Learning to Live

Chapter Seven: Doubting Christmas

"Don't do this, Harry," coaxed Draco gently as he and Ron tried to restrain one of their captains.

"Yeah, it'll only give him more incentive," added the red-haired Weasley, grappling with one of Harry's arms, which was waving around wildly. "He's not worth your time."

"Yeah he is! I don't need any more of his shit! He's nothing but bureaucratic trouble ever since he headed the Dark Arts Defence League, and now he's gonna lock us in Azkaban forever just so he can keep his job? I'm not lettin' that happen! Let me go, guys. He's going to hear from me on this regardless of how TIGHT-ARSED he is! Do you hear me, Darko?" Harry was shouting up the stairs. Draco winced, certain that Darko could hear whatever Harry yelled anyway. There went his pay raise, even though he doubted Harry really needed one.

"Harry, don't do this," Draco said again, but this time his voice was small and uncertain. It had been a while since he had heard Harry yelling at the top of his lungs, and the last time had been when he'd found out about Draco's near-suicide mission into the Riddle House to knock down the defences. And Draco didn't want to think about that. Not now.

"Is there a problem you have with my policy?" asked Alai Darko coldly as he stood at the top of the steps to his office, looking down at the three Aurors. Everything about him was neat and orderly, shoes spit shined, robes magically kept neat and pressed, his dark curly hair parted in the middle, falling down in soft wisps around his face. "I thought I told you three boys to get back to work?"

"Don't you dare order me around! Besides, in a few days Draco and I won't be working for the likes of YOU any longer," growled Harry, stopping his struggling with his friends. "Is it true what they say then, that you're willing to put any of us on trial? Me and Draco, Ron, Hermione, any of us?"

"Just because the war is over doesn't mean you can pardon everybody and have a grand parade. Although, as I understand it, Minister Weasley is planning one after all, for you and Draco? I cannot see why you two alone should deserve the distinction of Order of Merlin, when the likes of Mr Ronald Weasley and the others have done just as much?" added Darko, eyes flicking over to Ron in what he thought was a conspiratorial way. "Don't you deserve the same, Weasley?"

"They all do; however, Percy would be suspected of nepotism. I do hope that your mind is not overtaxed by that concept, Darko," snarled Draco, letting Harry go. The way Darko spoke made Draco's fists clench. "And surely you couldn't possibly assume that snide comments can ruin the solidarity of your Aurors?"

Beginning to wonder if he would have to hold Draco back as well, Ron let Harry go, since he didn't seem so murderous as before. Instead, the brittle ice between Darko and Malfoy seemed to chill all of them. The previous scuffle Draco had with Alai was still fresh in their minds, the red sore around Darko's neck testimony to his near-death experience.

"Are you questioning my work, Malfoy? My my, what a dangerous thing to do, especially for your situation. How many people do you think really believe that Daily Prophet report, hmm? A hundred, if you're lucky? They'll think of your father, Malfoy. Voldemort's right hand man. All sorts of Dark Arts in your family, long-standing Knights of Walpurgis, tsk tsk, what a legacy," Darko spat, eyes glowing like black scarabs. Hagrid had beetle-black eyes, but they had never shone with a malice like these. His tone oily and condescending as he spoke slowly and clearly, Darko began to descend the steps to join them on the landing, shining boots making terse rapping noises on the stone. He advanced on Draco, and smiled when Draco stepped back uncertainly. They matched step for step until Draco was against the cold stone wall before Darko spoke again.

"Oh yes. They'll think about your family...and your father, how easy it was for him to befuddle Fudge with a few...shall we say, charitable contributions. You'll be just a chip off the old block, pretending to be great, deceiving everyone until one day..." He rudely snapped his fingers in front of Draco's face, who failed to flinch. "They find out you went the same way as your parents. The day of the trial, they'll find out all those nasty little things you've done, Malfoy, because a spy is still a Death Eater, and a Death Eater must follow the great Dark Lord's orders, musn't he?" He made a motion of mock prayer. Ron didn't think he could possibly stand it any longer before he entirely thrashed Darko. "And when the questions start for the Chief Interrogator, under his own Veritaserum, they'll find out all the things you did. How you didn't even have the heart to save your own mother..."

"How DARE you?!" It was Harry who spoke, surprisingly, and not Draco, who had, truth be told, acquired a glazed look about him. Darko whipped his head around to glare directly into Harry's blazing green eyes. "You KNOW the truth about Narcissa. You've got no bloody right to use that against him!"

"I can talk about what I want; I'm your Chief, Captain Potter, I have seniority over you, I have superiority, I will talk about his matricide if I want to, and you will not speak unless you're told!" replied his superior officer.

