Learning to Live

Chapter 15: Complicated Peace

When Harry rose to go after Draco, he was suddenly tugged back down into his seat, his robes nearly choking him. Snape, lightly pink still, hissed at him, spit flying out, "Don't make it any worse, Potter! He needs to be alone, not for you to blurt out another careless comment about things you don't understand!"

"You think I don't understand? I'm not an idiot!"

"You are doing an impressive imitation of one! SIT DOWN!" Their hissing back and forth had reached a level where some of the other staff members and students close by had turned to see what the trouble was. Harry sat down in a huff, picking up his fork and glaring at it, but Snape wasn't through. "Contrary to what you assume, Potter, he does not need to be guarded and coddled. I wager they gave him the same treatment as the Longbottoms."

"Then someone should be with him--" Harry protested, alarmed. He had not thought it would be that bad. He had only thought Draco had been imprisoned and starved...maybe beaten around. But what had happened to the Longbottoms he couldn't fathom, couldn't imagine, happening to someone he had known for so long. Draco always had such a well-organised mind, and seemingly he still did, since he was walking around being the same stand-offish asshole he had always been. But what if he was just waiting for something to make him snap? Just daring Life to lay the straw on his back? Harry had heard of suicides before, and Draco was never all that attached to life; Harry knew, deep down, that given the choice, Draco would choose the good, dramatic death rather than trudge onwards and upwards. "I should make sure--"

"No. You shall do no such thing. If you continue to press him, he will only avoid the issue more than before. Whatever you are going to try to do, it's not going to help him. You'll just make it worse. Sit down and eat your dinner, Potter," said Snape, picking up his own fork.

"Fine, then, but it'll be on your head if we find him in the Astronomy Tower ready to fling himself off," Harry muttered, still staring at the door through which Draco exited. "And why are you still calling me 'Potter?'"

"It's your name, isn't it? Unless you had a change done at the Ministry yesterday, I see no reason why I shouldn't continue calling you as such," replied Snape, picking up his spoon instead. "Unless you would prefer Henrietta Pothead, as I prefer to imagine."

"Er...everyone else calls me Harry," said the aforementioned, giving Snape a sideways look of incredulity. "You've known me for just as long, and we've been working together for more than a month. It doesn't mean I can call you 'Severus' or anything, but I'd certainly feel more comfortable."

"Don't lie, Potter. Nothing could make you feel more comfortable around me, because I'd never allow it. And you couldn't care less about what I call you. You're dissatisfied with something else. I see it every day."

"Now that you mention it, yeah, I am," replied Harry, glad for the window. "Let me teach a class, sir, or at least give me more of a role. You make it seem like I know less about Potions than the students do!"

"If that were not true, I would gladly let you take on more responsibility. Until you show me that you have retained any knowledge about the simplest Potions, and can stop mentioning advanced Dark Arts potions from your Auror career when you are helping during practicals, I cannot possibly let you have any hand in their education that is greater than the space you've already taken up," Snape looked about to finish.

"But how can I show you if you won't give me a chance? I did fine on my N.E.W.T.S.!" Harry protested. "Just give me one class!"

"You did abysmally for your potential, Potter. You may cover all my classes on Tuesday's brewing day; you've snooped through my plans often enough to know what we'll be doing," Snape relented, although it seemed as if he'd been simply waiting for Harry to beg. There certainly wouldn't have been anyone else available to take over while he worked on his potions.

"Fine then. Thanks!" Harry tried to sound angry, even if he really was grateful. He returned to his meal, not noticing that Remus Lupin had quietly left, going the same way Draco went.

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This was a normal thing to be doing, he thought to himself, his hand cupped awkwardly around the thick glass mug. Firewhiskey, hmm; nothing Hermione could drink right now but it didn't matter. They weren't attached at the hip or anything. Right, he reaffirmed to himself, smacking his mug down for another random drink. They weren't attached at the hip. He wasn't a hero or anything spectacular! So why did she have to go on with this? All these questions, all these demands! He couldn't handle it, couldn't.

