Learning to Live

Chapter Eleven: Lonely Quarters

As he walked in the forecourt of St Paul's Cathedral, Harry thought he spotted a blond craning his neck up at the dome. That pale skin shimmered in the half moon light as zephyrs darted through familiar blond hair...it all spoke of Draco Malfoy. Plus Harry could have recognised that anywhere. The slender individual mirrored Draco's still-starved appearance beneath a black wool coat that looked a lot like Harry's own. Hermione and Ron were coming out of the cathedral towards him, and he was about to call out to them that he'd found Draco, that it was all okay. Then he took another look at the serenity in the figure's stance, and hesitated.

Harry, surrounded by loyal friends and hangers-on, hardly got a moment's peace aside from the sense of isolation his fame and tragic past afforded him. Draco had worked so hard, as hard as Harry had, but he never let anyone get too close. People who didn't know him might think it was Malfoy pride and arrogance, and although it might have been a bit...okay, a lot of that, they would have been very surprised to see Draco in action. Only his fellow Aurors had seen how he helped mediwizards whenever he could, how practically and efficiently he questioned prisoners, and how dedicated he was to the cause. He wasn't a bad fellow at all, not at all the Malfoy who goaded them when they were naive chilren. He just...Harry couldn't quite explain why Malfoy always isolated himself. He was always alone, but not the way Harry was alone.

It seemed as if every time there was even a chance of closeness, Draco would pull a Bertha Jorkins and disappear, only to pop up when he was needed again, nearly as if he were inviting them to see him as a tool, and nothing more. Thankfully none of the Aurors ever treated him as such; many wanted to try and be his friend, and begrudgingly he had accepted their companionship. Interestingly enough, Draco, as if curious about his longtime rival's true identity beneath the veneer his childhood hatred had espoused, had taken to Harry at once, and had become his constant crucible, his gauntlet through which all of Harry's ideas passed and were stripped of their frivolous egotism. Harry admitted himself that he still wondered over the way Malfoy's mind worked. Harry himself had been more than interested in the change that had come over his former rival, and Draco's stubbornly silent way of managing his own troubles seeded great anxiety in Harry's heart.

The new position at Hogwarts allayed Harry's worries about Malfoy's future stability, and put him where Harry could keep an eye on him. He was forever convinced that Draco just needed somebody to talk to, and then he could get on with his life and be the happy pleasant bloke Harry knew, or at least hoped, was inside. He walked across the flagstones and put a reassuring arm around the blonde's shoulders. "Look, mate--"

The figure stiffened, but before Harry could even try to smile encouragingly, a stinging smack struck his face. "How dare you!" His mouth dropped open in shock as he noted the pricklings of pain spreading across his cheek. When he let go he realised that this "Draco" was really a woman. In fact, she was wearing the coat of her boyfriend, who, apparently, was angrily running towards Harry, shaking his fist.

"Sorry!" Harry spluttered hastily, backing away as quickly as possible. "Wrong...wrong person! I'm so sorry!" He knew his face was burning up from the slap and his own embarassment. Hastily fleeing from the irritated boyfriend, he joined his giggly companions on one of the benches. Ron was laughing so hard he was even as red as Harry was.

"Having trouble telling the difference, Harry?" giggled Hermione, covering her mouth. Ron guffawed into her shoulder, hardly able to formulate words as he held his stomach and tried not to fall off the bench.

"Oh come on," Harry muttered, flushing again. "Laughing like hyenas...Draco could really be in trouble. Come on." They were still giggly as he worriedly pulled them along, much to his own embarassment. Why hadn't he checked first? Could he have just said a simple 'hi' and gotten his answer that way? But no, he had to be Mister Supportive, Mister Understanding, Mister Put-My-Arm-Around-Strangers-And-Get-Slapped. This was turning out splendid.

They were quiet as they crossed the Thames and strolled a few streets along, casting spells to search for beings bearing Draco's magical signature. Harry grew more worried by the second as step after step, charm after charm, they had no luck. As they neared the Tate, they were suddenly struck silent, not by any spell, but by the sight of something before them. Lying on a bench, flat on his back in front of the Tate Gallery, was that unmistakable personage of Draco Lucius Malfoy. Harry's coat lay open, slipping down his arms a little, and Draco looked very pale. His unconscious body fell spreadeagled on the hard cold bench, his limbs touching the ground with only his torso on the stone, and his face took on a pasty glow from the pale green lights of the museum. In the slight stream of a nearby lamplight, Harry thought he could spot a darkness on Draco's blue shirt. It was an all too-familiar sight for Harry...blood never left his mind easily.