"I'm twenty-two-years old, man, not a child!" Harry was fuming. Few people had spoken to him in that degrading tone: his uncle Vernon Dursley, his Potions master Severus Snape and the former Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge. He had hated them all, at one point in his life. "You--" He stopped short. Draco was pulling on the crook of his elbow, urging him back towards the door and out of the stairwell.

"It is hardly worth your time to waste breath on him," he murmured, his grey eyes downcast and dulled. "Let's go; we need to get to Diagon Alley."

Harry threw a backwards glance at Darko, and replied loud enough for them all to hear, "Yeah, you're right. Who would want spar with an useless, arrogant, good-for-nothing fop anyway? Diagon Alley then. You coming, Ron?"

The equally senior Auror shook his head as he closed the door to the stairwell leading up to Darko's office. They could still see the fuming Chief behind them, fists clenched and eyes like daggers. "No, I've got loads o'paperwork waiting for me. There's still no sign of Draco's father and everybody's gone frantic. There're two new homicides in Greenwich peninsula, with the Dark Mark raised, but nobody knows who they could be. All our current databases are exhausted."

"Do you want us to--" Draco started to volunteer, but Ron held up his hand immediately.

"No, Draco. You've already gotta find yer father. There's nothing more I want you two doing. Our Yule party's in three days, and you've got lesson plans due in less than a week. So take a break 'fore you get started on Lucius' case. And get some food in him, Harry," said Ron in a more Molly Weasley fashion than he would have liked.

"But--"

"Go! Diagon Alley! Get me some Chocolate Frogs and for heaven's sake don't wear your hood, Draco. You're not a convict now, remember?" asked Ron, chuckling as he left the two for his desk. Harry and Draco looked at each other uncertainly, but surprisingly, it was Draco who glanced away first. It was the first time Harry had ever seen him shuffle his feet.

"Draco, about what Darko said..." Harry began, as they walked down the main marble corridor leading out of Auror Headquarters.

"Don't fret about it," murmured Draco, keeping his eyes on the floor as they walked. Harry had never seen him like this, so...defeated. He thought it must be just a trick of the light, because as soon as they approached the main doors, Draco was keeping perfect posture again, head lifted, eyes steadily looking forward. "I suppose now is as good of a time as any to walk about in public. No doubt even schoolchildren will have heard about it. I wonder how many believe it."

"Don't be stupid--"

"How long is the term in Azkaban for matricide, I wonder?" He put his hand on the door and opened it, letting natural light seep in and hit his pale face, grown even whiter because of his need to hide his identity in the shadows.

"Draco, don't listen to a thing--" but it was too late. The entire world vanished in a flash of light.

"THERE THEY ARE!" Bewildered, Harry put his hand up uselessly, trying to guard against the flashbulbs. In a lucky break, he caught a glimpse of what was waiting on the giant steps of the Ministry building. Swarms of reporters had gathered for an exclusive, a photograph and perhaps a word or two.

"Excuse me, Auror Potter, can you tell us--"

"Auror, perdoname, pero ¿sabe Usted que los dos de vosotros sean--"

"Konnichiwa, Auror Malfoy..."

Literally hundreds, from all countries, all corners, all stations and papers, were thronged around Harry and Draco, wanting any tidbit of information or image from the two Aurors soon to be given Orders of Merlin.

"Now, Auror Malfoy, how was it that--"

"Ching wen yao shi ni ke yi gao su..."

"Excuse-moi, Auror, je t'adore, mais oui, nous n'oubliez pas--"

"Quibbler here, Auror Malfoy, do you really think the stability of the world depends on the Japanese folding crane population--"

Harry blinked, turning this way and that, but they were positively surrounded.

"Borscht! Haggis gerplunknik laddie? Tu queen a large peanut!"

"Glumbumble in mah boots! Course I've got an umbrella fer it!"

Ah, even the idiot newspapers were here, the ones who went around screaming random words. The wizarding world had a few of those. He heard a tense whisper in his ear as more cameras flashed and questions were asked, "Apparate to Flourish and Blotts, Potter." Seconds later he was staggering into the dim light of the bookstore, grateful for the comparative darkness in light of what he'd been exposed to earlier.

"Well, at least nobody tried to hex me," said Draco's smooth, slightly bemused voice beside him. Harry turned to find him hiding behind a tome of Advanced Potions, lifting it to his face whenever someone passed them. "But now I know how you've felt all these years. Had it been for a different reason, I might have nearly enjoyed that sort of publicity. I certainly would not have looked like a Gryffindork, goggling at the pretty lights and trying to think of something brave to say."

