Learning to Live

Chapter Nine: Muggle Mishaps

The Hogwarts Infirmary had not changed a bit. It still exuded a sort of caring concern over its inhabitants. It was as if they were home, or at least Harry felt that way. It was empty save for the few hurt from the parade, and it was only Potter and Malfoy who were curtained off. A few witches had requested the quarantine of the Aurors out of fear of the Hangleton Disease, or HD, as they had called it.

"People'll still believe anything they read. Nothing's changed," muttered Harry, flexing his left hand as it responded to the charm cast earlier. "HD indeed. Looks like news still spreads this quickly, even without Rita Skeeter. What hit you?"

"I never checked out with the mediwizards after...you know," Draco said, ignoring the question and going on to a darker time. Harry still had not managed to drag that out of him yet, and didn't even know if he wanted to know about it. Still in the ceremonial robes, Draco nevertheless managed to make relaxing look formal and sophisticated, if not slightly antiquitatedly traditional. Harry supposed Draco had merely grown up in them, for he himself had eagerly accepted the plain black robes offered to him by Madame Pomfrey.

"So now what do they say?" asked Harry, feeling slightly anxious.

"Nothing dreadfully important, really," replied he, folding his arms behind his head and leaning back on the bed. "She believes I should go for a neurological evaluation. Neuromancy has never been my greatest strength but Pomfrey believes nobody who went through what I did should be able to walk around and act like a normal person, and she is worried that I have trouble recalling my torture." He sniffed scornfully. "As if I want to recall any part of that regrettable time! As if there was anything right with me prior to the war!" He glared at the curtain before him, as if it had done him some grevious harm.

"You changed that soon enough," Harry told him, trying to be more encouraging. "So they're forcing you to see a neuromancer?" Draco nodded. "Do you, er, want me to come along? I've heard that sometimes it's easier if you have someone you know there with you, you know, just as support."

"Where have you heard that piece of abysmal news? I will be fine." But he shifted uneasily, and sat up. "All right, if you like. But not a word about this to anyone. Pomfrey will be taking an oath of confidentiality once she sets up my apointments. It would reassure me if you did not announcing it to the world. I can hardly imagine how Dumbledore or the others would react, much less Darko, if they found out I'm cracked."

"But you're not cracked. You're the same spoiled madman I've always known. There's nothing wrong with you," Harry protested at once.

"Of course there is. I have issues that nobody minded before because I was an heir and expendable spy. Now that the Dark Lord's aside, it will just be a matter of time before everybody dissects my faults," replied Malfoy, exceedingly confident about his position. It irked Harry to no end.

"Well, you've always been a blooming hypochondriac. If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were letting those people out there influence your opinion of yourself," snickered Harry suddenly in his bluff, knowing how proud his friend was.

"There will always the worse route. At least I'm not you," Draco retorted with a trademark smirk, and fell back onto the bed, terribly pleased with himself. "Pomfrey can't tell what the spell was; apparently it did no particular damage other than knocking me out, so it could have just been an overzealous warlock suspecting my part in the attack." Of course, Draco knew nothing about the attack, having been formally discharged from his duties as a spy.

"It was prolly just a Death Eater or Death Eater-sympathiser then. No worries," replied Harry, brushing off the friendly jibe at once.

"Do you really think so? There are still criminals out there who would love to capitalise on the terror of the war," Malfoy told him, a little too certain about the future.

"Do you have to be so pessimistic?" asked Harry exasperatedly.

"Must you be so optimistic? What are you afraid of, Potter? That something might ruin the perfect little life you've already planned for yourself?"

"Are you afraid of being happy then, Malfoy? Is that why you don't think you'd be a good friend? Is that why you stay at home when we invite you to come out? They took the life you knew; now that they're gone, what in the world do you think is going to take it now?" asked Harry. Draco looked away very quickly as he said it, and Harry got the faint impression that he was trying to avoid the topic. Either that or he had something in his eye.

The former Slytherin was now turned away from Harry, white-blond hair splayed on the pillow as he lay on his side. "I'm sorry," Harry added, sitting up to look at him. Pangs of guilt slid into his hands and his throat, as if the fingers that had killed before and the throat that spoke the words just now, were punishing him. The uncomfortable silence was drawing out longer and longer. Where was Madame Pomfrey when you needed her? Always bustling and fussing over them as children, Pomfrey seemed to leave them to their own devices now that they had reached of age. He looked to the top bar of the curtains, realising that the same walls that kept him at a distance as a child still separated him as an adult.

