Learning to Live

Chapter Eight: Dangerous Parade

"All right there, Draco?" asked Ron as he and Harry took their seats at the table. The rest of the Weasleys had somehow materialised out of the Christmas crowd, and Draco found his own eyes hurting from the flaming red hair and sea of freckly red faces. He was silent as he nodded his assent, but his mind filled with what he'd endured. His grey, toneless eyes flicked to the calendar on the wall--Chudley Cannons players--and counted the days. Two weeks, three days. Sirius had still died.

He tried to act as if all was fine, but how could he when Harry was constantly looking at him, waiting for him to shatter? Mechanically he passed the food on as he was asked, smiled at jokes, and even ate a bit of Hermione's delicious cooking without tasting any of it. Regardless of how succulent it seemed, how wonderful and juicy everything was, filling the air with their pungent aroma, he registered none of the pleasure.

The lump grew in his throat as they moved beyond pudding to presents at midnight. Had he remembered to swallow properly? He watched as the others opened their presents, and he picked meticulously at his own, larger-than-expected pile. The Spellotape was reluctant in his fingernails as he pried at it while others laughed and hugged around him. Ginny kissed him on the cheek in thanks for the new Sneakoscope to replace the one shattered when someone had tried to raid her flat. He closed his eyes, and was afraid he'd choke to death because he hadn't swallowed properly. Perhaps his Adam's apple had swelled for some reason.

He looked down, trying to peel back the tape, but his fingers wouldn't work and he was sure he hadn't chewed that last bit of turkey well enough. Something large and ugly was growing in the back of his mind, and fearfully he tried to close his consciousness to it, to focus on the stupid shiny box before him. Things were getting quiet as a few people went home early, and Sirius' neglected present lay by the tree. It loomed in his vision, huge and grotesque, never to be opened. Draco kept to his little spot on the sofa, and wondered why he hadn't even managed to open his first present. How could he? Sirius' gift was still there. He was dead . He wouldn't be getting anything ever again. No wand. No biscuits. Draco hadn't gotten a chance, a simple chance, to say goodbye, to say a thank you for saving him from certain doom. For forcing him to think for himself. He had gone through everything Sirius valued, only to be met with this ironic defeat. It ran around viciously in his head, taunting him... "Sirius...Sirius...Sirius..."

A hand fell on his shoulder, and he almost choked before he dropped his present. A look upwards told him there was nothing to fear. It was only Potter, after all. So why was he going so blurry? Why were Draco's eyes burning when no Weasleys were in his vision?

"Er, Draco? D'you wanna go home?" asked Harry softly, expression full of concern. It seemed to him that Draco was going to break down and cry, and although he knew his godfather and his partner were close, he didn't think it would affect the Auror as much as it did now.

"It's Christmas Day, Potter. Hermione's going to have a child. Let's stay," his own voice was surprisingly shaky, and Harry only squeezed harder. "Damnit, are you trying to break my shoulder? Let go. Thank you."

"Okay, look, normally I wouldn't care how standoffish you can be, but if you want a midnight celebration I say you wait 'til New Year's Eve. Ron and Hermione've had a long day. Let 'em go to bed," his former rival chided, but he let go of Draco. The man still was not moving, so he sighed, and hauled Draco physically to his feet.

"Hey, what's this one?" Charlie Weasley picked up the package, and his face paled just slightly when he read whom it was for."Er...umm..." Who in their right mind could have purchased a present for Sirius, could have made the pain still deeper, still stronger? Quickly, Malfoy shrank all the presents on his little sofa area and slid them into his pocket.

"You are absolutely right, Potter. Let's be off. Hermione, Ron, lovely party, enjoyed it terribly well. Good night, Happy Yule, Christmas, whatever, goodbye everybody," muttered Draco as he hurriedly hugged Hermione and shook hands with Ron before making his quick way out the door. The wintry blast of air blew into the parlour as Draco stopped in the doorway, looking at the present in Charlie's hands, then said gruffly, "take care of that little Weasley, Hermione. I want to be there for the christening. Happy Christmas to you all." With a last look at the present, he shoved his way through air out the door and into the cold, then Apparated out.