"Too bad you can't ever change some people," chuckled Harry, picking up a less complicated Potions textbook. "Is this your way of saying I should start thinking about my lesson plans?"

"Not really. In all likelihood Snape won't let you do a thing; he thinks you're too thick with Potions," replied Draco smugly, and Harry could tell he was smiling behind his book. "This is just Hermione's sort of light reading."

"No, I think she'd pick a heavier book, Draco," Harry replied, gesturing to the even thicker Potions stack beside them. Malfoy glanced down, and faked a long-suffering sigh, looking heavenward for some hope of salvation, although that was truly what he had been doing the past week in his little constricting dungeon well. It was as if all of his current words and actions were being forced out of him, just for him to keep going.

"I'll never win, will I?" he sighed dramatically, a hand on his forehead as if to faint. "Oh Slytherin, give me the strength to choose more unmanageable texts to read!" He tossed the book he was holding in the general direction of the stack, where it magically sorted itself and tidied. "Since you will most likely be permitted to do no real work whatsoever, as usual, why don't you help me pick out some Defence Against the Dark Arts textbooks for my students? And after that, we can get some gifts."

"Okay, umm, how about this one?"

Harry helped him pick a few more conventional books for the first to third years, the usual sort of information they themselves had learned. When they reached the textbooks for the more advanced years, however, even Harry had to admit that Draco could think of more diverse things to teach the students. Their own upper years had been filled with lessons about attacks Voldemort might use, possible Death Eater strategems, training programmes regarding particular spells, and of course, the Killing Curse, as soon as they entered the Pre-Auror Programme. Draco, on their side by seventh year, surprised everyone--except Ron--when he confessed that he'd long been taught the Killing Curse. Looking at the half-starved man now, after all they'd been through together and risked for each other, Harry couldn't imagine how Draco could have brought himself to insult and torment him for all those years at Hogwarts.

Sure, Draco could be a vengeful, malicious, arrogant, lazy, cowardly, spoiled brat, as well as insufferably annoying at times--like now, when he was dragging Harry into Madame Malkin's to get some dress robes for Ron and Hermione's party, as well as a pair for Hermione--but there was definitely a side to the Slytherin the blond never let anyone see. Harry and Hermione had glimpsed it occasionally, an heir, a disappointed son too eager to please his father, a little more sensitive than he ever would have liked to reveal. Someone who truly cared for the welfare of those he thought deserved to live and stay in his presence, which was nearly anybody who didn't act false, foolish, or insulting. Draco Malfoy never suffered fools, once he identified them.

"No, that sort of green would look hideous on her," muttered Draco as one of the witches in the shop showed him. "Harry, what do you think, this green, or this green?"

"They all look the same to me," shrugged Harry, wondering if Draco had taken fashion taste lessons as well. The Malfoy had once dropped hints that he'd had etiquette, horsebackriding, flying, music, art, and dancing lessons when he was a small child, among other things. A traditional wizard to whom courtesy books aspired, until he found out about real life.

"Merlin, Harry, you are truly hopeless, aren't you? If we didn't have an Auror uniform I could almost swear you would report to work mismatched every day," Draco criticised, finally choosing the slightly darker green robes on the left. "I have seen your wardrobe, and you are getting dress robes TODAY. I refuse to allow an Auror captain to go to a party wearing his work robes."

"Look, this isn't necessary, Draco," spluttered Harry as he was dragged backwards by a witch and shoved into the same room he'd been in that first day he stepped into the wizarding world and met a pale, pointy-faced boy who called Hagrid a savage. That boy was gazing at him critically now, no longer a boy, no longer so pointy-faced but instead ovular, body more slender, but still pale as ever. But what changes had occurred within! "I have a set of dress robes at home, they'll be--" The tape measure was starting to gauge his lengths, and had just now covered his mouth.

"Oh shut up. You did the same thing when we went shopping in Muggle London. If it makes you feel any better, I'm getting new robes too, though I already have more than enough at the Manor," replied Draco dismissively as another tape roll measured him as well. "Besides, it'll be embarassing to go in old robes. This is going to be one of the first leisurely gathering we've had since the war began in earnest. The first truly leisurely gathering."

"Right, you're done then," said Madam Melinda Meebleboroughs (Madam Malkin, her sister, died in the war after refusing to serve a Death Eater; it was the case for many shopkeepers) tersely, conjuring up a set of robes so scarlet they were almost black, and handed them to Harry. Aptly enough, they held gold trimmings. Draco was given sapphire blue robes of silver lining with a high collar that again, or so Harry thought, made him look like a vicar, even with the blue.

"Just charge the three to my account," Malfoy instructed as she wrapped Hermione's as a present.