"Draco!" Something of a panic tugged inside Harry's chest, like an elastic band stroked while it was still tight. It didn't get any better as they ran towards him, and without thinking he undid the buttons of the shirt he'd bought for Draco, a thrill of horror running through him at the sight of a three-inch long gash across his partner's smooth skin. He thought he could sense the heart beating beneath it, but Ron was better at detecting things like that. "Draco, please wake up..."

"Okay, he hasn't got any residual spells, really, so it must be a Sleeping Draft of some sort," Hermione told Harry as Ron bent down to look at the wound and check Draco's vitals. "But that looks like a ritual wound to me."

"He's freezing," Harry said numbly, eyes brushing over the wan complexion of Draco's thin face. Malfoy looked strangely peaceful now, innocent in a way his stoic expression never seemed to evince. What really bothered him in his waking hours? Never before had he seemed quite so tranquil, and Harry feared for a moment that he was dead. He asked, just to make sure. "He's not..."

"No. But we'd better get him somewhere warmer. Hermione, can you make a quick Portkey while I take care of him?" Ron asked, checking Draco for any evidence of further damage. "Immobilus," he uttered. Harry watched a little dazedly after that, helping wrap his coat around Draco and holding his arm tightly as he kept his hand on the small Galleon Portkey. A single sickening tug later they were in his warm flat. "Quick..." Draco was stripped of Harry's coat and his bloodied shirt, and they realised there was another wound on his left forearm, although much fainter. Still transfixed by what he saw, Harry moved forward automatically to inspect the marks even further.

"Don't just stand there, Harry, get some towels so we can stopper the blood!" Hermione asked, bringing Draco's legs up so he could lie back on the couch, and plumping some pillows behind him so his wound was elevated. The glaring slash across his chest had exposed the bones of his ribs right above his heart. The bleeding was profuse there, crimson angrily spreading down his chest. She thought she could see his heart beating behind those bones, but it wasn't an image she really wanted to entertain. Equally worse was the bleeding coming from Draco's Dark Mark. Someone had used a very fine, laser-precise knife and traced the lines there at least three centimetres deep on Draco's still-scant flesh. Before, the pink shimmers seemed to dissolve into Draco's milky white skin, but tonight the area was a bleeding mass of mangled meat. Whoever had done it had been very precise, and had time and enough artistry and nerve to manually re-engrave the Dark Mark. "Oh Merlin...poor Draco..." she murmured, trying to clean the area up. Draco probably wouldn't feel any pain anyway, at least until he woke up. She didn't want any cleaning spells to possibly interfere with whatever magic had been done there. "What did this?" she whispered, and gave a gasp when Malfoy stirred.

"I don't know. And I believe am I am quite able to care for myself, thank you. I am the one with the better medical training," he snapped, tactful as always, having suddenly regained consciousness. "Let me..." When he reached for his wand, his eyes cleared a little, but a tremour passed through him when he raised it. "Abluo." He sighed as he watched the blood dissolve on his chest and arm. Although blood still streamed from his chest wound, the pain no doubt unbearable, he still seemed to muster enough energy to heal that first. After a few complicated wand strokes and some words Harry couldn't catch, Draco was left with just a reddened scar, a mere memory of the ugly gash across his otherwise pale chest, within an inch of his life. Harry could hear him breathe deeply when the blood disappeared, but he couldn't take his eyes off that three-inch scar. He thought he could still see Malfoy's heart beating inside, struggling for a voice. The one on his arm shimmered silver, and remained as moist as before.

"Holy cricket! You're back!" Ron said from the kitchen when he heard his voice. "What 'appened?" He dropped some of Harry's dish towels and leapt to Draco's side.

"I don't know. What day is it?" asked Draco confusedly. He looked down at his chest, fingering the scar gently and feeling a shock run through him as he did so. Harry felt a small shiver go through him as well, and he frowned, resisting the urge to touch his own forehead.