The flat was empty and dark, but Harry's quiet pop reminded him that he could not be alone for long in this dismal Muggle habitation. The night's events had rushed past so quickly in his mind. His arrival, his departure, they were all a blur of action, of uncomfortable motion that he would have enjoyed had it not been for the sole drawn out moment of his night: the news of Sirius' death. He could have stood it all, held out longer, were it not for that. He could have remained numb and gone through the motions and ignored all that had happened in the war, were it not for that. The lump in his throat got heavier and larger, and he was certain death was coming for him now. He'd asphyxiate, yes, that was it, and none of them would know what to do.

A wetness was on his face, and when he turned to face Potter he met a surprised expression. It must have been sweat, yes, because it could not have been...he hadn't cried in a very very long time...so why was Harry touching a handkerchief to his face? Was he bleeding? Draco turned away furiously, hands clenched against the countertop edge. He could not be crying. Harry was being stupid. He wasn't crying. Not over Black's death. Not over his torture. Not over any of this. Surely. He wasn't.

Big fat teardrops landed on the Formica, and his shoulders shuddered. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He stood hunched over, knuckles white and bony against the gleaming surface while he tried to rein in his sorrow, his desperation, and his anguish. A hand came between those shaking shoulderblades and he stiffened immediately before finally accepting Harry's reassuring touch. The world moved timelessly in images. He bit his lip. He closed his eyes. More tears fell and splattered on the newspaper below, tiny pearls exploding seamlessly against the paper just as bits of his own heart made their small supernovas of pain.

Draco Malfoy knew that the world wasn't fair, wasn't kind to nice selfless people, but this was outrageous. That Sirius Black should die in such a way, that Draco should have fought for everything Sirius encouraged him towards and still come out with what? Empty-handed. Suffering. Shattered personalities. Lost lives. It circled in his head. It wasn't that he was selfish and wanted some sort of reward or happy ending, for whatever useful thing he'd managed to do. It just wasn't fair. None of them should have to...have to...his eyes traveled to the Yule Edition of the Evening Prophet on the countertop. "What in the world...?" he breathed softly, his vision clearing from its deluge of maudlin emotion.

"Impossible!" Harry's eye had caught the blaring headline as well : "Aurors contaminated with Hangleton Disease?" Potter picked up the paper and read out loud as Draco cast a quick Lumos. "Recent interviews with Chief Alai Darko of the Dark Arts Defence League have confirmed that suspicions are abound in the Ministry about the mental and physical health of the Aurors involved in the Battle of Little Hangleton, known residence of You-Know-Who in his final days. Darko, who is concerned about his Aurors, remarked, 'I am only suggesting that not only is psychological counseling needed for these brave witches and wizards, but that they may have picked up what doctors are now calling the Hangleton Disease.' This 'Hangleton Disease,' as it has now been dubbed, seems to have influence in the entire League, with dangers of threatening the regular magical population. Known symptoms include neurological damage, difficulty in controlling and focusing magic, and irrational, possibly violent behaviour. Darko urges all magical folks to do their duty in reporting any of these symptoms to his office, where this affair will be handled."

"He fabricated this entire article," Draco hissed angrily, glaring at the pages. "It is on Darko's word alone, and these symptoms are much too broad. Those of us who have gone under the Cruciatus obviously have brain damage. Stressed and excited after the war, any of us might seem more irrational than you on a drama king trip. And why report it to his office? Why not report it to St Mungo's instead? There's not a single bit of sense in this!"