"Three? How much do I owe you, Dr--"

"Think of it as part of your Christmas gift, all right Harry?" The tone was commanding, and Harry didn't feel like arguing with him. He was thinking more on the cold weather awaiting them outside. December didn't see that much snow in London, in fact, but it was still blustery enough for a need of protection. "Or at least repayment for those Muggle clothes you bought for me."

"Okay," was Harry's reluctant reply, grabbing their shopping parcels as they exited the shop. "Where to next?"

"I actually want to go over to the Magical Menagerie. I can't wait to see the look on Sirius' face when part of his present is dog food," Draco rubbed his hands together wickedly. Harry felt a coldness descend into his stomach, lying there like a lump of cold, festering Brie. Malfoy didn't seem to notice, walking through the crowds--many people were making way for him, pointing and whispering, but he seemed to have the amazing ability to ignore all of that attention--and heading directly for his intended shop in Seeker-like fashion.

"Is that really Draco Malfoy, daddy?" a small voice asked somewhere in the crowd. One child was screaming with fear ("DEATH EATER, DEATH EATER! MUMMY, HELP, IT'S DRACO MALFOY! MUMMY!") until his mother had to cast a Silencing spell on him as she dragged him away from the Aurors. His screams sent a silent chill over the group. If Harry wondered how Draco could be immune to their reactions, he certainly wasn't aware of it. His thoughts were on Draco's most recent words. A present for Sirius. Draco had been in torture and confinement--he didn't know!

"Did they catch Pettigrew yet?" he asked as they stepped into the Menagerie. "So they can free your godfather? Harry? Harry? Look, I'm certain those rats aren't THAT interesting, unless you think one of them's an Animagus, and they did search all the animal stores on the island." Draco bent down to see Harry's downcast, pensive gaze, transfixed upon a dancing rat. "You haven't seen a rat named Peter Pettigrew, have you? Goes by the name of Wormtail," he told a rat. "No? I'll give you a chunk of cheese. All right, you strike a hard bargain. Two chunks of cheese. Still no?" He stood up, shrugging. "Can't even manage make a deal with a rat, apparently. Are you all right?"

"Umm...yeah, I'm fine. They didn't catch Wormtail yet," Harry told him tersely, avoiding his piercing gaze. They didn't catch Wormtail per se...he wasn't lying in that respect. "What sort of dog treats are you going to give P-p-padfoot?"

"Don't pull a Quirrell on me now, Potter," replied Draco absentmindedly, reaching into his moneybag for a few Sickles. "I have absolutely no intention of entertaining the newest addition to the list of Harry Potter's mental problems today." He turned to the very startled shopkeeper. "Yes, I would like to purchase two bags of dog biscuits please. It isn't an important matter; any brand is fine. Excellent. Thank you, sir." The shopkeeper seemed too frightened to reply, and wasn't letting go of the purchase. "Sir?" Auror training had taught Draco to be polite even to these menials.

"I was wondering...er, if I cou-could have y-your aut-to-togra-a-ph?" The wizard finally stammered, other hand shaking also as it took up a quill and an order notepad. Where was Colin Creevey when you needed him? The look on Draco's face was priceless.

"My autograph?" The Auror repeated slowly, still not quite believing it. "You want my autograph?"

"If it's too much trouble, sir, I'll just--"

"No, no, here, let me..." In an awkward arrangement, Draco let go of the bag the shopkeeper was holding, managed to sign the blank sheet the wizard was grasping with his other hand, then shook the man's hand as he took the package from him. "There. Good day. What are you looking at, Harry?"

"I...ah...it's one of the few times the word 'autograph' has been mentioned when it wasn't about me," replied his partner with a feeble smile. Draco had bought a present for Sirius...should he even tell him?

"Oh, fantastic, look, an invasion," muttered Draco under his breath as they exited the shop. Diagon Alley was filled with even more wizards and witches who'd turned out to see not just the great and wonderful Harry Potter, but the newly vindicated Draco Malfoy as well, walking side by side. They had been made out by the newspapers to be enemies ever since childhood, beginning with their rivalry in school, then the different paths they took, and even last week, plots to kill each other. All idea of that was now erased, at least in most people's minds. Some wondered if Malfoy had used the Imperius on anyone, or some other wicked spell to lull the world into a false sense of security. Yet Voldemort was defeated, was he not, despite the assorted remaining Death Eaters who were still determined to terrorise Britain?