"Still Boxing Day. We found you in front of the Tate Modern. You'd only been gone for a little while before we found you sprawled on that bench all death-like," replied Hermione. "Now hold still." She cast a diagnosis spell on him, and a faint, glowing gas appeared before Hermione's face. It hovered for a moment, allowing her to see through it at trouble spots on Draco's body. Aside from some lingering white aching near his heart and his arm, with some red shocks along his forehead that signaled short-term pain, he was fine. With a wave of her wand the screen disappeared. "It looks like you're in not too life-threatening condition."

"Who did this to you?" Harry asked, getting even more agitated as Draco started running an index finger across the healed gash. Why couldn't Malfoy just let it alone?

"I am not quite certain," Draco shrugged. "A Death Eater, Mulcibers, perhaps? Last I heard, they are still at large, aren't they? I am quite surprised Father actually would have handed me over to them so easily, or that he'd even let them near him. I do suppose he needs to pay them in some fashion, since money is no longer of any use to them. Why, he is more foolish than I thought."

"Your father?"

A slight jump tossed Draco mere centimetres above the cushions, but he nodded, eyes very wide as if he just remembered something. Harry thought if he opened his mouth and puffed out his cheeks he might just look like a goldfish. "Lucius had someone, I don't know who, drug my drink at that Muggle place." He reminded himself to bring his Auror flask next time and never trust anything Muggle again. The entire experience had not inured him in the slightest, and only revived his anti-Muggle prejudice. "He had me brought somewhere, where he told me...I can hardly believe it myself but a lot of it fits too well for him to have formulated."

"Well what'd he say?" Ron asked impatiently as he cast protection spells around Harry's flat--despite his friend's protests about the electricity--and magically scanned for possible intruders.

"He's been helping us ever since he found out I went over to your side, only he was far stealthier than I ever was, what can you expect, and the Dark Lord never found out and still doesn't know Lucius was helping us all along and Lucius was even there during the last battle and he probably saved a lot of lives from his account of it," Draco said in a rush of words. He calmed a little, still weak and shocked from the entire ordeal.

"Well that's a whole lot of rubbish!" declared Weasley, finally finished with his spells. His eyes met Draco's and he shook his head. "I may trust you, Malfoy, but I can't take your father's word at all. He's been a guaranteed Death Eater since anyone's known him. Anyone still alive after knowing him, that is."

"If you trust me, do you think I'd lie to you?" Draco demanded heatedly. He was tired; he had hardly the mood for questioning, much less about his father.

"It's not that," Hermione placated, putting a hand on his good arm. "We do trust you, Draco, but Lucius is your father, and we'd understand if you want to believe whatever it is he says that would place him in a...er, a better light than--"

"No!" Malfoy interrupted her at once, grabbing her by the shoulders. "Hear me out on this just once, because I won't say it again. If I thought he was a serious threat to you, to the cause, or to innocents, I wouldn't blink twice before I set the Killing Curse on him, do you understand me?"

None of them knew what to say, Harry realised, and it was only after a few tense moments of Draco staring into Hermione's eyes that he heard himself speak up, "Yeah, we understand. Sorry."

"So," Ron said, folding his arms at his chest. When he usually did that, his gangling figure looked impressive, but, Harry realised, that was only because he had Auror robes (a bit shorter than the usual for ease of movement) and a cloak. With Muggle clothing of jeans and a clashing orange sweater Ron didn't look quite so important, even if his stance and expression radiated authority. "How did Lucius help every single one of us?" Regardless of what Harry said, Ron was hardly convinced, and Harry could tell Hermione was still doubtful even if she did want to believe Malfoy.

"I don't know how well I can remember all this, because I don't understand it. I wasn't...well, you know where I was during the battle, so I'm sure this makes more sense to you than it does to me," Draco attempted. "It is my understanding that there were three divisions, and a fourth hidden? Two were on the bottom of the hill and another was behind the fortification. Understandably no one was particularly watching the trees as the Dark Lord had put dementors there for defence. The fourth, you three, were trying to get into the edifice by another means. Am I right?" They all nodded. It sounded amazingly correct, but Draco chuckled bitterly. "I could not have possibly reached the ward core with such ease if someone hadn't called anyone off. Travers, whom I Stunned, was the only opposition. Father says he persuaded the other guards to come along for something he had to show them, then 'took care of them.' How, I don't want to know."

