Learning to Live

Chapter Two: New Arrangements

The familiar surroundings of the hallway of the block of flats where he lived jumped into vision with a faint backwards sound of a pop: everything sucked into view. He unlocked the door to his flat and closed it with his wand. Whenever he used magic, he'd have to make sure it was well away from any electrical outlet or appliance, or else he'd have to bring them back to the store again and exchange them.

A ginger cat slunk about under the dinner table, which was cluttered with files, folders and scrolls of parchment. Dirty dishes were unwashed in the sink, flung aside to do at a later moment. He directed his wand towards them, and they were soon clean, stacking themselves neatly in the cabinets. He did the same with his unmade bed and his dirty robes, then looked through his assortment of Muggle-wear and clean robes in his armoire. He hadn't worn Muggle clothing in so long...black Auror's robes day in, day out, not a moment's rest for one of the captains of the team.

Although fit and strong, his limbs and legs well-developed from Quidditch playing, his body healthy, skin tanned and night hair still as unruly as ever, Harry's green eyes told a different story, tired and haggard. He was young, yes, far too young for this profession. And now that it was over, what would he do? He'd joined the Aurors for the sake of getting revenge on Voldemort for his parent's deaths, for the deaths of Hermione's parents and of so many other innocent lives, snuffed out for pure sport or malice. He wanted no further part in this now that it was all over. There would be a round-up of the remaining Death Eaters still free, and then that would be it. So where could he go? What would he do? How could he make a living when all he knew was how to fight a Dark Lord bent on killing him? Perhaps he could play Quidditch, but that gave him a scant dozen years, after which he would be shunted to the Department of Magical Games and Sports. He vowed he'd never see himself as a Ludo Bagman.

A hiss from the cat ("Lily" after his mother) warned him there was someone else here. Usually instinctively done, Harry hadn't put up his wards around the door this time, so tired was he from that last battle, so drained of energy and magic. He lifted his wand, pressing flush up against his bedroom wall. Someone was approaching, being slow about it. A Death Eater come to take revenge? But nobody knew where Harry lived, not even the Aurors! He swiveled around the corner, wand upraised and ready to utter the first hex that entered his mind...and realised it was just an owl with a letter. Draco's owl, to be exact. He couldn't be that impatient, could he? Harry still had to get his flat in order before he came to stay with the younger Malfoy.

Waving the owl away, Harry opened the letter and quickly scanned the scripty handwriting. "Coming to your place instead. Nobody knows where it is. Am following owl. See you soon. -D." A meow and a scuffled sound came from the kitchen, and Harry's heart leapt, his actual body ducking and strafing across the hall and below the counter. There was nobody there...but where was Lily? His acute senses detected cloth moving over skin. Somebody was rising, and so was he, his wand pointed straight where he predicted the eyes would be. Except these eyes were pale grey and belonged to Draco Malfoy.

"Hello, Harry. Do you attack everybody who visits?" asked a surprised former Slytherin. "I know we were trained for constant vigilance, but I believe this is rather too much."

"Nobody visits, Malfoy," Harry said tersely, unconsciously letting out a breath as he pocketed his wand back in its holster. "As you said, nobody knows where I live. Until now."

"Well you have no need to worry. I still don't know where you live; I merely Apparated according to the tracker put on Magnus. I knew you wouldn't have put up your wards yet. So this is Muggle London, is it?" Draco asked, looking around. He didn't say anything about Harry's flat...it was all right, actually. Rather what he would have expected, although the ceiling was a bit lower than the spacious heights to which he was accustomed.

"Yeah," Harry replied, picking up the cat that was purring around Draco's legs. "Haven't you ever been in the Muggle world before?"

"Even my missions were restricted to non-Muggle classification, Harry. I don't like them, and I have scant consideration for their fates, let alone desire to exterminate them," Malfoy said with a sigh, still looking around. "I didn't bring anything but a moneybag, since I have no Muggle clothes and I assume we shall be venturing out of doors, so I will need to buy some things here. Unfortunately, I hardly remember my Muggle Studies course, though. You'll have to help me." In the streams of sunlight pouring into the parlour, Harry noticed Malfoy's tired visage and slightly rumpled appearance. Nothing had happened, had it? It had only been two hours since he exited Malfoy Manor, checked the grounds twice, warded away any photographers and reporters, and Apparated to his flat to clean up.