"Another one?" What a nice barkeep.

"Yeah, thanks," he mumbled, and slumped over, chin resting on hand. This wasn't a particularly nice pub, but then again, Ron was not in a particularly good mood when he had gone in search of a pub. He couldn't understand it. It had been kisses and desperate lunges across widening short distances during the war. They knew every second might be their last together--it was why they'd gotten married so unbelievably early--but wasn't that what love was? Wasn't it just needing each other so much? It had always been being so happy he could hardly stand it, and hating every moment away from her. They'd been willing to do anything then, so long as they were with each other. But now it seemed as if he'd wanted out all along. She wanted this, wanted that, needed pickles, would like watermelon, desired persimmons, felt like bouillabaise, wanted shepherd's pie, no, raw aubergines instead, maybe some chicken masala too, and volcanic rock on the side. He'd have to Apparate all over the world!

It had been perfect before the baby, before the end of the war. They worked perfectly together. They knew each other's moves, knew each other's motives, feelings, thoughts, and moved as one. He could always predict what she was going to do next, what she was going to say next, and it never bored him one bit. It had never surprised him. He had always loved her, it seemed, so much so that even when they'd first met he never stopped complaining about how much she affected him. Their quiet conversations, their little kisses during the night, those were all so beautiful, so gloriously perfect. They had their own little calm eye in the swirling hurricane of war.

So where did that leave them now? A cute house that Ron couldn't like because her Muggle parents had never seen what their son-in-law had provided for their daughter. A baby, maybe two, on the way, with Hermione going frantic through the house trying to redecorate, wanting all sorts of strange food. She asked for Blood Lollipops just the other day and Ron had put his foot down and said 'no.'

"My wife is going to have a child," he announced to no one in particular. It sounded so strange. Hermione. His wife. He had repeatedly said it, after they were married at their tender age, and wondered over the way it looked on their invitations. Of course she demanded that she keep her name. But he had loved it, loved every bit. Hermione Granger-Weasley. Perfect, like everything else. So what was wrong now? They had managed nothing differently. Everything was fine. Everything was fine.

Except...except now he had a dozen more case files on his desk because of his recent promotion, was in trouble with his wife over a fight about a stupid thing when they had not fought in years, and worried over his own position as a top Auror because of Darko's little upstart campaign. Nothing was fine and nothing was perfect. During the war this would have all been glossed over as just another difficult thing. Or would it? Would it have even happened? He'd never know.

"So wha'choo doin' 'ere, celebratin' by yourself?" asked the bartend, wiping the bottom of a mug and pouring Ron another one.

"No. She threw me out. We had a row and...I said a lot of things I didn't mean. Things about her not giving me the space I needed, and asking every single nagging second for some food or other. It was disgusting; I had to buy her twenty Cockroach Clusters just last night. Worse than when I threw up slugs," Ron moaned, shuddering.

"When they're preggers, they can eat anything. But the trick is to stick with it. It's worth it in the end, I promise yeh," the man replied with a smile. "Jas the look on the little babby's face...aah, it's good and worth it, it is."

"We were okay during the war, y'know, 'cos you never knew when you'd snuff it. But...now I'm not so sure. Now I don't know if I should still be married."

"Yeh muss'be joking! Now's a better time to be married with a family than during the war! Yeh've got peace and ca'm! Yeh still love her, doncha?"

"Yeah, of course! But I come from a big family with lots of brothers and we fought but it wasn't like this. I've just got so much pressure coming on, and she just isn't helping at all," Ron murmured, taking a guzzle. "Isso hard."

"course it's 'ard. There's a lot more ter marriage than love, sir. I thought you'd know that, as an Auror, that nothing comes easily. I'd rather face a Lethifold than tell the missus I don't like 'er decor, but yeh live with it, and yeh improve together. Yeh've got ter learn that between all the wonderful memories, there's the things yeh had ter do ter get there. With a baby on the way I'd 'elp her best I can if I were you, seeing as it's 'alf yer fault it's happened." He grinned, and pulled the mug away from Ron. "Here, I won't charge you for the last pint, sir, but make sure you go home and apologise for whatever it was. Prolly something silly."

