Learning to Live

Chapter Six: Drunken Confessions

Shielded from Muggle eyes was a little cottage in Walpole had its lights lit for the first time in a few long years, cozy suddenly as the candles shed their cleansing power on the stark white snow on the outside, melting it. A shadow darkened the window, but it was only Hermione from the inside, watching in wonder at the holiness of the feeling, of being safe to light candles at night without fear of Deatheater raids. There would be neo-Deatheaters, of course, joshing around, setting Dark Marks off to start whispers of fear in people's hearts. Perhaps a few Muggles and Muggle-borns might still be under violent physical discrimination, but anyone who did that would be promptly put on trial. The world could be safe again; the light of the floating candles gave its silent, warm testimony to that.

Yet despite her own hopes about the future, she couldn't help but pull out her wand in defence--just out of instinct--when the front door opened to the parlour. "Ron!" With a little squeal to which she would never have confessed, she leapt into his arms. His body immediately surrounded hers in its embrace, giving her a bear hug of safe, secure proportions. She always loved that about him. No matter what his transgressions or how blatantly or stupidly he reacted, she could know that his heart was forever going to be in the right place. He knew what his priorities were. Ronald Weasley was, in short, a good man and a good wizard.

"Hey honey," he said before they kissed, still feeling as if it were the first time, every time. Only less bungled. "What's all this?" Ron gestured to the mess before him, the boxes strewn about, the mess of sheafs of papers. He was afraid to guess what his wife had in mind.

"I took the liberty of looking up some old friends and spells," she said, easing from his grasp and going to a few boxes. She bent down, rising again with bunches of garlands and wreathes scooped in her arms, writhing their way around her hands and trailing down to the parquet. "I was thinking of having a Christmas get-together, just a small one, for some of the Aurors and our other friends, you know? Now that we don't have to do so much and it's mostly followup and trials, maybe we could relax. It's been so long...Do you think we should?"

"Oh Hermione, I think that's a great idea," replied the red-head in question, taking some leaves and berries from her arms and setting them back down into the box. "Brushing up on your transfiguration, eh? We'll have Socrates send out invites as soon as possible; when is Yule?" Socrates was their Auror owl. Pig had been transferred to small personal deliveries.

"Next week, Ron! Really, it's four days away and we've all been too busy to notice! This is why we all need this party!" Hermione poked him in the chest, lighting the fire with a wave of her wand. Neither Ron or Harry could ever forget just how useful her portable, waterproof fires were, not just in making the Polyjuice Potion their second year, but also later, in a torrential rainstorm in which her fires were the only things keeping them safe from the dark things that lurked near. "I'm going to have to scoot to Diagon Alley to buy presents...how many people do you think we should invite? I hope no one's forgotten about Yule. It's too cold to have anything outside unless we warm the air in the front yard. Remus might still be ailing at St Mungo's, but I heard from Charlotte that he's out already, and--"

"Stop gibbering, Hermione!" Ron declared with a laugh, bringing her close and silencing her with a teasing kiss that only envoked a glare. "We'll figure out who we want to invite; I think you're getting overexcited. I'll help you put up the decorations first, if you'd like. Just tell me where everything goes." The witch looked faintly appeased by the sweet gesture, and the two started on the Christmas trimming. They put up ribbons, wreaths and ever-fresh fruits, the colours all complementing each other in a homey, healthy theme, tasteful, wholesome and simple. Over the doorway to the kitchen they hung a sprig of mistletoe, and shared another sweet kiss. The parlour was faintly perfumed with apples, the banister of the stairs tastefully wrapped in ribbon and greenery. Outside, a wreath hung on the door and a few faeries flitted back and forth among the bushes, reflecting on the snow. They cozied on the couch together before the fire, admiring their decorations in the parlour, kitchen and stairs.

"Nice work with the mantle, Ron," murmured Hermione, snuggling into the comforts of his arm. The silence lasted for a while, punctuated only by the cracklings of the fire.

