Learning to Live

Chapter 3: Bungled Shopping

Dinner was odd, but how it came about, doubly so. Since Draco was unaccustomed to not having any house elves, it was up to Harry to arrange it, only Draco felt obliged to try to help, which, understandably, would lead to certain issues arising. When Harry had acquired the food from the market--eggs, chicken and aubergine--he drew a strange look from Draco when he returned.

"I have never seen you in anything but robes and school clothes," Draco remarked, staring at Harry's jeans. "The only Muggle things I've worn are those butskedo things."

"You mean a tuxedo," Harry corrected automatically, putting the groceries on the counter island. Draco took the eggs and aubergine from the paper bag in curiosity, but refused to touch the raw chicken. He didn't recognize what sort of meat it was. He'd seen enough bloodied flesh in his brief lifetime to know to mind what he was fed. What if Voldemort had passed on that preference to Potter as well? "Do you know how to cook?"

"Does Draco Malfoy seem like the sort of wizard who knows how to cook? All I know how to do is butter toast and make a sandwich," Malfoy told him, almost glaring. "Those survival courses we took in Auror training weren't worth anything with these unprepared items."

"I'm sure you wouldn't be a bad cook," Harry replied thoughtfully, ignoring his glare. "But we'll do it the Muggle way here. Too much electricity, and my Muggle neighbours can't know. Crack those eggs against the bowl over there, will you? Without magic, of course." He took out a pan and some cooking spray, washed the chicken in the sink and threw it into the sizzling pan. Draco jumped back in surprise as Harry brought it to a sizzle.

"Are you sure it's supposed to do that, Potter?" he asked, alarmed, hands still dripping with egg.

"Yes, of course. Don't make a mess of it, Malfoy, take a spoon and mix the eggs," Harry instructed as patiently as he could, tossing the chicken about. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Malfoy reached for a rather large spoon resting on the counter and stirred the bowl of eggs as if he were making a potion.

"How did you get the stove to light without magic? And why do you keep turning those knobs?" Draco asked as he stirred lazily, watching the fire from the stove very curiously.

"They control the fire in the stove. You turn it one way to get the fire to light, and the other way to extinguish it," Harry said, then got a very important idea. "Don't play with it if I'm ever gone, Draco. You could burn yourself. And stir the eggs faster...you want to break the yolks and get them to mix with the whites." Malfoy was still looking at the flames curiously, as well as the cooking chicken, but then stirred the eggs more vigourously. Perhaps a bit too much, however, as some of it slopped onto the counter. "There's a knife in that drawer, you can use it to wash and cut the aubergine. Just think of...er...chopping boomslangs in Potions class. Except you don't have to skin them." Harry mentally sighed, reminding himself that Malfoy wasn't very good at this, and that he _was_ helping him somewhat with the cooking. He turned off the stove and slid the filets onto two plates, then took the over-chopped aubergine and under-stirred eggs and mixed them together haphazardly in the saucepan. Hermione had taught him some dish like this, but he'd never tried it before. Thankfully, Malfoy at least knew to wipe off the mess he'd made on the countertop and put away the knife and spoon. He even dried everything with a towel and not his wand, so that when Harry was done cooking the side dish and had ladled it onto their plates, everything was pretty much clean.

Awkwardly, they sat down at the center island of Harry's kitchen, at least their high stools comfortable, since Harry didn't own and never had a need for a dining table. They must have made a strange sight, Draco still in his days-old Auror robes and Harry, cleaned up and showered, in a green shirt and jeans, but Lily the cat didn't mind much. She was happily enjoying her bowl of milk on the counter right beside them.

"You did pretty well for a beginner," Harry said, trying the aubergine-egg dish. It was good Draco had overchopped it. The aubergine did a tangy thing to the chewy eggs.

"Thanks," was all Malfoy said, although Harry thought he could detect the faintest hint of a blush on his cheeks. "This is good cooking. When one thinks of Harry James Potter, chef doesn't come to mind." They both knew what did instead, and it made Draco put down his knife and fork, putting his hand to his days-old soft blond stubble and frowning in thought. "I was in his inner circle long enough to know that no magic spell could have destroyed him. But I want to know now. What in Merlin's name did you do, Harry? After all these years?"

"You can read the case file for yourself. I'm sure Hermione and Ron have already written it up," replied Harry, not taking Draco's question, regardless of how gently it was posed, kindly. Why the hell did he want to know? Harry himself didn't want to deal with the prospect of having killed yet another person, even if it was Voldemort. He didn't want to remember the blood that poured from the wound as he grasped his wand, directing the Dark Lord into the Spirit Catcher.