"Okay," Ron said, standing up and feeling the blood rush down from his head. He slapped a bit of gold and silver onto the counter. There was a strange energetic bit rushing through him as well, a warmness that made him recall his love for Hermione, especially that funny way her nose turned when she concentrated. He resolved to apologise and stop being thick-headed. "Can I use your Floo? I don't feel up to Apparating."

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He closed his eyes and nearly felt a soft touch of sadness from the breeze. Nearly. In these pre-spring, mid-February days, the sun set quickly, eager to hide its head from the cold season. He was on the highest tower looking down, wondering what the grass would feel like from this angle. He always let people affect him too easily.

In his school days his insecurity drove a chip permanently on his shoulder. The world, unlike Malfoy Manor, did not revolve around little Draco Malfoy, and the shock of it had produced a reaction that did not slow down until sixth year, when everything turned serious and they were no longer children. In his adult years--and Draco felt very old at the moment--it never departed, but instead faded into the liability of oversensitivity that marked him for weakness.

And so what the wizard had been waiting for, the confirmation of his perverse anti-self, one that had been anticipated in his own self-hatred? Beneath it all, beneath the Order of Merlin and the cake and jokes and goodwill there were the questions, the nighttime wondering and the suspicions, even when danger was no longer close at hand. Whispers...Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater. Even if you never joined with full loyalties.

Whatever tentative hopes he had dared to harbour about his innocence had been crushed by Potter's careless comment. And he had done the same, had cut people up like that, only with knives and not with words. He was no stranger to it, this brutality, this finely honed aggression. He was one of the few Aurors who could cast an extended Cruciatus successfully, and you needed a sadistic mind for that, coupled with an iron stomach. He'd felt it once himself, many times, later on, in a blur of past events. The stinging taste of blood had never quite left his mouth.

"Draco?" It was the werewolf's voice. "What are you doing up here?" Ah, aged even further, his transformations and job for the Cause having taken such a toll. The things this creature did to control the beast in him...to stifle the bloodthirsty wolf. Draco could relate; he was a master at self-restraint. There were limits to the degree where you could be spoiled and remain stylish, after all.

"Sulking, what does it look like?"

"Like you were waiting for someone to come up here so you could take your anger out at him," said Lupin wisely. "I thought it might be better if it wasn't Harry, since you couldn't dislike me more. What has been bothering you, Draco?"

Draco turned slowly to face Lupin, the rest of him motionless. The rough blocks of stone cast a shadow over part of his face, shielding it from the sunset. He decided to be petulant, hoping Lupin would lose his famed patience and go away. "Do you really think it is that simple to explain? You go about your daily business, you celebrate, you think, 'oh what wonders this day holds without the Dark Lord! Let us all go about our normal lives!' So you scuttle around minding your business." It was not a nice voice. It mimicked a tinny, petty tone before dropping back into Draco's usual mellifluous drawl.

"And then I walk in, and everything changes. The guardedness suddenly comes over them, those who would worship me if I weren't a Malfoy and their professor. Others have tried to curse me the first chance my back was turned, and I have been more merciful than I could have ever imagined. You can't imagine the number of House Points I have allowed these filthy brats to retain!" he spat, even more irritated now that Lupin was merely listening politely and attentively. Then Draco slipped, and let it loose without even reaching out to catch himself.

"How would it feel if they knew your entire life before you even opened your mouth? That they are aware of your weaknesses because you have taught it to them yourself? That these children know you're a murderer, a matricide without a witness, a former Deatheater who had to cut people open and conduct experiments so he could make his position legitimate and still keep spying, an unstable maniac who has to see a neuromancer to recover memories he doesn't want, and is afflicted with fainting spells, plus a Hangleton's Disease that's totally bollocks?!" He told himself to calm down, to stop giving himself away, but another wave of frustration and confusion surged through him.