Ron gazed at the woman he loved, the fire warming them both, realising she glowed with content not because of the decorations, but because they had done it together, as a team, as husband and wife, as lifelong friends. "Hermione?" he whispered, his breath barely touching her cheek. She turned, and his eyes smiled at hers. "I love you." That glow spread even more, her smile lighting up before they kissed, passionately at peace for the first time. He loved her so much, had been so afraid for her during the war and the battles, so afraid he would lose the other half of himself. He needed her so badly, he realised, as his hand slid under her shirt, caressing the smooth skin of her back. He had taken all the scars for her; he would have never allowed HIS Hermione to ever be hurt, and if he could, he'd make sure she never had to have nightmares about the war ever again. He would treat it like their new life, like they'd just been married, just fallen in love. There would be no war. They could make it all okay, this new start, this beginning. "Darling," he whispered, kissing her soft eyebrows, her elegant nose, worshipping her lips. "Let's make a baby."

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Elsewhere in the darkness of a London flat, a cat prowled back and forth among the scattered case files on a neglected desk that its owner had tried to clean but got distracted before he could finish. It jumped off the furniture, padding along the floor to settle on the soft, well-worn leather couch that had a two-year old imprint of someone sitting there day after day, night after night, working, eating, dozing, watching television, and doing any other number of things a lonely sort of wizard would do if he wanted to be left isolated from a world that sought to capitalise on his fame, to publicise his name, to use him as a secret weapon in their war games. Lily was just about to snuggle into that little spot when the door suddenly burst open, the lit lightbulb from the hallway pouring its electricity into the room. One figure...no, two, darkened the hallway...no, three now, a woman who was tutting over the one-two figures' state. She nudged them in through the doorway with a whisper of, "on to bed, you two, and take care of yourselves; good night," before closing the door, enveloping them in the darkness with only the dim light of the moon and an outside streetlamp to guide their way through the room.

The blond, arm still around the other's shoulders, nearly crashed into the kitchen island counter. That was an effect of the initial three pints of bitter. The later six pints had dragged him the other way, narrowly missing it. The ebony-haired one swayed, pulling him onwards and remembering the words that nice waitress had told them. "Bed..." he mumbled, a bit more coherent than his friend. The two drunken wizards staggered, Harry pulling Draco towards the bedroom unsteadily, trying to draw a bead on the doorway. Somehow finding the bed to be running towards him, he flung Draco onto the duvet before crashing down onto it himself.

All was silent for a while, nothing but the breathing of the two very drunken men.

"Draco?" was the mumble, and he concentrated on commanding his limbs, then hoisted himself up on all fours to crawl over to the other wizard. Had he passed out? Draco had had a great deal more than he had; perhaps it was because he had more things he wanted to forget, after his nearly two-week long imprisonment in his former master's clutches, struggling for life. Harry was amazed that his bony frame could hold so much alcohol, but then he remembered that wizards, at least pure-blooded ones, weren't as apt to get drunk, and if they did, it either took some strong wizarding firewhisky or quite a bit of Muggle alcohol. Draco had had no less than ten pints, if one subtracted for the amount of times he went to the toilet. Harry had, judging by his own state, a bit more than seven, although that last one he shared with the nice Muggle girl in the corner might not have counted entirely.

He decided that he definitely liked girls, and although he was a bit uncertain about flirting or dating or anything beyond that, he was sure that there was a lot he needed to catch up on once the post-war establishment was settled. He wasn't so sure about Draco's feelings on that; nobody in the place--Harry couldn't remember its name--had been good enough for him, and he preferred to drown in everything from rum to cognac to liqueurs and schnapps, going for a vodka or scotch neat, and the occasional martini. And there were, of course, the couple of pints of bitter before that. Harry was sure that Draco didn't like the rather plebian drink, because after those he went immediately for the greater priced beverages and mixes. The wizard was about to buy a bottle of cognac that cost 1000 pounds before Harry realised he would have to charge it on his card and promptly refused to buy him any more drinks. So Draco had to go back to the Guinness and the vodka, which didn't mix well in his empty stomach (it was still recovering from its starvation period), but nevertheless, Harry figured Draco had something to get drunk for, and let him to it, hoping he wouldn't make a mess in the cab. Any worries of that had disintegrated by the time Harry had his last few pints, and he hardly remembered how they had gotten home. Some very nice waitress. And a red car. Mmm. Red.