"Of course not," said Harry hastily. "But there're people who're gonna be reading this. There's got to be a panic tomorrow, or at least some nervousness when they approach us. Merlin, they've already got enough mulishness when dealing with you. Darko's only making it worse."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, Potter. What's next, shielded quarantine spheres to remotely harness our magic? We should ignore it for now, and show people that none of it is based on fact. Even if it were, I doubt it holds true for all of us," muttered Draco, hands moving on to another letter in the post. It was from Percy Weasley, addressed to both of them. "Ah, the Minister is holding a parade day for us the day after Christmas...that's technically today, judging by the time. We're to be at the Ministry's Central branch by eight o'clock in the morning for a ceremonial robe fitting. After the ceremony, the parade will be held in Hogsmeade. I have already completed my lesson plans; Imight as well drop it off at Hogwarts and see when we settle in before the students return."

"Good idea," said Harry, before he began the awkward part of what he was about to say. "Er...do you need to talk or anything, Draco? About Sirius? About anything from Little Hangleton? 'cos I'm more than willing--"

"I will be here to talk to you if you need to hear it, but right now I think we have more pressing problems at hand," Draco said curtly. "Like sleep and what to do about what Darko is spewing."

"Fine. If you want to be difficult, I'll leave you to your own little antisocial problems and wait to see you come crawling for my aid," replied Harry a bit more brutally than he intended. "I'm going to bed. 'Night."

Neither of them slept that night, one troubled by thoughts of the past, the other by thoughts of the future.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

It wasn't easy for Alai Darko to watch his Aurors, the next day, troop to the stairs leading to his office and demand an explanation for his interview in the Prophet. It was even harder for him to face down Potter and Malfoy's twin furies with an air of patronising indifference as he reassured them that in a little while, they would not be worrying about anything more of the sort. It had taken all his courage to close the door on their protesting faces and cast a Locking Charm around it with his own password.

It was, however, very amusing to hear his Aurors try password after password as Darko sat in his office, throwing darts at the door and hitting all the wrong marks. He sang for a bit to himself about Calliope and Hera and Mab but got everybody so mixed up he snorted to himself in amusement, particularly when one Auror gave the door a kick. A quiet air told him everyone had gone down to their desks, to work, to proper things they should be doing.

How could anyone really blame him? He wasn't just trying to protect his own well-being, but that of those under him as well. Right. If he was sacked, turned out into the cold as a wartime relic, what was to become of everyone in the League? It wasn't just the fact that he had no actual skills outside those of a very advanced desk clerk, and his own vicious sense of justice. They'd kept the League alive before, yes, but that was only because rumours of You-Know-Who's continuation ran rampant. You-Know-Who was in the Lockhouse, maybe later transferred to a special division of Azkaban, and would be under constant surveillance. No need to worry now. Soon they would realise there was no further need for such a large Auror population. So many had died in the war, a hundred or so were left, but that was still too many for Darko's comfort.

Let Potter and Malfoy have their little celebration tomorrow. Let them bask in the bittersweet glory of an Order of Merlin, let them be appraised by the world. Then, he would call in his favours and move his own resources into position. He'd make sure that the wizarding world understood that he, Chief Alai Dark of the Dark Arts Defence League, was the only one who could control these potentially dangerous free agents who had the pretentions to bend laws, to break laws, just because they thought it could save a few people while endangering those who hadn't even wanted to get themselves involved. He could count on apathy and paranoia there. Yes. And plenty of bitter ones out there who thought the Aurors could have done more, thought they were just mindless, paranoid children--only a few had enough stamina to survive until eighty years old--with unlimited power over what they saw. These would be the first for Darko's campaign.

And that was all he would need, really. First those few, then more of the doubtful, more and more until there would not be one person who did not know his name, did not know that he understood and controlled the League, and no one else. He'd make sure he would not be forgotten.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The ceremony had been nothing special. The mere presentation of the medal and ribbon, plus the sash, had been exorbitantly enfolded in ceremony and pomp, so much so that Harry could barely make sense of it before he had the certificate in his hand, the ribbon pinned to his ceremonial robes, the violet sash around his waist and his pointy hat shoved onto his head as his hair stuck out--messily, in all directions, as always--underneath it. Draco actually looked good in his ceremonial robes. Harry only felt silly. Again, he envied Draco's poise, its owner looking and feeling so comfortable and familiar with these situations when Harry only felt even more bourgeois and common than before in the olden halls of the London Ministry building. There was a nice speech about how this Order honoured all Aurors who'd fought so valiantly, but Harry couldn't pay attention to it much, particularly since it always felt like his sash was falling down and his hat was getting smaller.