"The case files don't tell anybody a bloody thing, _Potter_, and you know it! It's all just sterilized so those Ministry sots don't have to read about the shit we go through!" Malfoy said, the strain of his torture and imprisonment showing for the first time. Lines sneaked into his usually smooth, impassive forehead. "I know it was hard, Potter, but you're not going to hide it from the world forever. It's better to get over with it now; if you can tell me easily, it'll be easier later on when the real questions start. You have to get this out of your system. It's no good to be on Auror-mode all the time, and you and I both know it!" Harry drew something out from inside his shirt and slammed it onto the countertop, one end pointing at Draco, his face red and scowling. Draco stared at the metal thing in Harry's hands. "What is that?"

"It's called a gun, Malfoy. There's a right end and a wrong end to this, and you're facing the wrong end," Harry said coldly, his green eyes hard as emeralds. "So did Voldemort before I blasted a bullet into his head. I caught him off guard and used a Spirit Catcher. And that's all. I won't ask you what you did to get those shields down, and you don't ask me any more questions."

"It doesn't work that way," Draco told the very unstable ex-Gryffindor. He didn't understand the full implications of the Muggle weapon. "I am still the Chief Interrogation Officer, and this may be unorthodox, but if someone like Voldemort rises again, we need to know how to stop him, especially if you're gone or dead, after our time. I'm very sorry it has to be you, Potter. Very clever though, to use a Muggle thing to kill a half-blood. He always did want to forget that part of himself. But you are simply going to have to give it to the Ministry. How long have you had it?"

"Since three years ago," Harry replied with gritted teeth, wondering if he'd loaded the magazine or not. His index finger toyed with on the trigger, but a little voice in him made him let go of the gun. Lily purred and rubbed up against his arm, and when he relaxed, so did Draco. Perhaps the Auror did understand what the Muggle weapon could do. "Not very legal, but it isn't as if there's a point to following the laws when you've got bigger things to worry about. If you're done, I'll get these dishes--" Malfoy had waved his wand and made the dishes wash themselves in the sink, much to Harry's annoyance. "I told you not to use magic."

"Just because you live in a Muggle place doesn't mean you need to live like one," replied Draco with a yawn as he stood up. "I need to purchase some Muggle clothes. We'll be here for a while until the Ministry sorts out the dead and prisoners." He didn't want to think of Lucius.

"Borrow some of my clothes until we go shopping," Harry offered, putting the cat down and going to his closet for some things. "They might be a bit big for you...I've some trousers and a smallish shirt that might fit." He tossed them to Draco, who caught them as he rounded the corner into Harry's room. It was smaller than he expected, but as sparse and minimal as his own would be if he didn't have Malfoy Manor, with its old-fashioned furniture and antique paintings, and generations of Malfoys staring down at him.

"I'll just nip off and clean myself up then," Draco said gratefully, awkwardly setting off for the bathroom and its inviting shower. Harry sat down on his own bed, head in his hands as he looked at the gun on top of the sheets. What had brought him to point the gun at Draco? Acquiring the gun had been easy. Something in him was sending him over the edge...maybe it was good that Malfoy, annoying as he could sometimes be, was here.

It gave Harry something to do, to explain all the phenomena of the Muggle world, instead of mulling over what had happened. Not even a day had passed since Voldemort was dead that morning, and Harry was already close to breaking point. He needed to do something pointless...his entire life stretched out before him again, looming, that sense of fatality rising once more. He shoved the gun under a pile of socks he never bothered to fold but figured Dobby might want one day, and went into the parlour to watch some television. After a few minutes of EastEnders, Harry quickly got bored, switching to Liquid News.

"Why do you have a painting of Steven Spielberg on that box?" Draco asked, coming into the parlour, freshly shaven, cleaned and dressed. Harry turned his head and had to do a double take on the Slytherin, completely losing interest in the television programme.

"Is there something wrong? I didn't wear anything incorrectly, did I? I've seen the way they do it," Draco said, turning around and inspecting his Muggle-clad self.

"It's the first time I've seen you in Muggle clothes," remarked Harry, who'd never seen Draco in anything but robes. "You look...skinnier. The robes usually billow out."

"It feels as if I am being tightly wrapped in fabric," whined Malfoy, sitting down uncomfortably. "Or wearing pyjamas."

"Think of it that way then," was all Harry said, not quite knowing what to do about Malfoy's discomfort. "That's what they wear, so deal with it."

"Fine. Why are you watching a painting of Steven Spielberg?"

"It's a television, Malfoy. You turn it on using the remote and choose a channel to watch," Harry said very slowly, as if explaining it to a child. "This is a recorded interview of the director. It's like the Omniculars at the Quidditch World Cup, where you can watch things again and again, only it's not through two lenses but on the television screen. How do you know who Steven Spielberg is anyway?"