"And what the fuck does Darko think he is doing, letting a man like my father take such a position of renowned influence again? I am useless in all this; I go out in public again, risk something like that fiasco and Darko's laughable party will win the election because people are afraid of the same Aurors who saved their lives! They'll tack Harry's name onto their manifesto somewhere and they'll have it done and over with!

"I am of no use to anyone in all that is going on. All I am is barking mad and a fucking danger to myself. After all that's happened, after that final movement, the last moment, this is what I am, nothing remarkable, afraid to go to the neuromancer in case I expose state secrets, loyal to the last like some bloody-minded Gryffindor. And all you can ask is what's on my mind. More like what's not on my mind's the case now, what with an idiot Memory Charm and more than forty pounds of weight to gain so I don't look like a stick and give the Aurors a bad image!" He turned his face towards the broiling red of the dying light.

"I don't even know who to believe anymore. There are always so many people talking and giving their opinions when not only do I hardly care, but I would not know what to do with my indecisive useless self anyway. Puh. And you ask me what's on my mind. You would not understand."

"Maybe not. I only have the threat of segregation laws against Dark Creatures to contend with, as a werewolf, and the question of finding a friendly place to live and work, but I suppose everybody else has similar issues," Lupin said lightly. "Nobody can really understand another entirely. I think Harry realises your situation more than you do. He's had some experience."

"Rather, but you don't see him getting his feathers ruffled. It isn't like there's a single foul word against that man. There he goes right now with his old Firebolt, happy as a lark," Draco remarked, looking out over the battlements at the figure of Harry Potter with a broomstick silhouette. "It's like nothing ever bothers him beyond the usual, simple injustices, to which he reacts with his usual sheer bloody-minded Gryffindor fervour."

"So you have seen when he is angry," Lupin supplied.

"He lets everything build until it blows up in his face, if that's what you mean by getting angry," Draco snorted. "Sometimes he's so transparent and easy to bother, so much your ideal hero even when he's not aware, and other times I can't see what he's thinking at all. Makes for difficult conversations, that's what."

"There's nothing he wouldn't do for you, Draco. Do you know why?"

"No. You're getting off-topic," Draco snapped accusingly. "You are distracting me, sir, from sulking."

"Oh I'm very sorry; I'll leave you to it in a bit, just let me tell you that he knows you don't want pity, so it isn't that he pities you. He's very concerned about you. He has his hopes for the future set on you, because he thinks if you don't make it, he won't make it either. Do you understand? He has to believe you can get better."

"Of course I understand, I'm not daft, you know. I know what you just told me, but Harry's a fool to think that," replied Draco, turning away and watching the former Quidditch Seeker mount his broom. Hmm. He was carrying two, not one. "He can't look to me to represent the future; that's just stupid. I'm Draco Malfoy, not some average bloke off the street."

"Ah, yes, but he can't ignore that you're an Auror and that you went to school together. Or that you're another connection to...well, to Sirius." A stricken look passed over Lupin's face, but he continued with, "or that he considers himself your friend and not just his partner for three years. And you might be surprised to learn that his attitude towards our world is just as serious as yours. Just from working with him you understand that he knows what must be done and does it. So his little rash comment may have been wrong, but it isn't something he condemns given the context. He wants to see you happy, Draco. The last thing he wants is to bring you misery, and if you ever manage to throw aside your pride to ask for help, he'll gladly give it to you." Lupin rose, and rearranged his robes. "Now all this interfering is cramping my style, so to speak, and I think I'll help Professor Lynch with her papers so she can be ready for her next session. Good night, Draco."

"Good night," Draco replied, nodding curtly, but his mind was not unaffected by what Lupin had said. You learn something new every day, it would seem. Of course he'd never ask Potter for anything, Merlin, no. Or let on that he knew Harry was so obsessed with making sure he was okay. Even now, still unconsciously playing the hero, taking care of everyone, making sure it all worked out. If Darco were the slightest bit maudlin he might find it sweet.