With a sigh, Harry gave Draco some light slaps on the face, making his head snap left and right a bit; he'd seen somebody do that once on the telly. If this was getting sloshed, Harry didn't know if he liked it or not, because he kept seeing two Dracos in front of him. "Draco, wake up." What was it that someone had said? People who'd had too much alcohol had to be kept awake. Right? Or something like that. Harry conjured up a messy glass of water with his wand and splashed it on Draco's face, not caring if his sheets got wet. "Come on, mate, wake up." He gave him another light slap, which seemed to have done it, because Draco moaned, the small droplets of water slicking across his face as he frowned and shifted, trying to hide his face in the blankets and curling up against Harry. The new clothes he had did fit him very well, actually, and Harry was jealous that Draco pulled off wearing Muggle clothes so easily when he himself had no sense of fashion due to being forced to wear Dudley's old handouts.

"I'm sorry," murmured Draco when Harry turned him onto his back again. "I'm so sorry, Father, I won't do it again."

"What?" asked Harry, alarmed. "Draco, it's me. It's Harry. Wake up."

"No, I really am, Dad, I'm sorry, but I had to," blurted Draco, grabbing the front of Harry's shirt and pulling him close, insistent. His grey eyes, normally sharp and clear, if not cold, were blurry, and Harry soon realised he was close to tears. "I had to do it, I had to; I didn't want to disappoint you, I really didn't. But it was wrong of Him, and you have to understand that I'm sorry and if I could I would get rid of all this and you could be proud of me and I wouldn't have to kill all these people..." The normally icily composed Auror was blubbering now, tears running down his bloodless cheeks, hands taking Harry's shirt in a death grip. "I didn't want to kill them! I had to, to make more people safe, even if they were filthy-blooded! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry...I shouldn't have...I wanted to obey you, I wanted you to make me proud, but it's all my fault! I don't want to do this, Father, I don't, but I have to! I have to!" His voice broke sporadically, as if choking on his own tears and his own guilt. "Please don't make them come again, Father, please...I'll be a good boy this time, I'll be a good boy, and I won't lie unless it's good for me and I won't kill anymore, no more, I promise! Unless--unless you tell me to. I wanted to protect you from them, I wanted to do everything in my power, and I know you hate me for not saving Mother. I miss her, I'm sorry she died...I miss her so so so much..." He fast broke down, forehead shoved against Harry's chest, whimpering and bawling to himself like a child instead of the twenty-two-year old stolid Auror he was supposed to be. "I couldn't save you, Mummy...I was somewhere else, I was helping more people...I'm sorry...please don't hate me."

Normally accustomed to a silent, don't-ask-don't-tell Draco Lucius Malfoy, Harry didn't know what to do, and let the drunken man cry against him. Before, he hadn't imagined how Draco kept it all inside without telling someone, without talking to a friend about all the things he found out as Chief Interrogator, about all the things he'd seen as the heir of Voldemort's right-hand man. Even Harry, after a particularly hard time, would talk to Ron or Hermione about things, and when Sirius had gone, to Hagrid when he could. Draco, as far as his fellow Aurors knew, had no one, silent in the coldness of his mansion with nothing but house elves and the grave of Narcissa Circe Malfoy to keep him company. No wonder he volunteered for so many missions; it was unfathomable, how he kept himself in that house. It was almost logical then, that out of his right mind and into one of the most drunken states the wizard could have managed, the pale and shaking Draco was finally giving voice to a small fraction of what plagued him at night and whispered during the day. It was hardly what Harry had expected, however, for surely what Voldemort had done was worse than Draco's own misdirected guilt complex, if he had one? The wizard was clinging onto him for dear life now, still whispering little words of guilt and apology to himself, as if Harry were a brick wall.