"He's a wizarding entertainer," Draco said. "He has a company that produces and sells the Weird Sisters' and Celestina Warbeck's music."

"Apparently he branches out into the Muggle world as well. No wonder he's so successful; he must use magic for some of his stuff," replied Harry.

"Well, are we going to watch him talk all night or are you taking me shopping?" asked Draco, standing up and tugging on the shirt, which was, in honesty, a bit largish for him but made him feel very uncomfortable. Whether it was because it was much less roomy than a robe, or the fact that it was Harry James Potter's, one may never know.

"You're paying me back," Harry growled, switching off the television and ignoring Draco's surprised look at the box when it went blank. "But I've got to teach you how to use Muggle money."

"That's perfectly fine with me. How do we get to a shop?"

"This is London. There are plenty of shops, Malfoy. Muggles aren't uncivilised, you know," replied the Young-Man-Who-Lived, grabbing his keys, hiding his wand inside the side pocket on the leg of his trousers and taking his wallet. "I bought these cargoes 'cos they've got places you can hold your wand. Just stick that in there." He gestured to the side pocket that was on what Malfoy wore as well.

"Bloody hell...they're everywhere!" Draco exclaimed, shielding his eyes from the bright light of the hallway. He was still unaccustomed to electric light, and nearly reached for his wand to extinguish one before Harry grabbed his wrist and glared warningly. "Relax, Potter. Nobody's out to kill you tonight. You really need to unwind. Any pubs nearby before we go?"

"I want to be sober, in case you decide to spend all my money on some idiot lamp," replied Harry as he pressed the button for the lift. Again, more suspicious looks from Malfoy before Harry could coax him into the compartment, and when they got out, they went back in because Malfoy wanted to ride the lift again once he realised it wasn't run by magic.

The rest of it was uneventful--Draco knew of buses and bicycles (although he didn't approve: "Why don't they just have broomsticks? They wouldn't have to move their legs.") and such. The only problem was the continuous electric lights that were everywhere, most notably Piccadilly and Oxford, where Draco was positively dazzled and stood for ten minutes looking like an idiot at the advertisements before Harry dragged him into a department store.

"Where's the tailour?" Draco asked Harry, waiting around and blinking at the overly bright fluorescent lights. A woman came up to him and smiled, asking if she could help him. "Certainly, madam. I'm looking to purchase some clothing, and was wondering where I could get my measurements."

"For a suit, sir?" asked the Muggle, a bit confused. "Well, ah, we have a very fine selection, but if you don't know your size, I'm sure we could be of assistance."

"Why should I know my size? Size in what? You're supposed to tell me--what, what's wrong?" Draco asked as Harry grabbed him very hard by the arm and pulled him away from the Muggle assistant. "I didn't say anything about magic!"

"They haven't got magical tape measures! There are all sorts of clothes here for you to choose and try, and you've just gotta walk up to somebody and ask her to measure you?!" Harry hissed at him, trying not to alarm the woman. "Look, we're going to get you a shirt or two, a pair of trousers and some socks. We're not getting anything else."

"Can't I just have a suit instead? I think I'd be more comfortable with something I've worn before," Draco replied, although he was eyeing a dress very fondly. "That looks sort of robe-ish, even if it's a dress."

"I can't afford a suit with the money I'm carrying right now. I don't use any credit cards, and I didn't go to Gringotts to exchange any yet," Harry replied. He noticed what Draco was looking at, and added, "those are for Muggle women. The only sort of robes they have here are the ones they wear for after they bathe. They're fluffy with nasty paisley designs; you wouldn't want one. Now come on, there's a men's section where we can find some clothes." With that, he dragged Draco away from the dresses. He didn't succeed in not drawing any attention, because Draco was making a rather large show of wanting a suit instead of just casual wear.

They were asked to go to another store, and it was a very flustered Malfoy who followed an angry Potter out the door and into the bustling London street. They still had time before everything closed, and at the mention of possibly having to do this again the next night, Draco shut up immediately and let Harry pull him through department stores, into changing rooms, out of changing rooms, and finally into a cab to take them home, their bags of purchases separating their silent forms in the black leather seats.

"Harry?" Draco asked, breaking the silence.

"What is it?" came a tired voice.

"I'm sorry I made a fuss of things. The lights were giving me a headache, you know, and...it's just been a long day."

Harry looked over the bags and gave Draco a weak smile. "It's okay. You got me to stop thinking about Voldemort by making me get angry with you. So thanks, actually. Cos it's the office tomorrow for us, and you'll need your robes anyway."

"When do I have to meet with my father?"