"Why the change of plans, Draco?" he asked cautiously, hoping this wasn't a final Death Eater plot.

"Relax. The manor was a bit...er, gloomy for me," the Auror replied, squinting in the shafts of light. "Too many memories I don't wish to mind, at least for now. I hope you don't mind my staying here."

"Hmm? No, not at all. It's a bit messy...and you have to be careful about using magic, but sure, there's enough room here for the both of us," Harry said, putting his cat down and going off a bit distractedly towards the hall, waving his wand about and cleaning up. "I've got a spare room I never use. I put my laptop in here so it doesn't get broken by the spells. Hang on a bit...okay, it's clean." Draco followed the sound of his voice and came to a smallish room with a bed in the corner and a desk. Many photos of the magical world adorned the wall, Harry, Ron and Hermione waving as children, then a few years later when they left Hogwarts. There was even a very nicely framed photograph of Harry's parents in the centre. A lamp sat on the desk, and the sheets and quilt were Chudley Cannons-themed. Draco would never have chosen such a sadly-benighted team, and preferred the Falmouth Falcons, of course. He made no remark, and instead looked curiously at the grey rectangular slab sitting on Harry's desk, then at the lamp.

"May I ask where your candles are?" he asked, deciding not to ask about the laptop. The room was fine with the light coming in, but Draco couldn't see how Harry even saw anything in here at night. "Or do you have the ones that follow you around?"

"Can't use magic so blatantly; it'd blast all the circuitry. Muggles use these things called lamps," Harry replied, flicking the light switch up and turning the lamp on the desk on. Draco stepped away, wand drawn out immediately on reflex. "Relax, it's not going to bite your head off. It's like a candle, but it doesn't go out for a long while. You just slide this switch up and down, and decide how bright you want it to be. All the switches in this flat do that."

"Oh." Draco felt a bit stupid, and put his wand away. Regardless of how embarassed he was, he felt more comfortable talking about these trivial things rather than the looming concept that entered his head whenever he was left alone with Harry Potter: Voldemort's demise. And to think it had been less than three hours since it had all happened! "Harry, thank you. It's been hard to be around the Manor with Mother gone. I realised that soon after you left. I am certain that this will only be a temporary arrangement, once we have everything sorted out--"

"Maybe you could rest now. I'm going to take a nap," Harry interrupted pointedly, choosing to end their conversation. He didn't want to think about having to write up a report. "I'll make some tea if you'd like. I don't have a house elf. I'll see you in a little while, but if you wake up, I wouldn't start casting spells anywhere, or going out, for that matter. People might think you're nutters."

Draco smiled faintly. "That's nothing new. Thanks again...." He closed the door behind the retreating Auror, then faced the bed and the room. He idled with the light switch for a little while, and then tossed his cloak and robes aside, as well as his moneybag. He fell into the mattress easily, the orange of the sheets enfolding his eyes. With the lamp still on, the sun streaming through his white-blond hair, nothing like the history and living memories within his own house, he easily gave himself up to the first steady sleep he'd had in years.

In the next room, Harry tossed and turned between sheets of crimson Gryffindor red, thinking of those burning red eyes, the mad, cold laughter as they tried to duel. Nobody else in the expanse of room, nobody at all. Their wands had formed the familiar web of light over them, but this time, Harry had let go. He'd let Voldemort's magic overpower him, let it burn into his very bones with a pain stronger than Cruciatus, let it hurt him and fling him back across the stones. After so many years of study, who could fail to notice that Voldemort had to be the one to look Harry in the eye to do it, to really kill him? The ego, the insecure need to confirm his own supremacy, was going to be the Dark Lord's downfall, and Harry's predictions had been right. When Voldemort had bent to say good-bye, Harry's simple Muggle Glock had come around, hitting Voldemort in the side of the head before he'd fired two rounds into his forehead, permanently stopping him. There was hardly any blood compared to the beatings the other Aurors had suffered, pouring down through the cracks in the floor. He could sense Voldemort's spirit struggling to leave the body, realising it had been too certain of its victory. Voldemort had been too close to immortality, but Harry had lifted his wand and readied the vial he held. It was issued by the Ministry to Aurors who had to entrap or control spirits, ghosts and other amorphous beings, and it was a simple procedure to get Voldemort's pulsating spirit into the vial and finally close the tight, magically-enforced lid.

