Learning to Live

Chapter 21: Arrested Trails

The first thing Harry always did in the morning was not to try to fix his hair--a lost cause anyway--or freshen up and dress well, as Draco might, or even scowl, as Snape would. He always went quietly to his bureau, opened his photo album, and said good morning to his mother and father. Then he would say hello to Sirius' mirror, even if no one ever replied anymore. It was a little morning ritual he tried to do every day, and it made Harry feel safe.

If he was in a good mood he'd climb the steps to the Great Hall, and have a good breakfast there. Today, he lit the fire and threw some powder to call up Draco. He was already dressed in robes of icy blue, and raised an eyebrow at Harry's red shorts.

"Bit drafty for teaching, aren't those?" he asked. Harry saw a comb go up and Draco smoothed his blond hair so it fell easily down, then brushed it to the sides to stop it from obstructing his vision. He was the only wizard Harry knew who brushed his hair even when it wasn't a special occasion.

"Making yourself nice for Lynch?" Harry retorted, and spoke quickly before Draco could reply. "Anyway, I have a few errands to run for Snape. Do you want me to get anything?"

"No, but thanks for asking," Draco smiled widely. It was so unnerving to see at this early hour that Harry extinguished the fire without even saying goodbye. He lounged in his rooms for a while, eating breakfast there and reading a few Quidditch magazines. He was already growing used to these rooms, and to thinking of them as his. He also was liking the permanence of a peaceful, safe job after four years of Auror work and a lifetime of trying to defeat the murderer of your parents.

Life had been fairly good to him after the whole finding out how to destroy Voldemort thing. He'd found a second job, a good place to stay, with plenty of good memories attached, an open hierarchy with growing promotional potential, and lots of time to seek out a girlfriend over the summer. Plus he could ref Quidditch matches and attend them in the season. His father's old best friend taught here and he could usually get something professional published with Snape's scathing but brilliant pointers.

And even if Draco's condition and Darko's party threatened his happiness, they were all normal things he could deal with, that no one was ever going to die from. Draco was being rehabilitated--if not suspiciously--by Lynch, and Darko's party wasn't favourable in Wizengamot. The only thing that still didn't fit with life was Voldemort's continued nagging presence.

The rage that filled Harry at the sound of his name still did not abate. That sharp fire of anger rose in his head, and sometimes he'd rub his scar to wonder if Voldemort felt it. Did Voldemort know that Harry was rebuilding while he, the great Dark Lord, was nothing at all?

The thought that he still existed in some state was too much for Harry at times, but with the war over he always told himself to be contented with what blessings he had. It was only in the dark and lonely spots of night he doubted how he had done. Was he really the saviour, or could he have saved more lives? He sighed, and decided to spend the rest of the time drawing monocles and van Dykes on the faces of Quidditch players until he would have to follow Draco around the school.

It wasn't at all difficult to tail Draco. The wizard was like a machine with time. He was in his office a half hour early, where he prepared for the first class. Harry kept his Invisibility Cloak tight around himself so it didn't snag, and settled in a corner of the classroom to watch. He felt a bit dirty, spying on his friend like this, but curiosity took over conscience. Draco glanced at a small blue vial in his hand, watching the light glint away from it. As if pondering whether he should take it, he turned it around in his palm before shaking his head. He pocketed it, then stood beside his desk.

The bustle of voices entering the room was unlike those that formerly entered that of his own classroom. An element of seriousness, of maturity, entered these children's voices as soon as they stepped over the threshold. Perhaps it was the way Draco looked, or the way he spoke. His professionalism was no different from Harry's. But while Harry expected them to be children, Draco expected them to be students.

Although he hated to really admit it, Harry thought Draco was a good teacher. His students understood, he led them from theory to application and let the quicker ones go on ahead, while giving subtle recaps to those who fell behind. More demanding than he needed to be, certainly, with a drive almost like Snape's, but there was no chance of leaving Draco's class confused. The only reason anyone might be distraught was the amount of preparation he assigned, which was far more than Harry would have ever chosen for his own students. Draco never insulted, even if he was less of a humanist, but he always answered questions clearly and let his students stay to ask for more.