"Draco!"

He turned, and was surprised to see Harry hovering a few feet away from the tower, holding what looked like Draco's very old Nimbus 2001. Draco had a much newer model of the latest reliable broom model--of course--but had donated the Nimbus to the school when he left. "Catch!" Draco's arm shot out and his hand wrapped around the handle tightly, making sure it wouldn't drop. "Look, I'm sorry for what I said. I didn't mean--"

"Shut up, Potter," Draco interrupted, mounting his broom and rising into the open air. "I know you couldn't possibly have thought before you blurted out that remark. Let's go flying." No thank you, no remark about the broomstick's sentimental value although Potter must have known. He hesitated, remember what Lupin had said, but couldn't bear the idea of someone else feeling responsible for him, nor that the "someone else" was Harry James Potter.

"Sun'll be gone soon," Harry said idly, his green eyes watching Draco anxiously, hoping he still wasn't angry. "But it's a good soft breeze today. Not cold, are you?"

"I'm fine. I like the cold, anyway," Draco told him, eyeing his dark green Muggle shirt. "What is that thing called?"

"This? It's a turtleneck. Thought you might notice it, as it's in a Slytherin colour," Harry smiled, but suddenly stopped. Draco was frowning at him, but beneath those grey eyes was a sheen...a strange familiarity he had never noticed in the blond before. What was it? A malice entered his gaze, and something crimson flashed behind those hard shells of vision. Harry's scar itched ominously. "Draco? Was it something I sai--aah!" He grasped his broom handle tightly as, with a sudden swift kick, Malfoy made to fling him off his ride. He kept flat along his broom, one leg dangling off it precipitously. In all their years of working together, Malfoy had never so blatantly tried to kill him. Harry always got fair warning of subtle Death Eater assassination attempts. He grappled with the handle as Malfoy got closer and kicked at his hands. Harry's legs climbed air, trying to get back onto solid wood. Malfoy's were struggling sort of kicks, as if he had difficulty lifting his feet to do the task. "Malfoy, what are you--" The wizard in question gave a soft gasp, as if in pain, before his foot came down before the side of Harry's head and knocked him off his broom.

Blinkingly, Malfoy's hands tightened as he watched the figure grow progressively smaller, the scream less and less. He didn't see the bolt of light shoot out as Harry tried to hover. "Harry?!" he shouted, realising he'd fallen off. His broomstick whined after long being unused to such urgency, but it obeyed his grip and stance. Malfoy plummeted nearly into freefall before the magic kicked in and he aimed straight for Harry. Both looked petrified, but Harry drew up his wand, thinking Malfoy was going to attack him again. Instead, a thin arm came around his chest as he was scooped back up into the air, head pounding, wind knocked out of him, but not a splatter of bouncing flesh on the great lawn. "What's wrong with you?" Malfoy asked over the sound of air rushing past them. He slowed down and began ascending to Harry's Firebolt, which still hovered where he'd left it, parked in midair.

"What's wrong with me?! What the fuck's wrong with you? Are you trying to kill me again, because that's the worst assassination attempt I have ever seen, Malfoy!" Harry screamed at him furiously.

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about! Unless you were performing some complicated spell when you fell off your bloody broom that involved prolonging your life and I wrecked it, then the last time I checked you were plunging over certain death because you can't keep a grip!" replied Draco, somehow always managing to make his exclamations the hissing, narrow-eyed and drawling sort that just reeked of arrogant evil. "Just because you're a good flyer doesn't mean you're perfect, Potter." He was still cradling him across his broomstick, but now he roughly shoved Harry towards the Firebolt. The Auror jumped on immediately, glaring at him. "So don't blame me when you mess up. I didn't do anything. One minute I was talking to you about your turtle and the next you're plummeting away from me. So I think you need more explaining than I do."

"Hang on, you didn't...but you pushed me! You kicked my hands and and head flung me off my broom! You were having a hard time of it too, as a matter of fact," Harry replied, confused. He wheeled his broomstick around to face Draco, but the blond seemed just as confused as he was.