Aches of pain throbbed through Harry's body as he put the vial into his all-purpose belt, his knees slamming down against the floor as he fell. Sounds had dimmed. Reaching over across what seemed like an endless expanse, Harry had taken his brother wand, Voldemort's, Tom Marvolo Riddle's, and broken it in half. It had fizzled, and his own had wobbled in its holster for a moment before all was still. Voldemort's wand had snapped with a decisive, satisfyingly brittle sound, firm and goodly, a breaking of his power. He had kept snapping the pieces that remained, until they could no longer be broken up from their splinters, and no longer evinced sparks with every bash. Voldemort was gone, and Harry Potter was alive.

He doubted that much was true. Not just yet could he be alive. In the coming weeks would be captures of fleeing Death Eaters, and endless trials presided over by Percy Weasley. No rest at all for these Aurors who had worked so hard for the peace and rest of others, safe in their beds and sitting on their doorsteps. Harry groaned in frustration, tears coming to his eyes. Why couldn't he get any rest? The years with the Dursleys--now dead, once Voldemort had found out and used Muggle means to destroy them--had seemed like a nice relaxing dream. Hogwarts had been paradise. There was nothing but the world as he knew it now, broken families, fear, residues of horror. Memories of atrocities lurked around every corner, committed by both sides. Now the resentment and revenge would rear their ugly heads, clawing for a piece of even the faintest traces of Death Eaters. And again, it would be up to the Aurors to stop those who would take total control of the Ministry at these times, to prevent drastic changes of government during the instability. They had their work cut out for them; people would be eager for stability, safety, and an absence of the need to question every waking moment. People were tired of fearing the Dark Mark hovering above their houses when they returned home. They were tired of the suspicion, and wanted a blazing crusade to invade every corner, even if those corners held secrets none should disturb.

Lying flat on his back and still in his robes, Harry Potter's green eyes stayed open in the afternoon light, unable to sleep, stressed and uneasy about the future. Time passed in viscous waves as he noted the changing of the clock hands.

Miles away in Walpole, the Weasleys finally arrived home after filing their report, surprisingly mundane-sounding ("In reference to File oh-three-two-four-eight-seven, Auror Potter trapped the spirit of Lord Voldemort, alias Tom Marvolo Riddle, in a Spirit Catcher, which Aurors Weasley and Granger-Weasley hereby transfer to the Lockhouse for surveillance until the Ministry may decide what to do with said spirit.") considering what had happened. Hermione sighed, plopping into a couch with Ron, exhausted from mere stress and tension, for Harry had done everything. No children's voices echoed in the house; Hermione had been adamant against bringing a new life into such a fearful world, wherein a child's parents could be murdered any day, Auror or not. Perhaps now there would be a chance...

"I'm worried," was all Hermione said. Both of them knew they were talking of Harry. The driving force for their best friend's attentions and existence had just been snuffed out. Their ultimate goal had been reached, so now what could young Potter do? Most of his twenty-two years had been consumed with stopping Voldemort, and now he had a superficially satisfying sinecure of a job as an Auror in a world with few Dark Arts, especially after the coming trials and hunts for practitioners. Draco Malfoy could care for himself, but Harry had perpetually been in the spotlight, and always would be.

"He'll be okay. We'll all be okay," her husband of two years said, although he didn't sound very certain. When they were married, he didn't sound very certain either, but time was short, wizards, witches and Muggles were dying and the war had been at its climax. Love was there, the times pressed for it, and so wedding bells rang for Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley. They never regretted it. "We can make it be okay."