," the man said rapidly, not daring to hear the rest. "You killed him quickly, Harry. Yes?" This idolised patriarch had been merciless and ambitious, most of all towards his son, but he was still his father. Colder December air hit him as they flung open the door of the tower, reaching the battlements of the old castle.

"He's not hurt--Serena arrested him. His trial date hasn't been set yet. He won't talk 'til you see him," Ron broke the news, and Harry's grip tightened on his fellow Auror, who seemed to waver on the stop, either from fresh air or the news.

"Lucius Laurent Malfoy...always knew how to preserve himself," the son hissed, fingers grabbing the stone battlements as he tried to stay strong. The probable fate for his father would be the Dementor's Kiss, and he would have wished the elder Death Eater death rather than that last punishment.

"C'mon Draco. Let us take you home. You can talk to him later," Harry said gently. It was then that the Auror finally got a good look at them all. Hermione was trying her best to support Ron, and Harry's face was ashen, although he supported Draco amply. The look on his face was more than Draco could bear; to think he'd finally gotten his revenge for his parents' murders, and the hero couldn't even feel proud of what he'd done. This was too dirty a victory, too costly. They'd all crossed the Rubicon more than once. Draco didn't want to know what it had finally taken to kill Voldemort.

Harry, on the other hand, pitied Draco now, because nobody knew yet of Draco's help as a spy. If spotted on the street, Draco could be exploded into pieces by any vigilante witch or wizard before anybody could even say anything. It was only the Auror's robes that made any difference, the small silver star on the lapel, the shielding charms studding their cloaks. The respect given for the Aurors was now at its peak; they broke, and in the process changed, the laws every single day, as was necessary for their goal in defeating the Dark Lord.

As they treaded across the grass, littered with burnt patches of smoking missed targets, broken bodies, mangled corpses, Draco felt a shudder pass through him, his knees weakening again. What could he have done, what could any of them have done, to prevent these injuries, these murders? These were good people, witches who laughed and wizards who went home to their families. He stuffed his wand in the holster of his Auror robes. The look on the Dark Lord's face when he saw Draco dressed in them, standing beside the hub of the main security for the fortress...Voldemort had never been more surprised by the heir of his right-hand man.

With a single spell, without even pausing to reflect, Draco permanently disabled the shields. The wizard could _feel_ Voldemort's fury roll out against him, striking him down. It wasn't the first time he'd felt Cruciatus, but he'd blacked out. He'd woken up in a large, circular stone pit, wandless, cold, and in total darkness. Day after day, the walls shifted, and he knew what would happen soon, even counted on it. Voldemort's forces were strong, and battles were probably raging outside his fortress. Battles and victories that would have been impossible without his insider help, his treachery. There would be no time to look for a lost spy, and Draco knew his pure blood would be running down the stones as the walls finally closed in on him, clamping him in eternal darkness, squeezing the life out of him.

"You guys contact the Ministry, tell 'em about Draco. I'll take him home. I'll make sure nobody tries to kill him," Harry said, and they all disapparated. He and Draco Apparated at Malfoy Manor, and Draco marvelled at how easily the spell came to him, even after all...that. And how easily Harry took charge again, while for once, Draco let it happen. "Here we go again, Draco," the Boy-Who-Lived murmured as Draco uttered the spell that would open the gates to them alone. The white angel on the mausoleum of Narcissa Circe Malfoy waved to them as the gates closed, and Draco led the way through the self-kept gardens, up the marble stairs and into the hall of his house.

"How did you stop them from just burning the place down?" he asked, his raspy, dry voice hissing in the empty, steepled room. "Unless it was the rumor of curses on the gates?"

"Not everyone's ignorant of your position as a spy, Draco," Harry said, looking around, casting various Revealer spells to make sure nobody was hidden and their immediate perimeter was safe. Deja-vu poked him in the ribs, and he looked down to see twin house-elves cowering there.

"Deja...vu...You are not to poke our visitors," Draco said, trying to sound stern when all he wanted to do was collapse and cry. The twins always appeared as a pair, one named "Deja," the other "vu." When Lucius disappeared to serve Voldemort more completely, Draco took over the running of the estate, and treated the house-elves relatively kindly, only kicking them once in a while when necessary. That was six years ago, and Draco was twenty-two now, with barely enough time on his hands. That all changed with today. After today, he would have too much time.

"Sorry m-m-Master," the house-elves spoke in unison.

"Uh, look, I think you should hide out here for a while, read the Daily Prophet, owl us every so often," Harry said. "I know you can more than fend for yourself; anybody who's survived Voldemort so many times deserves an Order of Merlin, First Class. I don't think it's any Death Eaters you're gonna have to worry about. Reporters will be storming the gates to interview you. Use your Auror's owl only, and nothing else, in case somebody tries to send you something. I'll write to you as soon as it's safe for you to come back to the office."

"Are you're going to declassify my file then?"

"Yes. Do you mind?"

"Not really. It isn't as if I haven't had my entire life watched over, or yours either, for that matter. Just...Harry, do you need to...I mean...whatever you did today, I don't know if I want to find out. Hermione and Ron have each other, and they can heal each other. But you don't really have anybody. Sirius is still in hiding until they can get Pettigrew. The gates are good protection. Your flat in Muggle London isn't. I guess...what I'm trying to say..."

"Are you inviting me to stay at your manor?" Harry asked, one eyebrow raised. The immensity of what they'd all done that day had not yet struck him. The moment he'd destroyed Voldemort had not yet sunk into his mind.

"It's nothing personal, but after what you've done today, you shouldn't be alone. Who knows what you might do if left to your own devices?" Draco finally said, hoping Harry wouldn't be offended.

"You think I'll go mad? Is that it?" Harry was taking this surprisingly calmly. "I could say the same for you, Mr Malfoy."

"The house-elves will be able to take care of you, Potter. You can have Hedwig bring over your things; I am certain that you won't need much. Just kip for a bit," Draco offered. "You deserve it. And I'm the only Auror you know who has twin house-elves who think they're shrinks." Deja-vu grinned miserably up at the two men. "We could get therapy at the same time. You've trusted me with your life before. At least trust my hospitality. Do you accept?"

"Okay," assented Harry, giving up, slicing his fingers through his jet-black hair with a sigh. Draco was right. He _was_ tired, and a bit...jumpy too. He didn't want to think of how he'd killed...no, destroyed Voldemort. He wanted to sleep for a very long time. "I'll Apparate to my flat, get some stuff, and come back here with Hedwig."

"A room will be ready for you when you return," Draco promised him before Harry Disapparated with a pop. He strolled to a leather couch in the rear parlour, flopping down into it with an exhausted sigh. When mother was still alive, she'd order the house elves to make some tea and scones, and get him to tell her whatever was wrong. And he'd always had to lie, because they were on different sides. Still, even if he lied, it felt good to be telling her of his imaginary problems. Now there was nobody.

He rubbed his pale face roughly with his palms, frowning as he lit the fireplace, his silver-blond hair illuminated, bangs falling forward, obstructing his view. He wanted to believe it was all over, but he couldn't stop hearing his memories in the back of his mind. It seemed as if he had been fighting this war forever. It seemed as if nothing would change, tomorrow would be another harrowing day at work, and yet he knew nothing would ever be the same again. It seemed as if he'd grown old, and death was ready for him. But before he dozed off, he realised this was going to be a very weary beginning.