"I did no such thing. You fell off; that's all I know, unless in the short span of time between your attack and your fall, I somehow performed a Memory Charm on myself, a notoriously imprecise procedure, with all the necessary precautions," Draco scoffed. "Something that I find highly unlikely. Are you sure you're all right? Maybe you should be the one checking Lynch for hallucinations and the like."

"No, I'm fine, I'm fine," snapped Harry, but he noticed that meanness from Draco had faded, perhaps hidden beneath the surface. Possession was possible, but he couldn't tell Draco that, in case the spirit would hurt Draco in retaliation for discovery. Or maybe he really was having hallucinations from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. It existed, he was sure, regardless of what the rest of the wizarding world believed. He should talk with Lynch later, after Draco's session. "That was some dive you made, but let's not talk about it ever again. Forget it; I'm going to see Lynch about these...er, these strange ideas," Harry lied. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm wonderful. In fact, I enjoy saving perfectly good flyers from certain doom. Why don't the whole lot of you jump off tomorrow and I"ll play catch?" Draco said, and Harry snorted, long-used to his particular brand of sarcasm. "Let's stop here." Draco was more than willing to not discuss this odd occurrence. In the Malfoy household many things were verboten; you had to keep a running list of topics banned for discussion.

They hovered for a bit, watching the squid do laps in the lake filled with violet diamonds, slivers of sunlight captured across the surface. As if on cue, a breeze passed through, whistling through their hair and ruffling their locks, one pale gold, the other dark ebony. Harry studied him closely, wondering what was going on, thinking maybe he _should_ ask Lynch. Was he eternally indebted to Draco now, or did trying to kill a wizard and then saving his life eventually cancel each other out?

"In our younger and more embarassing days, you ruined flying for me one day," said Draco. "I used to love it, and I still do, but the moment you showed your innate talent in Madame Hooch's class I think I was a bit disappointed from that bit on. Thank Merlin you made up for it with some of the most exciting Quidditch I'd ever played."

"You were good too; you were the only opponent I really cared about. We rather forced each other to improve," Harry said helpfully. "But flying was the only thing that had ever come easily to me in our world. It was something that felt natural, you know, something I felt I had a right to be proud of, and up until that point I didn't know how to be proud of anything." It was as if Malfoy had not been aware of anything he had done. They were, after all, continuing the conversation. He'd have to bring it up with Lynch later.

"I could see from the way you flew that you were a natural, and I hated to admit it but I always held a professional respect for you on a broomstick," Draco said, conceding to the truth despite long years of curtained denial. "For me flying has always felt like being set free. The moment you're on the broomstick all your possibilities are open and you have so many avenues of escape and entry. It's the only place where I've ever felt really secure and above my problems." He sighed, flinging out his arms to the dying light again. "With nothing but sky, everything just drifts away...and you're left with this huge expanse of peace. All your complications and your nasty things just drag behind you like light trunks. You know they're there, but flying shrinks them all down to compact, manageable sizes until they don't really matter. Do you get that feeling, Harry? Like you're being set free from yourself, so that you see things much clearer?"

"Yaargh," mumbled Harry, looking at him strangely. "We're not about to attack any relatives of yours, so why all this personal confession, Draco? Not turning soft, are you?"

"Think of it as a treat." He could hardly believe it himself, but he grinned at Harry. "I'll race you to the front steps! One...two..." and he was off early, true to old Slytherin form. Before Harry could even start the blond figure had halted. Harry thought he could hear the air molecules freeze as he stopped in mid-air and hovered. Levitating before him were Draco Malfoy wearing a smirk on a broom, and a quickly conjured, glowing sign: "The Front Steps: Admittance only to blonds and apologetic dunderheads ." Draco announced, "Come on then, Harry, it says you're allowed."

Harry laughed sheepishly, and breathed a relieved sigh. Implicit forgiveness was good enough for him, even if it was entirely random and came from a possibly insane wizard.