Harry let him cry.

Harry let him blubber.

Then he got a better idea. He put his arms around Malfoy, rubbing his back soothingly, then bent his head. He whispered in his ear, "Nobody hates you, Draco." Malfoy was blubbering again, repeating his apologies like a broken record player. "Narcissa's death wasn't your fault. You're a hero, Draco. You're a good boy. It's not your fault. It's Voldemort's fault, but he's gone now; you helped get rid of him. Don't feel guilty." The words seemed to quiet Draco down a bit, and although he still sniffled and let out the occasional shuddering breath of pain, his hold relaxed on Harry, though he seemed to still treat him like a brick wall against which he could slam his forehead. "Shh, shh, it's okay. You're gonna be all right, Draco. Think happy thoughts about the future. You're gonna get married, and have lots of little Malfoys running around, and Malfoy Manor'll have lots of laughter in it." It may never happen, but it was something to hold onto for the future. All their lives they'd striven and hoped for one thing, the defeat of Voldemort. Now that it had come, if they no longer had hopes about anything else, what could they have? "And we'll all come over for Christmas, and we'll know you're a great wizard and a good friend, and you'll be loved by your friends and family, and Lucius..." What was going to happen to Lucius after all, besides Azkaban or the Kiss? "Lucius will know that his son was faithful, that his son gave him an heir. Lucius will know the Malfoy family will be great and respected, all thanks to his son Draco."

"You think so?" Draco blurted out, lifing his tear-stained face to look at him. "You think I can do that?" When Harry nodded, he sniffled again, letting go of his shirt and rubbing at it as if to wipe the tears away from the damp fabric. "Hang on, you're not Fath--oh. Sorry."

"It's all right; we all have moments like that," Harry replied. He had sobered up pretty quickly, but he wasn't sure how well Draco could be. All he knew was that once he'd had a good cry, Draco was sure to need a bit of rest. They'd forgotten to go down to the Lockhouse to confirm Voldemort's spirit, but they could do that tomorrow. Alai Darko had to be given a piece of Harry's mind anyway. He pushed Draco onto his back again, drawing a sheet around the still-clothed wizard. "Go to sleep now, Draco. Just sleep. It'll all be better in the morning. Remember, it's not your fault. Just say that to yourself. Repeat it: 'It's not my fault.' And I'll be right here. I won't let them come." Harry wasn't sure who 'they' were, but he was willing to do anything to allay Draco's silent harboured fears. He tucked the covers a bit better around his fellow wizard. It made him feel a bit better, being responsible for somebody else again, taking care of somebody else's well-being. It prevented him from thinking about his own. "Sleep..." Draco's grey, bloodshot eyes still looked fearful, but he closed his eyes.

Without further ado, Harry kicked off his shoes and climbed into bed next to him, just to make him feel more secure. He could remember the last time they'd slept side by side...Malfoy had been stock still, his breathing silent, composed even in slumber while Harry's nerves were shot, the two of them having spent days in a forest, trailing a group of Death Eaters making its way through a non-Apparatable trail. A small fire had been conjured that gave light only to the two Aurors, and Harry had enviously watched Malfoy turn over, sleeping better than a baby did. Eyes wide, he now drew his half of the covers closer, turning on his side with a sigh as he closed his eyes, hoping no nightmares would come to him tonight. In the close darkness of their own fears, he could hear Malfoy repeating those words like a prayer, as he skirted the boundaries of the land of sleep. "Not my fault."

Harry hoped that the same held for himself.