"How do you do it?" asked Draco suddenly, breaking the quiet at once.

"What?"

"How do you do it?" repeated Malfoy patiently.

"Do what?"

"How do you deal with all that has happened?" Draco inquired. "I hear you tossing at night but you are as happy as a lark by day. I could hardly manage myself when I found out about Sirius."

"You haven't spoken to anybody about your disappearance yet, and you're usually so quiet anyway. Silent, that is. Do you know what I did when I found out about Sirius' death? I shut myself up at home with the telephone unplugged for the entire day, refusing all owls. Sitting in darkness, acting mad, singing and talking, getting drunk out of my bleedin' mind, going over old mementos and crying to myself. I hardly know how I managed to attend the funeral," Harry sighed. He buried his fingers in his still messy hair and then flung them away from his face. "So let's just say your reaction was far more controlled than mine was."

"Oh, fantastic, thank you for making me feel so much better about not mourning enough for the man!" Draco stood up, finished with this discussion. "Stop. Do not say anything more, because I hardly need to hear it. I am going back to your flat."

"On your own?" Harry asked, alarmed. This was the man who was astounded by a Muggle lift, and had not yet been properly shown how the Underground worked. "You sure?"

"I can take care of myself, Potter."

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Quite a few hours later, Draco was walking through Muggle London with a slightly wide-eyed look, which is to say he was enjoying the electricity very much, which is to say he was lost standing in the middle of Piccadilly Circus gawking at the advertisements and lights as people streamed around him. The twenty-two year old was utterly on his own in the Muggle world this time, with about fifty pounds [a meagre amount of 10 Galleons and 19 Knuts, to his own calculations] in his pockets, a wand stuffed into the side of his Armani trousers, nicely shined shoes--his own, WizardWear--and a Thomas Pink dark blue button-down (he had memorised the names of every store where he had liked the selection), plus a black coat Potter had lying around from Merlin-knows-where but looked tolerably better and less neglected than the rest of Potter's wardrobe.

It was thus a wonder that, simply by virtue of wandering around aimlessly, without the Underground to help him, that he found one of the most posh clubs in town. He'd been looking for a quiet place to be alone with his thoughts, yet somehow had stumbled into a rather busy section and entered the darkened, laser-lighted rooms of a discotheque. And somehow, yes, somehow, he'd managed, in a corner booth, to surround himself with a gaggle of gorgeous models fresh in from Milan for a show tomorrow night. He could not imagine his bad luck.

Under any other circumstances he might have enjoyed women crooning over how handsome he was, how delightfully charming, how elegantly dressed, how positively wonderful, but he had wanted to be alone for a bit to mourn over Sirius. He couldn't imagine how any of these people could celebrate when so many had died in the war. He wanted to scream out that he'd just gone through two weeks, three days, count them, more than two weeks' worth of psychological and physical stress and trauma he couldn't even remember but could certainly feel thank you very much and how could they go on with this...but he kept silent. He couldn't do it. He couldn't talk about it. He'd just put it behind him, that was all. A closed chapter of Draco Lucius Malfoy's life.

It was even harder to imagine himself as one of them in the future, setting up a new life, being pleased, being happy with little things like the way the sun shone on the smooth lawns of Malfoy Manor. Fat chance of that, in this crowded ballroom sort of place, although he had never seen anything that looked less like a ballroom. He couldn't even relate to these ridiculous people bouncing around--how was he going to find a place for himself? Then again, they were Muggles; what could anybody do about that? Clueless as usual. Hermione would have called them blissfully unaware. Draco called them thick as shit.

"Well you're a pretty one. So what do you do?" asked one dark-haired woman while her friends idly looked at the dancers.

"I'm looking at various opportunities," replied Draco, trying very hard to smile. He was more preoccupied with what he was trying to say. It had been a while since he'd spoken anything in Italian. "I've been offered a position in Scotland, as a matter of fact."

"But what will you do in the meantime?" inquired she, concerned that she might be speaking to someone of no account, although by the cut of his clothes, he seemed to be in possession of enough money. She herself was wearing a rather good Chanel, in her opinion.