Harry snuggled into his Invisibility Cloak a bit more in the corner behind Draco's desk. Draco worked hard and looked proper doing it. In so many ways like and yet unlike his father, he could move, dignified, around the room as he lectured and full of his usual aristocratic drawl that stretched vowels out to France. Yet it would be a different sort of friendlier tone that answered the students. It spoke of a comfort level that did not ask more than what both wanted to invest into the relationship. If he wasn't a professor he might have been an actor.

When the last class (today's sixth year class studied Patroni) before lunch ended, Draco shifted papers on theories about Patronus forms and frowned. A pause as he put his head into his hands, elbows pointy against the wood of his desk. He seemed to be struggling with something in his eye, and was shaking his head. Was someone casting Imperius on Draco? Was he going to faint? Suddenly he gave a sigh and looked up, wearily. He reached for his red correction ink bottle. How fluid the movements became, the muscles and joints working together to produce this masterpiece of grace. Harry had been transfixed for the better part of the hour--CRASH.

"AARGH!" Draco screamed through gritted teeth. He toppled off his chair and crashed to the ground on all fours. His shuddering limbs tried to keep him upright, but he could barely manage it. Red ink spilled in puddles like blood around him. "No...no more..." A dry sob was wrenched from his throat, and he put ink-stained fingers to his perfect hair, trying to squeeze out his brains. Harry didn't dare to move. His own scar burned crazily. What if he found out something important about Draco? There was nothing he could do other than shake him anyway.

Suddenly Draco howled and banged his head against the hard, heavy desk with so much force it moved. Wincing through the pain, Harry watched as, with slippery, shaking fingers, Draco uncorked the blue vial and took a tiny, shaking sip. A shudder ran through his body so violently that a mix of blood and potion blossomed from his lips and dribbled off his chin, making new darker rivulets of pain against ink as his body rejected the draught. He moaned in agony, rocking on his knees as he tried to wipe the blood off, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. Draco was slowing down, growing docile, and he pitched forward gradually.

The pain in Harry's scar grew as Draco's lips moved with the whisper, "to sleep now," yet it was not with his voice that he spoke. In horror, Harry clutched his burning scar as a million colours unfolded before him, flashing through his vision. Dimly, he could see Draco's golden-white head slip with a sickening pop against the floor, now dripping with pure blood and correcting ink, mixed in a gross parody of blood-red rose petals.

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

Then the pain is gone. Harry sits up and sees that he is again in one of Draco's dreams. Is this what happens because of the potion, or is it what the potion makes Draco forget? His Draco-self sits on the floor of their filing room in Auror Headquarters, going through old case files. Spread all around him are these manila files, thick with photos, recordings, and papers.

It is peaceful, and a welcome change from the bustle of the office. At least, until a very loud voice, much louder than it could be in reality, bursts through the quiet. Harry watches as his Auror self appears, giving off an aura of scarlet and gold. It fills the room with its glory, and Draco has to squint to see the real person within. Harry grows a little self-conscious as he watches from Draco's perspective.

"Er, sorry to bother you, Draco, but Ron, Hermione and I are just ducking out for some coffee. You want anything tonight?" and it is a loud, room-shaking voice. In this dream, Harry seems giantesque.

It's with a normal quiet voice that Draco says, "no thanks. Have fun; I'll finish up in here."

"If you're sure," Auror Harry booms uncertainly, and he takes his glorious light and bombastic distraction out with him. The room is colder and darker, and Draco casts a spell for light. So this is how Draco sees him in his dreams. The idea is not at all pleasing to him, for it is no different from the public's view, yet Draco has always acted as if he sees the true Harry inside. It cannot be the piercing measure of his stony pale eyes. Harry realises that Draco has always given him the chance to prove he is not just the Boy-Who-Lived, not the man who just walked out of the room, and suddenly he is grateful, because through Draco's dream-eyes he can make out the glimmerings of a normal-looking Harry who bears no scar.