"We did find a ring of guards Stunned, all very surprised-looking," Hermione said thoughtfully, as if a vast conspiracy was already brewing in her mind to explain how guards might be arranged in a circular motion and Stunned, simultaneously, without the intervention of anyone named Lucius Malfoy. She would have liked to believe that Draco wouldn't have to go through the humiliation of having his own father standing accused before a war crimes tribunal. That is, unless he had realised they were never going to win the battle, and had done it at the last moment to save his skin.

"That must have been it," Draco immediately replied, just as relieved to know Lucius wasn't telling his son an all-out lie. "He said he also helped Potter and Granger-Weasley in the eastern corridor of the second floor when you were surrounded. Did that happen?"

"Right, they were called off but when we gave they didn't hesitate in attacking us," Harry muttered, heating some butterbeers on the countertop. "Excellent job, your father did, in that."

"Shut up, Potter," Draco snapped, getting excited. What if Lucius really was innocent, or had been helping them since his own son had? All could be forgiven...they could be father and son again. "It must have been the most he could do. Father tells me that he was responsible for keeping me alive, after...I became useless. I never told them anything, though; I don't think I did, at least. I can't...I can't remember very well..." He trailed off, frowning, words coming to him slowly, and it worried Harry a bit. Maybe this was why Madame Pomfrey wanted him to see a neuromancer. Then again, wouldn't someone _want_ to forget how they were tortured? As if waking from a trance, Malfoy added, "he says he helped the second assault, and the Minerva division, along with the Ingrid division later on. Do you have reports on what they did yet?"

"Minerva division found odd phenomena blocking effective spells from Deatheaters," Ron intoned. The entire idea was troubling him. "It's still awaiting investigation; they've only just taken the bodies off the field for tallying of casualties."

"What could possibly be the use of tallying when most of those on the Dark Lord's side weren't given the Mark?" inquired Draco, looking up at him. Watching him again, Harry thought he looked even more ill than before, and hoped he wouldn't faint on his couch or anything. He didn't think he could handle an unconscious, half-naked Malfoy, prone in his parlour without encountering severe trouble, least of all from Draco himself afterwards. He had only ever had to care for himself before, and was glad that Ron and Hermione were there to help, as always. "You are aware that there were many of His in our ranks that day; I can recall telling you that much."

"Well they're still people, Malfoy. You mentioned Ingrid and the second assault? I don't remember anything particular about Ingrid, but during the second assault--Hermione, you were there--wasn't there something off about the way the spells were behaving?" Ron asked his wife.

"Right," she nodded, looking to a very hopeful Draco. How could he let his entire demeanour and happiness hinge on this one thing? He was so much more dangerously inept in his emotional affairs than he was on the battlefields. "It was like an extra shield had been cast over the whole lot of us. Georgina Meadows hadn't even gotten her shields up yet before they struck, and she wasn't even harmed by a Coronary Curse."

"That's it then!" Draco declared, looking ready to leap up in delight and announce it to the world. "All Father wanted was a newspaper article, like the one about me, to clear his name, and then he'd come out of hiding. He says he'll give you the Greenwich peninsula murderers as proof of his allegiance. He doesn't think any of you believe him."

"We don't. Not yet. I don't mean any offence, Draco, so please don't get worked up," Hermione pleaded. "But we have to check who did those spells. There's no telling what exactly happened at every discrete moment on the field. It's really really too soon to tell. We've got to be sure."

"Potter and I are moving up to Hogwarts tomorrow, Granger," Draco said a little crossly. "Just how long will all this bureaucratic nonsense take?"

"Long into spring term, Malfoy," Ron didn't quite like his attitude towards Hermione. "Just relax, okay? You've been under a lot of stress; don't make me put you under more for being such a git. Do you know where Lucius is right now?"

"No," it was a more subdued Malfoy who answered, because he would have felt more certain of himself if did know his father's whereabouts. "He told me all of what I just said to you, took me to some hooded people, and toasted to his innocence. There must have been a sleeping draft in my glass. I didn't have my chest cut open then, I'm sure, so I don't know who did this. And before you even start to ask me why I didn't apprehend him then, Harry, I'd just as soon ask you why you were patient enough to hear what Sirius had to say about Wormtail."