"Live off my inheritance, I suppose," he said, a little annoyed when her eyes lit up at the sound of his inheritance. "Is it always so dark in here?"

"Si," she giggled. "You're so funny. Of course it's dark in here, silly. All the better." She put a hand over his, which was resting on the table, but he slid it away from her and stood up at once. "What's wrong?"

"I am not looking for anyone at the moment," was the short reply. He resisted the urge to retch. A Muggle had put her hand over his, had touched him, had tried to attach herself to him...it didn't bear thinking about. Narcissa would have turned over in her grave, had she known. "Have you any idea how I can get home? I was considering the Knight Bus but I didn't think--"

"A nighttime bus run?"

"Draco! Draco Malfoy?" Someone very chipper was calling through the crowd, and presently a young man pushed through to grab his hand and shook it vigorously while Luciana looked on confusedly at Draco, who was technically supposed to be Kevin, or so he had told her. Draco searched through the detritus of his memories for a name, a face, anything, because he was sure anyone so delighted to see him must have at least known Draco for a time. "Buonasera signorina," the man said to Luciana, who nodded. He was obviously a wizard...it had been so depressing to be stifled in a place without a single bit of magical aura. The entirety of the thrashing, dancing, throbbing mass had seemed dead to him the moment he walked in, with none of the spark with which he was familiar. Now here was another lost star in a sea of inky magical darkness...he knew he'd felt several glimmerings of magical power in the area, from his own detection spells placed on his person.

"Aha...how do you do?" Draco attempted to get his hand back from the fellow, but the photographer's grip was astonishingly strong, as was the light from his camera when he finally took a photograph of Luciana and Draco.

"It's me, Colin Creevey, do you remember? I was a year after you?" The man added. It slowly began to dawn on Draco. This was the poor boy he'd mocked in his second year for tailing Harry Potter so much, snapping photos of him everywhere he went. He felt a little poorly about it now, but that was all in the past, and Creevey apparently had no issues with it, because he was continuing right on. "When I left school I was going for the Daily Prophet but they had more than enough so now I'm a photographer for a Muggle fashion mag, because it really makes so much better money, but blimey, I was so surprised when I read about your real identity, I mean to say, I didn't think they'd announce it in the Muggle papers too but of course they would have to, after all, that is, we can't have Muggles reporting your presence to the police when they see you walking on the street, can we? Not that you'd really be found on any Muggle street, but here you are, what a surprise now, isn't it? Well this is just a great little reunion, don't you think? What are you doing here, anyway? I heard about that parade today, dreadful thing, wasn't it? Relaxing a bit in London already? Must have taken you very long, didn't it, sorting the whole mess out, dreadful, wasn't it?"

"Just a few hours, Creevey," replied Malfoy, having finally extricated his hand from his former--but still fervent--schoolmate's clutch. "I could hardly be bothered with Apparating, as I had a few things to go over."

"Wow, Draco, I mean, when I read that you were...you know," he eyed Luciana, as if he hadn't done enough damage already by naming Draco as a secret MI6 operative--now declassified due to removal of the 'terrorist cell' in question--instead of the murderer that the Muggle newspapers had made him out to be. It was, of course, an astounding blunder on the part of the Ministry of Magic, due to its ignorance of real MI6 procedures towards inactive spies--ie. they were never declassified, for their own protection. "I was astounded, blown away, just, wow, I can't believe you were so great to go sacrifice yourself like that, it's just absolutely great. So what are you doing here?"

"I am currently becoming very lost, that's what. Do you know how to use the Tunnelground?" asked Draco cluelessly.

"You mean the Underground? Yeah, I know how to use the tube; been living partly like a Muggle for a while now. I'll show you the nearest station, of course, I didn't expect you to even go anywhere Muggle-related of course, would you?" he seemed to be trying not to giggle. "Where are you staying then, so I can send you on your way?"

There was a panicked moment as Draco, while saying goodbye to a confused Luciana, tried to remember where Potter's flat was. He'd always been acustommed to Flooing or Apparating, so he had no particular use for streets at the moment. "Something near a bird. Yellow. With a 'west' in it."