The two walked out as smoothly and quietly as possible, heading for Quality Quidditch Supplies just across, but the crowd was very reluctant to budge. Beyond the crush of people, they could detect the effects of the war. Draco had not been in Diagon Alley for a long while; even with a disguise it was too risky to be walking around hooded and shielded in a time of such suspicion. The changes he saw now, as some of the throngs of shoppers yielded, made him take a breath. He'd heard the reports, of course, of the urban warfare going on in London, but it hadn't prepared him for the way the place seemed to exude shadows now. An empty void stood in place of the Cauldron shop, blood was still splattered on a few street signs, unwilling to be magicked or washed off. In the distance, the once-white building of Gringotts was battle-scarred, pock-marked with missed spells, and in some red places, accurate hexes. A huge gaping hollow took the place of a side of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Shoppe, the brick looking as if it had caved into a bowl shape. Luckily, there were still customers, and inside, some of them used the part of the wall as a temporary place to put their things. Adaptation. That was all any of them could have done with what they were given. But where these civilians had molded their normal lives around the impact of the war, the Aurors had had their lives consumed by it, until there had been nothing left. And then they would have to learn, like newborns, that the proffered glass at a tavern would hold no poisons, that walking around corners could be done without Dark Arts Detectors, and that they could live without any life-threatening troubles.

His eye was drawn away from it back to his direct left, where he could see the even gloomier prospects of Knockturn Alley. He didn't want to know how much had been destroyed there, out of fear and ignorance. There were many Dark Arts shops, yes, and much more sinister things afoot in Knockturn Alley, but there were also useful artifacts and defence items not to be found in Diagon Alley, things that might have been useful in extreme locations.

His attention was drawn to the people themselves now, as he and Harry tried to weave their way through. Wizards and witches were whispering, others laughed, and still others were ducking into shops, not coming out until the two had passed. It was a veritable traffic blockup, and Harry was having trouble seeing where to put his feet. He was so intent on his attempt at walking that he saw before he heard. A foot was poked out into the crowd before Draco's feet, the hiss of "filthy Death Eater" tainting his ears. He grabbed Draco's cloak before he could stumble and lose the dignity that was so important to him, then looked into the crowd for the guilty one in question. All the faces looked back in return, in surprise, in whispering, in gossiping. No angry face, really. No vicious look. Draco, apparently unfazed, muttered a thanks out of the corner of his mouth, and they continued through the slowly moving crowd, aware that eyes revolved around their two figures, parting only when it seemed they were determined to pass through.

They bought presents for Ron and Seamus (Committee of Experimental Charms), as well as a girl named Lucrezia (Seamus' girlfriend, same Committee). The shopkeeper in Quality Quidditch Supplies barely deigned to give Draco a glance, only doing so when he paid. The young Malfoy didn't seem very perturbed by this at all, and as they headed towards the Apothecary to get more supplies for a Strengthening and Hangover-Be-Gone Potion (Malfoy hadn't exactly been pleased about waking up wedged between Harry and Lily with a pounding headache to boot, and had ruined one of Harry's pillows with sick), he almost seemed insufferably pleased with himself, making his way through the parting crowd of wizarding folk who were all pretending not to watch. Was it that Malfoy had prepared himself for the reaction, or was he so glad to be out in public again that he was willing to ignore everything just to gain an ounce of enjoyment from the ordeal?

A little boy with straw-coloured hair didn't budge as Draco and Harry came upon him, and despite his mother's entreaties to return to her side--her arms were full of packages, and couldn't even reach for her wand to spell them afloat--he folded his arms and looked up straight into Draco's face, a face that had not see pure sunlight in some time, a face that had not gone out into public attention for even longer. It was not certain which one quivered first, Draco, who had not been looked in the eye by any stranger since Hogwarts, or the boy, who was trying to face down a famed Auror and former-Death Eater.

"Yes?" asked Draco in what he thought was his most agreeable tone.

"Do you still have it?" the boy asked, remaining stock still and remarkably brave. Harry came up behind Draco to see what was the matter, and raised a questioning eyebrow. "The Mark. All the Death Eaters have it on their left forearm." The nearer ones in the crowd entered a hushed sort of whisper, wondering what Draco was going to do. Was there going to be any wiping up afterwards? Was there going to be anything left to wipe up?

The blond Auror knelt on one knee until he was face-to-face with the boy, setting down his purchases as he did so. He drew aside his cloak and rolled up the sleeve of his left arm. A white bandage stood out on the alabaster skin, a bit of red seeping through still. Harry could almost predict what he was going to do..."Draco, are you sure you want to--" He was silenced as, with a wince, Malfoy began to peel back the bandage.