"You must have some clue, though, where you were," Harry protested nevertheless.

"I told you, I don't! It was dark. I couldn't see very well. There was just him. After so long," Draco looked down at his hands, and then ran a finger over the scar on his chest again. The movement hit Harry with a pang of empathic pain, and he sat down on the edge of the couch where Draco lay.

"Er, it's really late, and I don't think we have any more to do," Harry remarked, looking up at them. The couple exchanged glances and shrugged, as if of one mind.

"We'll stay if you want us to," Ron ventured. "Draco, are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"We'll be okay. Thanks for your help," Harry said, quite grateful. It had almost felt like their school days of solving mysteries with just the three of them, but nothing could ever bring those days back again, of course. There was a determined innocence about those years. None of them would ever be innocent again.

"You should really check that scar with Madame Pomfrey in the morning, when you get to the castle, Malfoy," Hermione reminded him. She patted him on the head like a mother, despite his scowl. "Good night."

"Thanks. Good night," Draco echoed, and the two waved before they Apparated out of the flat. Harry turned to look at his partner, and sighed.

"All the trouble you get into," he murmured, eyeing the scar. Why did his own hurt so much every time Draco touched it? It must have something to do with the Dark Mark...maybe there was still some lingering connection between his curse scar and the hateful insignia.

"Yes, well, not as if you can say anything about your years at Hogwarts. Leaping off to the Chamber of Secrets, getting yourself nearly killed every single year, and not necessarily by the Dark Lord," Malfoy rolled his eyes, but then groaned. "I was going to cook dinner for us the Muggle way." He met Harry's sceptical look. "Or try to. But that just put me off everything Muggle for a while, maybe forever."

"I'll conjure up some things for us to eat. I haven't had any supper either," Harry reminded him. "We've been out all night looking for you, remember? We'll just have to pack up in the morning." He left Draco to rest on the couch, all too aware of the withdrawn grey eyes that followed him. Malfoy's neuromancer could deal with that, Ron could send people out to search for Death Eaters still in London under Muggle guise, and they would go up to Hogwarts to check Draco's scar. All would be fine. Still avoiding Draco's eyes, Harry tried to remember the right spell for a mincemeat pie.

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The thin, wavering glow of a candle did nothing to improve Harry's current surroundings. Dungeons. Right next to Slytherin. Needless to say, he had not been particularly delighted when he found out about the arrangements. He had a bedroom about the size of his own, a bathroom with a nice dark ebony bathtub and a talking mirror, plus a comfortable sitting room for private guests he did not want to bring into the office he shared with Snape. That one hadn't changed; it was still large, with unimaginable things--mainly preserved fruits, pickled specimens, and self-defence items--floating in jars next to Potions equipment, rolls of parchment, and two circular desks. One, his own, was an addition. When Snape had showed Harry his rooms, he'd been unbearably curt and polite. They shook hands, Snape nodded, and that was it. All Harry needed to confirm that Snape still hated his guts.

How was he supposed to work with this man, let alone teach, when he was still formidable to Harry after all these years? Harry couldn't fathom what it would be like to try and teach side by side, much less control a bunch of Slytherins. Snape might be the same oily, greasy-haired swooping bat Harry had always known, but he was getting on in years. More unnecessary stress would deprive Hogwarts of a fantastic Potions Master, even if he was the same age Harry's father would have been. Too busy with finishing research projects begun during the war, Snape could use some sort of aid in monitoring his house, and that task fell to Harry.

Even more daunting was the idea that after more than four years, Harry would be working as a professor of Hogwarts, without Draco immediately at his side for backup, without those who particularly respected him for his expertise in the defensive field. He'd have to prove himself all over again as someone who could properly teach children the basics of...Potions. It was a lonely and dismal prospect. He was accustomed to Draco's cynical comments during battle or long stealth missions, to relying on him as a reinforcement, as a particular expert on certain obscure curses and potions--the blond had a morbid fascination with them. Now, Harry was on a different playing field, trying to educate and be nice. He didn't know how Snape worked at all; it might have just been easier to put him with Draco so that they could teach Defence Against the Dark Arts together.