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The next day they headed for the Lockhouse to confirm Harry's capture and incarceration of Voldemort, alias Tom Marvolo Riddle. It had not been a pleasant experience, and Draco waited outside in the hallway as Harry spoke with Voldemort, although not for the last time. Malfoy didn't want to know what sort of things they talked about, what sort of revenge Harry longed for, what Harry would do if there was no law and they'd given him free reign to do what he liked with the former Dark Lord. Perfectly in his element, Draco was wearing Auror robes that felt far more comfortable than those odd Muggle clothes that clung to his body--although they did show his hard-earned muscles quite nicely--and got him a lot more attention from Muggle women than he would have liked. He paced the hallway, waiting for a stern-faced Harry Potter to come out and pronounce them freed from the Lockhouse for today. Neither of them wanted to talk, least of all Harry, who must have still been thinking on his conversation with the fallen wizard. Silence accompanied them through the tunnels that connected the Lockhouse to the main Auror headquarters building, but it left them before they entered.

With a small series of passwords, the two Aurors entered the office, only to be attacked. By streamers. And confetti. And many balloons that made Draco nervous. He fumbled around in the snow of coloured paper, grasping the back of Harry's cloak in confusion. What was going on? What had taken over headquarters?

"Surprise!" someone yelled in his ear.

"Congratulations, Malfoy!" A pat on the back.

"Great job, Draco!" Someone was shaking his hand.

"Now you can't make me get your supplies from Diagon Alley; you'll have to go yourself!"

He found his hands being shaken left and right, more surprises and congratulations heaped on. How could they just celebrate at a time like this? Almost about to panic, he felt a supportive hand on his shoulder, turned and smiled at Hermione.

"Dumbledore de-classified the important parts of your file last night, announcing all your hard work and involvement. Percy's giving you Order of Merlin, First Class. You and Harry both, actually, so it's sort of like a combination party. But of course, it's mostly about your being a free man again, a public figure! Isn't it great? Congratulations on being a normal person again! Don't you feel wonderful?" she asked in a rush, taking advantage of his surprise to hug him, because he normally would have eschewed such close contact. "Oh come on then, Draco, say something." When he rubbed the confetti out of his eyes and saw the room waiting for a reply, he looked back at Harry, still a little dazed. Harry had the most smug expression on his face...no wonder they didn't talk on the way to pseudo-work; he probably was afraid of giving away the surprise party. They had all prepared for this, and Draco forced his feelings aside and urged himself not to ruin the busy mood.

"Do I get ice cream?" he asked slyly, a trademark smirk on his face. The room went into an uproar once more, and Neville, Herbology specialist just back from Brazil, fell off his chair with laughter.

"Once a Malfoy, always a Malfoy, eh?" Harry asked in his ear softly, but led him by the elbow to the enormous ice cream cake awaiting him at the desk they shared. "You should've seen the look on the baker's face when we asked her what we wanted written on it. If we weren't Aurors, I think she might have reported it." Still at a loss for words despite his earlier clever remark, and a bit at odds with the cheery festive atmosphere, Draco sat down before an enormous Bailey's Irish Cream ice-cream cake that said "Congratulations, Draco! Malfoys DO do it better!" He couldn't help a small smile creeping across, and cleared his voice to let his mind get used to this idea.

They were having a party. For him. They liked him, all these cheery people who'd seen as much horrible stuff as he did, and yet could muster up the joy and camraderie to throw a surprise party for him. They really liked him. He looked up, painfully aware that a lump was growing in his throat, and that he felt like he'd had an overdose of Fizzing Whizbees--his favourite--and was now about to leave his body. He'd killed people and still they liked him, thought he was a good person, liked making jokes with him, were congratulating him on an Order of Merlin. That little smile was going to become a grin if he didn't compose himself soon. They were all still smiling, so happy to be celebrating this with him, that he could be a free man to walk the streets in relative peace, that he wouldn't have to risk life, limb and sanity every single blood-stained day and night. And they liked that. Whatever his faults, they didn't mind them. Whatever he had done, they accepted it. Or so he wanted to believe, at least about these co-workers.

"Er..." he began, feeling utterly unlike loquacious Lucius, who always had something elegant and appropriate to say at dinner parties even if he'd pulled it out of his arse. "I really...I appreciate this, mates. I just want to say thank you. I might almost be touched, even."

"In the head," someone snickered, and they all laughed in good humour, even Draco.