Draco turns back to the files, and Harry sees that they aren't case files at all. The look of them is similar, but the labels are very different. "First Birthday," they say, and "First Smile," and "First Tooth." Draco funnels these to the side, trying to organise them into "firsts." These folders are all white. Pure and pristine.

Then there are the pink ones, the ones labeled, "First Year," "Second Year," and so on and so forth. They grow progressively pinker until "Seventh Year" they turn blue. From then on are the blue and black folders. As Draco, Harry can see every little fibre within them, bonded together to make up the files. They shimmer for a moment as his pale fingers brush across one, and he watches the walls of the Archival Gallery silently shatter and fall away. Green and silver parlour walls brush up against the void, then settle down in glimmering soft particles around him.

A pale hand brushes his shoulder, then his cheek. It's a beautiful woman in diaphanous white robes and a silver belt running across her narrow waist. Her hair is of golden silk, and gleams with an otherworldly mist. Harry is looking at Narcissa Malfoy, fresh and young as Draco remembers her from his childhood.

"Still at work, darling?" she asks, her voice like musical charms. Harry has never heard her talk much, or with such gentleness, but he decides at once that it is very beautiful.

The white-blond young man looks up and smiles, pressing his cheek against her hand. "Just a little more, Mum. I've just got these things to organise. You know how it is."

"Of course, Draco dear, my little dragon," Narcissa smiles, and Harry is enthralled. She is grace personified; anyone would be transfixed, and her namesake is no coincidence.

"Mother," Draco says, sounding a bit embarassed, and Narcissa lets go of his shoulder.

"Yes, you are of age now, aren't you?" Narcissa asks lightly. "I'll have Milly send up some Fizzing Whizbees. You'll never outgrow those, will you? You won't outgrow me, will you? Not too busy?"

"No, Mother," Draco sighs, and tries to turn back to his work. Harry watches as Narcissa fades into the air, still smiling. Draco seems to have remembered something, and is suddenly alarmed. "Mother? Mum?" There's no answer, and he looks up, dropping his files. "Mummy?" Frantic, he rises and searches the doorless room. "I'm sorry! Come back!" There's not even a golden lock of hair, or a whiff of her aura. Furious with himself, Draco returns to the room, kicking aside some black folders as he walks.

Papers slide out, emitting screams, and figures in grey robes crawl out of them slowly. He's not sure if he can breathe, and Harry suddenly realises that the robed ones aren't just appearing from open files. They're opening other black folders, from which come more screams. They're stepping on the white ones, soiling them. A few of them are tearing them up, and the blue one, the lovely one with Narcissa in it, that's nothing but a few scraps of paper and a piece of shimmering silver from her robes. Instead of the gentle scent of honeysuckle, there's black smoke, burning and acrid and filled with cries of pain and fury. Stuck in the centre, Draco turns around and around and around. Harry can feel, somewhere in reality, his scar burning into his forehead.

There's a big black folder, smoking at the edges and cracking wide open of its own volition. Harry knows the high-pitched laughter inside it all too well. Its soot and ashes are spreading outwards and growing, each powdery speck a legion in an army that stains the other folders. One of the pink ones, bursts open, and he hears young Draco exclaiming, "for the whole team? Thanks, Dad! I'll be good." but the sound reverses and plays again, "Thanks, Voldemort! I'll be good." If it weren't so real Harry might have burst out laughing.

The white ones are completely taken over. The blue ones are battered but resistant. The pink are stained and damaged. In the middle of it all, Harry knows Draco is being taken over, one memory at a time.

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

With a groan, Harry pulled his Invisibility Cloak off and crawled across the empty classroom to where Draco lay, still and silent. Was he still in his nightmare, or was it real?