"Not Canary Wharf, are you? Didn't know you had propery in London, much less office lettings, but I still don't know you yet, do I?" Creevey laughed lightheartedly, and Draco resisted the urge to strangle him as they walked out of the club. "Not Canary? Hm, a finch? You're not on about Finchley, are you? Not Finchley Road? Wouldn't think you'd live there, would you?"

"Not Finchley..." muttered Draco as he strolled alongside Creevey towards the nearest tube station. "West something. With pork."

"West Knightsbridge? West Finchley? West End? That doesn't make much sense does it?"

"No, no, no..."

"West Hampstead?"

"Yes, that was it, that was it. I'm staying at Potter's flat for a bit, and I think that's where he lives. Either Belsize or Adelaide, I can't recall. We passed them on a walk once, though."

"We can just take the tube to Hampstead station and explore around from there, then. Shouldn't be a problem; upwards coming neighbourhood, inn'it?" asked Creevey excitedly, his digital camera swinging at his hip. "Georgian houses or Victorian converts? Heard they weren't very popular a few years back but now it's very nice, though you've got to watch yourself sometimes, but you don't have to since you're such a top-rank Auror, aren't you? Nice flat, is it, Harry's? Think he'll let me take a few photos for my personal album?"

"His flat is dismally tiny, so I haven't any inkling as to what you would really want to see," shrugged Draco, realising, much to his dismay, that he'd probably have to rely on Creevey until he got to Potter's flat, or even a house that he recognised. They descended the moving stairs ("escalators," Creevey called them) to the station, where Creevey let Draco use his pass. Unfortunately, young Mr Malfoy was very reluctant to get into the car, and only after being told by Creevey that it was just like a train compartment did he finally concede to sitting down gingerly on the bench. Draco didn't have much to say about this slightly noisy, shifting, air-whooshing vehicular transport, but that was all right, because Colin Creevey provided all the conversation. The stuff he said about models and the fashion industry were mildly intriguing, but when he started talking about the tube and zones and why Draco should really just buy a Seven Zone Carnet until he knew his way around, the older wizard just tuned him out, cottoning on every so often with a response when necessary.

"Let's see, this shouldn't be too difficult," Creevey began when they got out of the station, but it was only an hour later that Draco finally realised they'd passed the right house twice already. "Great!" the chipper lad declared when his companion realised it. "Here, let's take an instant photo together. I'll write my address on the back and maybe you could get back to me about getting some photographs of Harry's flat'. Before he could even protest the wizard had grabbed him by the elbow, taken a photo with a blinding flash in the dim streetlit darkness of a soulless December, and wrote his address on the back. "Here. You have to shake it a bit before the picture comes on. I'll see you later!"

"Goodbye." He took the photo by the corner and waggled it a bit as he headed into the building. Draco didn't understand how the Muggle lift operated, but he bid farewell to the wizard and climbed the well-lit steps to the right landing. Stupid bright lights. His stomach growled, and it soon dawned that he didn't know how to cook at all, that he hadn't had any dinner, and that it had probably been a bad idea to have that G&T at the club. Funny, the way his drink had made him feel, a bit light-headed, even, but a Muggle establishment couldn't possibly have known anything about odd potions and the like. It must have been the alcohol. Well, he was getting pretty excited about trying to cook all by himself, as he thought of how surprised Potter would be when he came home to food? Of course, it made Malfoy feel like a house elf, simply to get excited about menial labour, but if he couldn't do anything constructive with his life, what was the use of his being there? With a slight chuckle he walked up the stairs a little faster, and cursed the gin again. He'd only had one glass, yet tonight...

No more thoughts of this sort ran through his head as his vision painted out the peach wall, his head tipping forward while the world dipped into oblivion. His G&T apparently had a magically-controlled GHB in it, doing its job quite happily by the time he managed to get home, but of course he knew nothing about it. His hands collapsed beneath him as his cheek scraped against the floor, hard, the bruise forming on his cheekbone already. His inert form sprawled halfway on the steps. Draco Malfoy wouldn't be there for long, decided the owner of the hand that grabbed his prone figure by his belted narrow waist and hoisted him ungracefully over one shoulder.