The parade had been nothing special, streamers, magical banners ("Congratulations to our Saviours!"), screaming rosettes, hats, sparkling glitter, faerie lights, and even a tamed dragon, the usual parade fare with adoring crowds, happy babies, pleased parents, relieved lovers, stubbornly satisfied codgers, confused warlocks and more noise and laughing than the world had seen in a long while, coming down the main street of Hogsmeade on a cold but exciting day after Christmas. Until the end.

It had all passed by so quickly. Nervously, Draco had waved to a few people he knew while Harry sat next to him on the hovering, flower-bedecked float moving through the throng. There was little else for them to do, really, as they wore the robes and honours and tried to look as if they were truly very comfortable about all this. Harry was just thinking how Sirius would have laughed his arse off at all this when a sudden explosion rocked the float in front of him, the smoke traveling towards them and setting off more explosions as it went along.

Wands out quicker than their minds were working, Harry and Draco hopped off the float and into the screaming, panicked masses while more green smoke drifted their way, engulfing their float. A sizzle of magical power struck Draco next to him, and Harry ducked, watching with his own eyes as Draco fell, crumpling onto the ground next to the float where explosions were still rocking the street. Before he could even reach for Malfoy, another spell cast forced him to duck aside, and the smoke soon came between them. "Malfoy!" Harry coughed out, but there was no response and he had to move back again to avoid the volatile gas. Another spell flew towards him and he ducked just in time, crouching around a stable, untouched portion of the float and creeping along the edge to a safer spot. He had to get some sort of cover, but the stormy clouds of smoke were moving towards him even more as he rolled away towards the side of a building in hopes of gaining some distance between himself and the casters.

Whatever had happened to his attacker, Harry didn't bother to care as he confirmed contact with his fellow Aurors, also at the celebration. Explosions were sounding in Harry's ears, sizzling and warming the December air. All around him were noises and flashing lights, confusing the bystanders and spreading panic like a virus. He heard someone screaming from being burnt, and hoped he could prevent that from happening anywhere else. They worked quickly in setting a shield around the float and trying to contain the gas, and Harry would have finished his side of it had not someone knocked him out of the way and onto the ground. He kept his wand close to his body but couldn't prevent his hand from getting trampled on. Hot white shocks of pain spread through his arm as he felt the bones being crushed underneath, and it was all he could do to try and sit up as the tides of people moved away from the street, trickling through little alleyways away from the spreading smoke.

"Harry!" a welcome voice came to his aid, and seconds later Ron was pulling him up by entirely the wrong arm, spreading the fire and bruises on his hand. The street was trying to clear itself, but there were wizards and witches lying on the ground, nearly trampled to death by the crowd. A few had been knocked unconscious, and Harry hoped they still had a pulse.

"My arm's broken," he said curtly, and looked up at the still-spreading smoke. More Aurors had gathered to try and contain it, and were meeting with good-enough success. "Did you see what happened? I just saw smoke and heard the explosions." One of the Aurors had, luckily, cast a Ballooning Charm that collected all the inflammatory gas into an invisible, airless bubble.

"I wasn't very close to it, but Neal says his spells detected a mind-disabling mechanism, along with some shock agents," Ron tried to paraphrase from what technical mumbo-jumbo he'd heard. "Ferula." Bandages appeared and a splint was formed on Harry's arm at once.

"Thanks," Harry said, knowing he'd probably have to go to Hannah for help on his arm if he wanted it in top condition very soon. "I saw Malfoy get hit with something. Was there anyone else?"