"I don't know. Whenever you feel like it. His trial won't have been set yet, of course. He was captured about two days into your disappearance," Harry informed him carefully. "They're keeping him at the Lockhouse. We can go tomorrow. I have to confirm that the spirit they're keeping there is Voldemort's, so while I do that you can talk to Lucius."

"Sounds good to me; I might as well get it over with, right?" Draco murmured, looking away and out the window, not sure how to feel about this. The man he'd idolised, hated and desperately tried to love, now behind shields and wards, waiting for his son to come, dead or alive. "I appreciated shopping tonight." Lucius had known of Draco's treason, but had never told Voldemort of it. Was it familial loyalty in the end? "I'm sure learning about alternative cultures will come into some use. It did for you." Was that why Lucius had wanted to see him so much? To see Draco reciprocate that loyalty? Draco had been very loyal. There were ways...and he was an Auror.

They went on the lift again, twice, just for Draco's unflappable sense of novelty, and were greeted by two owls sitting on Harry's countertop. The letters were addressed to both men, so Harry read the first out loud.

"Dear Mr D. Malfoy and Mr H. Potter,

We regret to inform you that you have been brought under the charges of murder, twenty-one counts for Mr Potter, forty-two counts for Mr Malfoy, and unorthodox abuses as Aurors, that will be addressed after the completion of trials for accused Death Eaters. Your services as Aurors are still needed, but the Department wishes to inform you of your fragile standing, and remind you to take care in your travels around both the Muggle and wizarding world. Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

Alai Darko

Department of Magical Law Enforcement...what the bloody fucking hell is this? We just saved their miserable bloody lives and they accuse us of murder?" Harry flung the letter on the countertop in fury, about to rip it up. Draco retrieved it quickly and scanned the lines just to make sure. "I'm going down there right now! Darko's got to be insane to do this..." They saw the man almost every day in the office, and didn't think him quite suited for the job, but brilliant in administrative duties.

"We're going into the office tomorrow as if nothing has happened, Potter," Malfoy said very calmly, his pale eyes positively frigid as they surveyed the letter yet again, analysing each word. "You know as well as I do that they were less than pleased with some of our past actions, but couldn't possibly do anything in light of circumstances. Now that the danger's passed, we're expendable. Even you."

"I can't go there, smile at Darko and report for duty knowing he wants me in Azkaban," muttered Harry, feeling his vision start boiling.

"Calm down. Potter, are you listening to me? There's another letter. Why not see what that one says?" It was a while before Harry finally relented to Draco's stare and tore open the second letter.

"Dear Mr Malfoy and Mr Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted for consideration of a future teaching position at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of important pre-school year dates. Term begins September 1 of next year. We await your reply no later than April 31.

Yours Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress." The second parchment had a list of interview days and lesson planning over the summer. It was enough to erase Darko's letter from Harry's mind, at least for a few minutes. "They want us to be Professors at Hogwarts! I wonder which ones..."

"Defence Against the Dark Arts for you, probably. Maybe Flying Instructor, do you think? I heard this is Madame Hooch's last year. They must inform future teachers a year in advance," replied Draco thoughtfully. "But I wonder what they'd want me for. I'm not exactly the best influence, and my reputation alone is enough to make a parent withdraw their children from the school. Dumbledore must have really gone crackers this time."

Harry smiled wearily. It was just like Dumbledore to invite someone who was still known as a Deatheater, for all respective purposes, to the world, to teach at Hogwarts. Surely they couldn't be serious about the whole murder trials. That would mean every single Auror would be taken to court. "I think I'll worry about it in the morning. We've still got to go to the office and hex Darko."

With few objections to this idea, Draco said a simple 'good-night' to Harry before retiring to the Chudley-Cannons bed again, leaving the light on so he wouldn't think of the dark manor or Deatheaters too much. He could only wonder what it was Harry used to get to sleep. Did he cry into the dying night before his head hit the pillow, as Draco did? Did the faces of those he'd killed rise up before the black canvas of his mind and speak out accusations, or did they whisper forgiveness? Did the blood run down the walls of his skull and pound out every word with violence... rip... tear... kill... curse... revenge... pureblood... mudblood... die...die...die...? Draco shuddered, biting into the pillow to silence his moan of agony and fear. It would be merciful if they killed him, after those horrors. With shaking hand he reached for his wand and cast a dreamless sleep on himself, setting it to nine hours. His tense form gradually relaxed, leaving the daemons far away in the lonely night.

In Malfoy Manor, the screams during his nightmares had never been a problem. Here, it could wake Muggles and invite questions, questions that Harry didn't deserve. After witnessing some of the worst atrocities committed by the Death Eaters, returning and trying to live a normal, peaceful life was the most traumatic thing Draco could think of. None of the Aurors ever slept easily, and Draco had to wonder, would peaceful slumber ever come again?