"Pay attention now. It is a magical mark, and it bled and cut when the Dark Lord was caught and disabled," he was saying, as bit by bit, he broke through the medical Spellotape. "I haven't any idea as to how long it will continue, but it cannot be healed by magic or Muggle means. I assume it will fade with the last of his power. The scar will probably remain with me for the rest of my life." He finally loosened three sides of the bandage, and with a slight wince he flipped the white patch aside to reveal the angry red of the Dark Mark. The boy--and the crowd--drew back at once, but then came forward a little more to inspect the arm Draco was holding out. Down on one knee to show the boy, Draco seemed to Harry as if he were begging the community for permission to re-enter their society. Although it no longer bled quite so profusely as it did at first, the scar still shimmered with blood, and instead of black it was a sore sort of red against Draco's pale skin.

"Can I...?" the boy began tentatively, hand reached out already. Draco nodded, and gave a little gasp of pain as the boy's trembling fingers traced over the scar, the shimmering blood staining his skin. With every trace of the lines, little shocks of pain were coursing through Draco's veins like fire, and he gently steered those probing fingers away, covering the fury of Voldemort with the simple white bandage. He let the sleeve of his robes fall over, and proffered his hand.

"What is your name?" he asked the boy when the child accepted.

As they shook hands, he mumbled, "Milton Chadwick, Hogwarts first year," and Draco smiled, and stood up, picking up his own packages.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr Chadwick. I do believe your mother needs help with her parcels. I shall be seeing you later," he added, although in retrospect, the little remark might have been misconstrued as a threat. No matter. They would have to learn from their own follies, and eventually realise that he wasn't out to kill them. "Oh, and you might want to clean the blood off."

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The little cottage near Walpole was practically bursting with people by the time Harry and Draco Apparated to the village just outside of town. The two Aurors stood in the snow, wrapped packages floating around them--Harry's cat Lily nestling in a expandable pocket in his robes--and stared. It was beautiful. It was beyond belief. Little twinkling faerie lights decorated the hedges, reflecting off the perfect, pristine blanket of white around the gingerbread house. A wreath was on the door, singing a Yule song quietly to itself. Garlands were strung around something inside, a roaring fire was evident in the parlour, and even the upstairs windows were lighted with faerie lights. What was even more wonderful was the laughter inside. There had been silly laughter at Draco's little celebration, and bitter, slightly crazed laughing when the war was won, but here was joy, pure and simple. Joy at sharing the world with each other, joy of people being reunited, of having fun. Of being human again. Less than twenty people were at the gathering, and yet it felt as if the entire world rejoiced this Christmas Eve.

So with parcels in their arms, the two young men made their way up the walk--it had been decorated with no-melt no-stain peppermint icing that gave off the air of fresh indulgence long missed--and knocked on the door. Passwords had formerly been needed. Tests had formerly been performed. Now, it opened without a hitch, Hermione's broad smile warming them both.

"Happy Christmas!" She hugged them both, much to Draco's embarassment and awkwardness, and kissed their cheeks. "Harry, Draco, come in! Here, let me take your cloaks. Oh my, you do look very dashing tonight! You can put the presents under the tree. Guys, look who's here!" Gathered in the parlour was quite an assortment of individuals. The Minister of Magic, Percy Weasley, and his fiancee, Penelope Clearwater (economist). Seamus Finnegan and his girlfriend Lucrezia Nott (both Experimental Charms), Ginny Weasley, Neville Longbottom (Herbologist), Serena Norad (Reconnaissance), Orson Ender (Strategy), Neal Archimedes (Equipment Invention and Maintenance), Hannah Abbot (Clean-Up) and even Remus Lupin, temporarily in a wheelchair, to whom Harry smiled and nodded. "Not everybody's arrived yet, and some are going to come much later, so make yourselves at home. There's eggnogg and there's a turkey in the oven that's just roasting right now, the Muggle way. Come on, come on, drinks are in the kitchen, get sloshed, do anything, just don't mess up the carpet!"

The laugh that came from his lips surprised even Draco himself, as he put down the presents, nodding to a few people he knew. So many people here...he'd bought gifts for them all, unusual gifts, personal gifts, ones that didn't bother about cost or prestige, but rather little jokes and fun sort of things one would truly find appropriate. They were certainly different from the ones he'd always received as a child. Those were the best of the best, but they were also impersonal, selected only for their monetary worth. Here was a group of friends he'd found for whom none of that was paramount in their personal relationships.

With eagerness he and Harry went for the drinks in the kitchen, only to be pinned in place. "What the..." They looked at each other in surprise, wondering what sort of trick had attacked the Weasley-Granger home and what they could possibly do. So soon after the war, and there was to be another tragedy? Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, their suspicions were dispelled by a squeal from Hermione and an entreaty to retrieve the camera for a photograph. Realisation dawned in both men's eyes, and they looked up at the magical mistletoe that would not let two pass until they had kissed.