"Aww, I think that was almost sentimental for you, Draco! Don't tell me you're getting soft!" scolded Ron, messing up his hair just the way Draco hated. Something was pressed into his hand, and he would have withdrawn for fear of getting hit by a disguised Portkey, but Ron understood, and kept it in his palm until Draco accepted it. He looked down, and was surprised to see his own face looking up haughtily, but reasonably, at him. "There's your Chocolate Frog card. But look, it's changed. The inscription's different now. Read it out loud."

"Draco Lucius Malfoy, twenty-two. Currently Chief Interrogating Auror, soon to be Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," he paused as the room 'oohed' and 'ahhed,' then continued, "Formerly known to most of the wizarding world as the Dark Lord Voldemort's future right-hand man and top Death Eater, Draco Malfoy is actually a top Auror, who has operated on key missions, including his integral role in the final battle of Little Hangleton, as a spy against the Death Eaters. While much of his past and identity remains in shadow, Draco Malfoy is well-known among his friends to enjoy Fizzing Whizbees, Quidditch and piano playing." He looked up with an inquiring eye. "Who told them that? I haven't touched a piano in years."

"We thought you might like to start up again, Draco. Maybe you could learn the Wedding March," Harry said. "Because Percy Weasley and Penelope Clearwater are finally getting married."

"Really? I was wondering when the Minister would get around to it," said Draco without surprise. "Have they set a date yet?" They shook their heads, and he shrugged, then rubbed his hands in a expression of mock glee. "Well then, who wants a piece of ice cream cake?" He pulled out the standard-issue dagger Aurors carried with them--it detected poison, Dark creatures and was strong enough to cut through steel if the bearer focused his magic enough--and picked up a piece of the pre-sliced cake, dumping it on a plate for whoever wanted it.

"Take the first slice, Draco," Ron urged, poking him annoyingly in the side. He tried to decline, but all it got him was a face full of delicious ice cream cake after Ron grabbed it and smeared it against his pristine skin, only some of the food actually getting into his mouth. The entire room exploded with noise as Draco retaliated, and soon enough everyone was digging their fingers into the cake and flinging pieces at each other. In less than ten minutes the entire office was filled with shrieking and laughing Aurors throwing cake at each other. Ron and Draco had abandoned their quarrel to smear some ice cream all over Harry's hair. Draco held him down while Ron did the evil deed, and they had just been about to add a candle on the top when a pair of very slick boots appeared beside Harry's head. They looked up to see Alai Darko glaring at them all, and the mess the office had become.

When the frosting stopped flying in the air, Hermione and Serena had built a small fortress of plastic silverware against the onslaught of Neville and Hannah's spoon catapults. Mark was chasing Orson and Neal armed with fistfuls of frosting and ice cream. Roger had managed to build a small makeshift trebuchet, onto which he had placed the remains of the enormous cake. He had left a candle burning through the rope holding the load down, but now extinguished it at Darko's appearance.

"JUST WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE?" shrieked Darko, stamping one foot dangerously close to Harry's ear. Ron and Draco released him, and pulled him to his feet to face their boss. "Ice cream every where...what is this...is this frosting? What do you think you're all doing? Yes, it's great that the war's over, but your celebration should have ended by last night already! You've still got work! What is this you're carrying on about?"

"Harry and Draco are getting Order of Merlin, sir, First Class," Neville replied, standing up and letting go of his spoon.

"Oh are they?" Darko's eyes narrowed dangerously, the blood draining from his face. Either he shook with anger or with fear for his own position and image, but it didn't quite matter because the next moment he barked, "Get this entire place cleaned up. I want to see you all at your desks. This party is over!" He kicked a fork aside and stomped back up to his office, slamming the door behind him so hard his nametag fell off.

With a shrug Hannah Abbot waved her wand, the entire place magically ordering and cleaning itself immediately. "What was HIS problem?"

"Prolly just upset that he didn't get an Order of Merlin as well," chuckled Ron, smoothing some remaining bits of frosting off his lips and into his mouth. "You missed a spot, Hannah."