That would have been nice, but no doubt Dumbledore had his own plans. Maybe it was a way of letting Harry see the other side of Slytherin that he, as a Gryffindor, had never known. They'd forgotten, for the most part, about house rivalry when they left Hogwarts, but it was sure to resurface when they returned, even if they were unbiased professors now. Dumbledore might have wanted to use their positions as a way to remind them of their priorities.

It certainly wouldn't do well to forget Draco as a four-year-long partner for some petty Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry, even if Harry would always cheer for the former team. He sighed and dropped onto his bed, looking around the room. It was so sparse...he would have to start moving some of his own junk in here. The bed was the same as the one he'd had in Gryffindor tower, but aside from a lamp, a furnace and an empty bookcase, there was nothing else. The sitting room fireplace with a wide mantle was all well and good, and the chairs were comfortable enough, but the entire dungeon room didn't speak of Harry himself. There were barely any windows, so he'd have to allocate many many candles before he could feel suitably comfortable. Nothing here was to his interest, and he reminded himself to unpack his trunks after dinner.

A door joined his own parlour to that of Snape's, but Harry doubted he'd be using that very often. He'd probably be frequently using the fireplace to contact Ron and Hermione, and the others who'd stayed on as Aurors. Harry was missing them already, as a matter of fact. They'd finally be separated after twelve long years of friendship.

"You're an adult now, and they're married. You don't have to be pining after their constant company," he scolded himself. "At least you've got Draco on staff." Where were Draco's rooms anyway? Harry had a feeling he'd have to visit them very often to consult on Potions matters; he doubted Snape would suffer his stupid questions for long.

As soon as they'd selected their items--Draco had sent his eagle owl to Malfoy Manor to fetch some items from the house elves--the Apparition to Hogsmeade was easy. Moving into Hogwarts hadn't been particularly difficult, as everybody had left him to settle in peace.

That had been a problem, actually, being left alone. As Harry finally set himself down into one of the green leather chairs before the fireplace, he suddenly felt as if he were all alone in the world. He would open the door, and there would be an empty void stretching out before him, limitless and personless. Nobody. It wasn't so much as the silence that bothered him. It was being left alone with his own thoughts for one of the first times since Draco moved into his flat.

All alone, with nothing but his last conversation with Voldemort to keep him company. Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry thought he could extract the memory of the blood flying out from those blank eyes, the head swinging forward towards Harry's stricken body. If only he could forget the look of the gun...the gun Malfoy made him hand into the Lockhouse. He felt no remorse about what he did, but he wasn't pleased either. "Stop thinking about it, Harry; keep it up and you'll be the one seeing the neuromancer," he murmured, feeling the rising buzz in his ears as his own thoughts tumbled onto each other. Voldemort's last conversation...Harry could never forget that, no, never, even if he wanted to. It would not do well to forget anything like that.

With a jet of energy he flung himself out of the chair and opened the door, slamming it behind him as he bounded into the dungeon hallway. There were the stones of the castle, very real before him. But there was no one there. Everyone gone...the idea of it entered into his own head. Everybody obliterated, himself the only survivor in a lonely world that didn't even hold the traces of corpses. Harry's breath halted and he stumbled backwards against the wall, trying to regain his balance. The idea was overwhelming him, driving into his mind...Snape's door opened and Harry threw himself into the surprised arms of Draco Malfoy, who'd come to call on his old Potions professor. It felt so good to be in contact with another human being!

"Harry? What's happened?" Draco asked immediately, gripping a very desperate Potions assistant by the shoulders and giving him a small shake. "Tell me what's wrong, Potter."

"I'm fine," Harry managed, taking great deep breaths as he steadied himself. He let go of Draco and settled his ever-messy hair. "Slammed...slammed the door a bit too hard and ran into you, that's all."

"Are you sure?" Draco didn't quite believe him, and Harry was about to tell him the truth when Snape came up behind him inquiringly.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I think it's time for dinner," Harry answered, catching his breath. "Want to come, Professors?" Draco looked at him quizzically for a moment, then smiled ("Certainly, _Professor_ Potter.") and nodded. Snape followed behind ("Don't rub the state of Potter's unfortunate position in my face, Malfoy.") Although Harry knew they were there, they were real, and they were most certainly talking (and insulting) to him, he couldn't help but reassure himself. All the way from the dungeons to the Great Hall, he kept a small bit of the back of Draco's robes in his hand, just to make sure he was there.