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Miles and miles away, Harry Potter sat and chatted with one future Transfigurations professor, Remus J. Lupin, werewolf and old friend. The Wolfsbane Potion had, in recent years, been improved even more, so much so that Lupin decided it was enough of a risk to return to teaching with it at hand, or paw, for that matter. He had even once played a game of moonlight fetch with an advanced Seventh Year student headed for the Werewolf Department of the Ministry. So they sat talking in his new-old office over some butterbeers and laughs, reminiscing on old times and speculating on the future.

It was all too clear to Harry that the more subdued look in Lupin's eyes was meant for Sirius, because the only remaining member of Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs was Lupin. Harry could scarcely imagine what teaching at Hogwarts again must be like for Moony, to remember the old pranks and fun they had as boys. He tried to steer the conversation away from the past, but it only cropped up again, inevitably.

"Dumbledore tells me you and Draco are going to be professors at Hogwarts. What will you be teaching?" asked Lupin.

"Assisting Snape in Potions, I expect. Draco's got yer old subject to himself," answered Harry with a heavy sigh. "It's too dangerous for him, I think. People'll start talking about how he's teaching the Dark Arts, even if it won't be true."

"The public's liable to talk about anything once the media gives them enough suggestion," Lupin remarked wisely. "You're no stranger to that, Harry. I've seen you deal with them pretty well, so what's the worry?"

"I'm just...nervous, I guess. We don't even know when our trials are going to come up, I'm starting this new job with Snape, no less, and with my luck I'll get into even more trouble than I did when I was a student here," Harry told him glumly. "Snape'll try to poison me every chance he gets now. 'Late on marking assignments?' Poison for Potter's pumpkin juice. 'Sneezed during lesson?' Poison for Potter's gin. 'Glanced at me?' Poison for the Potter boy! It'll be horrible! Lucky I still follow Auror training with my personal flask."

"If I didn't know any better, Harry, I'd say Dumbledore should have placed you in Divination with Professor Trelawney," chuckled Lupin. "Don't worry about Snape. All he needs is someone to show him how to have a good time. The fact that he's a brilliant Potions Master aside, he's not a bad teacher even if he is impatient. And you can't forget he's saved your life a few times, with his potions and without."

"Yeah, I know, but it doesn't mean he hates me any less," grumbled Harry, his prospects even worse now. "That only means he'll poison me, and if I can't find the right antidote, he'll look like the hero when he shows the class how to make it." A horrible thought crossed his mind. "What if he's like Lockhart and uses me for demonstrations?"

"He won't use you for demonstrations, Harry, calm down and drink your butterbeer. Here, have a chocolate," Lupin said, as Harry obeyed. "You'll do fine. I think the war's tempered him a bit, actually. Snape'll probably cheer up now that he has so much less to worry about."

"Snape? Cheer up? Professor, no offence meant, but you might want to work on your comedy routine," Harry said solemnly, but they both ended up snorting over their butterbeer bottles.

"How do you think your partner will do? Think he can manage? I really didn't expect him to go over to our side at all. I don't know the Malfoy boy very well but it seems like he'll be another Snape if he's not careful," chuckled Lupin.

"No," said Harry after a bit of pensive thought. "I don't think so." He took a swig of butterbeer, letting its warm roll around his tongue for a bit before he swallowed. He thought of young Mr Milton Chadwick, and how Draco had spoken to him. "Draco will be fine, I think. He's dealt amazingly well with all the reactions to his identity. Just the other day he actually showed a kid his bleeding Mark."

"It's still bleeding?" asked Lupin, troubled at once. "He should get it checked out."

"Yeah, but he's very reluctant to get anything checked out, apparently. He didn't even go to the mediwizards right away after we got into the office," Harry told him. "Why, is that a bad sign?"

"Voldemort may be in the Lockhouse, but his lingering magic is still strong. As far as I know, many of the other Death Eaters, the more loyal ones, already have faded and healed Marks. So Draco must be still carrying some form of Voldemort's anger against him. If I were he, I'd show it to Dumbledore."

"I'll let him know that when I get back. It's getting dark anyway, and Draco headed back on his own to Muggle London," said Harry, emptying his butterbeer and getting up. He hoped he wouldn't have to search too long, in case Draco got lost. "Thanks for the butterbeer, Professor. I'll see you soon!"

"See you in a few days, Professor Potter," chuckled Lupin at the way it sounded. In less than a few minutes, Harry had made his way down to Hogsmeade and Apparated back to his dark, empty flat, with no sign of Draco at all.