"Come on then, pucker up!" Hermione said giddily, doing a painfully good impression of Colin Creevey. "Can you turn around then, a little bit, to get a better view?" With a groan, Harry and Draco looked to one another. The entire room was watching, and laughter bubbled out of even Percy when the two Aurors touched cheeks to make it appear that they were kissing, after which the mistletoe shrieked, "DIRTY ROTTEN CHEATERS! DIRTY ROTTEN CHEATERS!" and Hermione took multiple photographs.

"It's not going to let you go until you kiss on the lips, you know," she snickered, holding the camera in an even better position for the next lip-smacker. Harry and Draco went through with the deed as quickly as possible, though Hermione still managed to take multiple photographs. "Be careful the next time you tease me! I might just sell these for blackmail!" she declared triumphantly before Harry tackled her to the ground and tickled the living daylights out of her manually. "Hey, hey, be careful! You shouldn't do that to a pregnant woman!"

The room filled with silence.

Harry looked at her in mute shock.

"Er...Hermione, I think that might have been just a bit too early," said Ron uneasily, but his embarassment was flooded over by good tidings, claps on the back, congratulations, and one particularly exuberant Ginny Weasley helping her off the floor and hugging her.

"Wow, congratulations, Ron! Excellent timing. When'd you find out?" asked Harry, standing off to the side with him as Hermione was surrounded by the ladies in the room--and Seamus--talking about babies and colours and all sorts of maternity things.

"'bout this morning. I guess she's really sensitive or something; she has morning sickness already for some reason, and it can't have been more than three days since we er..." Ron struggled for the right word.

"Since conception," Draco finished for him, handing Harry his drink. He'd cleverly escaped the mistletoe by exiting the kitchen through the other entrance. "Congratulations, Hermione," he added as she came over to talk to her best friends. The rest of the guests were already rowdily caroling to each other, or had dispersed into large, pre-dinner conversations. "Adding to the Weasley ranks, are we now?" He wished the Grangers hadn't died, Muggles though they were. They would have been overjoyed...

"Granger-Weasley," she corrected, when Ron left to welcome the final new guests, the very glum Professor Snape and an amused Mr and Mrs Weasley. "Well, looks like we can start dinner; everyone's here."

"Wait a minute, where's Sirius?" asked Draco. A frantic look from Hermione to Harry told him something was wrong. "Hermione? Harry? What's wrong? Nothing happened to Sirius, did it?"

"You didn't tell him?" Hermione asked Harry softly, hurt in her voice, compassion in her eyes.

"I...I couldn't...I mean, how could I?" Harry tried, and Draco was not one to be patient about being left in the dark.

"What happened to Sirius? Why isn't he here?" Draco asked, his voice bordering on threatening.

"Draco, I'm so sorry...I wanted to tell you but you were so...oh Draco, Draco, Sirius is dead," Hermione breathed, tears coming to her eyes. "Please understand, I know you were close but--"

"When?" It was almost a whisper, but it was the same commanding tone his own father would use. That same controlled anger, that applied aggression, except from Draco's now-shaky voice it merely sounded a bit crazed.

"When you were gone. We had the funeral...four days into your disappearance, in the middle of the Little Hangleton battle," said Hermione softly. "Draco, please, try to understand, Harry couldn't...we were all hurt..." Draco was shaking his head, staring down at his drink. Harry hadn't told him when Draco was rescued. He still hadn't been informed when he bought those presents for Sirius, not even when he asked Harry for advice on what Sirius might like. He had pretended Sirius was still alive, and well, and about to see Draco that night and mess up his hair.

"I believe..." he began slowly, still staring down at his eggnog. "That I will go sit outside for a while." He left without a word, despite Hermione's desperate entreaties. He didn't even nod to his godfather as he passed, and instead set his glass on an end table before whisking his way out into the cold starry night.

He plopped down onto a snow-covered bench on the walk, a ways from the house, and guzzled fiercely from his flask of Strengthening Potion, as necessary for him to be able to last this long at all without a good lie-down. Retching emptily at the nasty taste, he then set his shivering hands to his temples. Sirius Black was dead. Draco had never given anybody his reasons for fighting against Voldemort. The others had simply seen him walk into Dumbledore's office one day and walk out as an ally. It had been that simple; a word from Dumbledore had been enough to accept him into their circles.