"Neville got a Leg-Locker. Whoever was casting them just wanted to embarass us; otherwise he would have done something much stronger. I didn't see Malfoy," Ron informed him, looking around, troubled by the news.

"Right here," said a voice behind them, and they turned to see an ashen-faced Draco Malfoy limping towards them. "Just trying to convince a few witches they should definitely not hex me and bring me back to their flat as their wild tantric sex slave. Have you found out what happened yet?"

"Er...no," replied Harry, shaking his head and trying to get the image of Draco as a sex slave out of his head, but unfortunately his imagination kept adding details like leather and he had to think about the latest Playwizard magazine just to get the nightmare of an image out of his head. "Did you see anything from your point of view? I saw you go down but you're obviously okay."

Just as Malfoy was about to respond, the most unwelcome figure of Alai Darko came upon their trio. He cast up blue sparks and then contorted his face in livid fury, as if it was their fault. "Just what the bloody hell happened here?"

"Looks like a terrorist attack, Chief," Hannah Abbot, joining them as well. "Neal Archimedes found these, with frozen traces of condensed gas on them." She held out a few shards of crystal that appeared to have once belonged to a potions set.

"Standard Make, size seven vial," Draco said immediately, not having lost any of his potions knowledge. "A rather small thing for such a big result." He gestured to the bubble of gas hovering above them, the size of a small cottage. "It must have been a series of chain reactions, or something to do with how it behaves with the air or feelings around it. We might check for emotion-sapping elements or residual catalysts that--"

"Thank you very much for the Potions lecture, Mr Malfoy, but that's not what we need right now. Have none of you managed to find the perpetrators? Not any of you? You have been through this war and the moment someone tells you to relax, you can't even catch a prankster?" Darko was beginning to build himself up again.

"With all due respect, sir, I don't think this was the work of a prankster," Hannah said heatedly. "Draco has a point, whoever did this must have some good knowledge about--"

"I don't care if he has a point or not, Abbot! I want to know who did this! Find them first, then worry about how your silly little potions work! I will not have a public panic because my Aurors couldn't catch a simple petty criminal!" replied the Chief. "What are you going to do about that blasted bubble?"

"We were considering identifying it first, Sir," Abbot told him through her teeth, her formerly-Hufflepuff patience running thin. "Before any actions were taken regarding its disposal."

"I won't have it floating around. Get rid of it. Then find out who did this. I want to make sure public opinion of safety is secure," commanded Darko. Somehow, through all of this, Harry mused, their chief still managed to keep his neat appearance. It was uncannily disturbing.

"I was hoping to find you all here," an ancient voice sounded behind them, and all of Harry's fears were instantly allayed by Dumbledore's appearance. "Chief Darko, Harry, Draco, Ron, Hannah, good to see you all. I understand we cannot begin to explain it yet, but I'm sure your fellow Aurors can take it from here for now. Harry, Draco, if you'll come with me, I think Madame Pomfrey would be more than pleased to take you two in the Infirmary. Neville's freed himself already, and he's declined my offer, but I hope to see you two in Hogwarts right now, for a look."

"Yes, Professor," Harry answered, while Draco only nodded. What had he been hit with after all? Harry couldn't see any particular signs of injury on Draco as they said their goodbyes and got gingerly into the waiting carriage with Dumbledore. He sighed and listened to his old Headmaster extol the virtues of lemon drops, Chocolate Frogs, and a new treat he'd discovered, Yorkies, during the ride up to Hogwarts.

As the others dissipated to help with the recollection of victims to be sent up to Hogwarts Infirmary and investigate the scene, Alai Darko darkly watched the carriage wind its horseless way up to the imposing structure. Dumbledore had dissolved his authority once more. They had all been so pleased to see him, eager to listen, eager to obey what he did. They had enjoyed it. They never quite enjoyed whatever Darko himself had to say, even if they followed his orders with a grim sort of obedience. But like loyal lapdogs, Dumbledore's orders were accepted without question and with trust. Darko took a breath, and realised what he must do.