He'd never told anyone. He'd heard from a distant cousin, many times removed, about a little something called standing up for your beliefs instead of following the same track your father had laid out for you, even if it meant being disowned by all you knew and loved. Something called personal honour and self-respect. He'd heard the reasons why he, a powerful wizard in his own right, would be able to choose what he wanted to do, what he judged as right, so long as he did not kiss the hems of Voldemort's robes in true brainwashed honesty. Let him kiss those dirty hems, but let him be cognizant of what he worshipped and what thankless, heartless things he did every night. He had never told anyone how willingly he had sacrificed himself to spy as a Death Eater, because this distant distant relative had made similar sacrifices, was willing to still do it, willing to still fight against not someone who Dumbledore deemed as evil, but against someone who not only abused his magical powers, but wasted them thoughtlessly against wizard and Muggle alike, blind to the paths to his true goal, deaf to all advice from the able supporters he treated like vermin.

It wasn't that he didn't love his father, didn't respect his father, didn't admire his father. It was just that he would choose a different road, and if that road led to their being on opposite sides, so be it. He had never told anybody what this distant distant cousin had said, and above all, he had never told a single soul, that this relative, far-flung in the genealogical trees, was none other than Sirius Black.

It had been easy to believe, once he researched his own books, that Sirius Black and he shared bloodlines, like all pure-blood families. It gave Black a little opening into Draco's thoughts, Draco's attentions. He was far more willing to listen to someone of some Malfoy blood rather than someone of no account at all, and that was all it had taken. Dumbledore had seen the power, the potential in Draco. He had recognised the danger of letting another talented Hogwarts student slip into Voldemort's hands. With a little desperate research, Dumbledore had summoned Sirius to convince the boy. Surprisingly, it had worked. And then came the true war, the true training, and under the bemused eyes of those who already knew them, Sirius and Draco began to develop a friendship, although the others would never know, even now, how deep that bond had meant.

If he only thought back to a few days ago, that entire week--perhaps more--of torture, of Cruciatus, of finally being left alone in the darkness until he was willing to plead, to beg, for life in exchange for information...he could think of why he languished for so long, and for what reason his brain had nearly rotted out. He had been--

Jolted out of his thoughts by a warm body beside him, Draco turned to look at an equally saddened Harry Potter. This man had lost a godfather who was practically his entire family. Draco had lost a single, distantly related cousin in a long and vast lineage, and yet the ache inside was the same.

"I couldn't tell you. I was just starting to get over it myself," Harry said with great difficulty, staring at the shadowed snow before their feet, little ripples of disturbance permanently transfixed on the ice from their footprints.

"I understand. It's odd to think how it was all for nothing," replied Draco quietly, wrapping his cloak a little more warmly around himself. Thinking about his torture, even superficially as a mere concept, made him cold.

"What do you mean?" asked Harry curiously.

"I suppose the only reason the Dark Lord didn't kill me at once was for the hope I would have information on Sirius' whereabouts. He ah had Avery...torture me for a bit..." Draco trailed off, suddenly remembering how he had decided from the start not to scream, how he had tried so hard not to cry from the pain, not to go mad. Or at least, assuming he remembered--he didn't want to think on it now. "And then he stopped, and I wondered if he was just getting bored. I had hoped it wasn't because he'd gotten the information from someone else, but he threw me in that death trap you got me out of, and I knew maybe he couldn't bother with me anymore. And I was right. They must have found him." Draco took a deep, shuddering breath. "How did it happen?"

"Pettigrew," spat Harry with a vehemence Draco had only seen in the worst days of battle. His words were quick, his tone was clipped, and he wanted to get over with this story. "On a tip, Sirius found him in a Death Eater camp. He sent up the signal before they dueled. We got there too late...they'd transformed into Padfoot and Wormtail. The Death Eaters cast the Killing Curse on Sirius with his jaws crushed around Wormtail. They went together."

"Aha," choked Draco, feeling faint. "I see." It had all been for nothing. All his suffering, those hellish nights when there was nothing but Cruciatus every single second through his body. He had suffered so. And Sirius had still died. What was sacrifice then? Would Sirius have called it thankless? Draco doubted himself, doubted his own fortitude. But he had done right, hadn't he? He had refused to tell, hadn't he? He had sacrificed for the greater good, hadn't he? And Sirius had still died...

A shiver passed through Harry--he had neglected to put on his cloak--and he nudged Draco. "D'yeh want to stay out here for a while and talk? It's a bit cold but I could cast a Warming Charm." Draco shook his head, getting up with the merest ghost of a sigh. "Right then. Had your Strengthening Potion yet?" Draco nodded, dimly looking at the snow. "Okay. Let's go back inside, Draco. Ron said to put some food in you, so let's make sure you're better stuffed than that delicious turkey on the table," Harry said, trying to sound enthusiastic. Strange. They had not had such a feast of home-cooked meals for ages, and yet food seemed to be the least appetising thing on their minds.