"Draco," Harry heard himself say numbly. "Wake up." He knelt and gave him a gentle shake. It was nearly impossible to avoid the blood and ink on his light blue robes, and Harry was reminded of how the folders had been stained.

"Hullo. What happened?" Draco groaned, pushing himself achingly from the floor. He gave a wince, clutched at his forearm and fell back down. "Why am I lying in...is that blood or ink?"

"A bit o'both, and you don't want to know," Harry said. "Does this happen every time you take Lynch's potion?"

"Yes, of course, it's normal to wake up drenched in blood! Shit...this hurts. What time is it? Oh, and help me up, will you?" There was a tender spot on his forehead that was bluing quickly, and spread under the matted mass of bloodied hair. A cut lip drew back to reveal a bitten tongue, and Draco looked down at the hand covering his painful Mark. Beneath its whiteness, blood oozed out through the cloth and his fingers.

"I think it's still lunchtime. There aren't any students running in." Obligingly, Harry put an arm around and pulled Draco up against him so he was half-sitting.

"Thanks. I should not have foregone the morning dose." Draco squeezed his arm and groaned. It looked like he was fighting not to cry. "That hurts."

"Do you always have dreams like that?" Harry asked, even though he felt he already knew the answer.

"What dreams?" Draco replied, frowning. He turned his head to the side, coughing into his hand. Small flecks of blood landed on his bloody palms.

"You mean you don't remember?"

"I'm not supposed to. That's the the potion does, so I'm not bothered by my hallucinations," Draco said, and sat up with a groan. "It calms me down too, so I don't act them out. Are you really seeing my dreams?"

"Pretty much," Harry said, shrugging. "What do you feel before this happens?"

Draco closed his eyes, still tired and weak. This was a different Draco from yesterday; this was Draco off the constancy of the potion, miserable but normal. "There's this splitting pain in my head, all over, and the world...changes." He put a hand out as if he could feel the smoke again. "Everything dies. It all winds down. But I never get far enough to know why. The potion doesn't let me remember, and it's a good thing too. Otherwise I'd be walking around seeing everything in Apocalypse-mode. Instead I'm just sore and irritable if I don't take it regularly."

"Which is a drastic change from your usual," Harry remarked dryly, but he saw the tired look in Draco's face and worried once more. "Well come on, let's get you to the Hospital Wing. Lunch will be over before you know it. Students might see you."

"No. I shall not have any publicity about it," Draco protested at once, pulling away from Harry. His fingers clawed into his chair as he pulled himself up, skin white from the force of the effort. He pointed his wand to his hands, face and hair and muttered, "Abluo," then "Scourgify" for his robes and the floor. "What a mess..."

Without waiting for any consent, Harry reached over and yanked back Draco's left sleeve. The Dark Mark still bled, oozing out a steady flow of crimson down Draco's arm. "When did you take off the bandage?"

"Never mind that. I'm famished. Do I look like I've been writhing on the floor in agony much?" Draco asked.

"A little," Harry had to admit, rather because Draco looked sore and tired and had a huge bruise on his forehead. "You're not okay at all, Draco. You have to listen to me. Let's go to Dumbledore. He'll keep it quiet, and no one will have to know. This has something to do with Voldemort, or my scar wouldn't hurt every time you look at me!"

"Look, just stop it, Potter, all right? This isn't some prophetic vendetta between you and him! You destroyed him; he's locked up, and you don't need to worry about it. My own psychological problems I can deal with, but not your hero-delusions, so again, leave it!" Draco insisted, and staggered off towards the Great Hall.

Sighing, Harry picked up his Invisibility Cloak and folded it against his arm. There was nothing he could do, really, that wouldn't invade Draco's privacy or his wishes. But how much more private could you get other than someone's very dreams and thoughts? He could almost sense Draco's fear threaded into his anger. Draco didn't want another war. He wanted to believe it was all done and over with. Harry wasn't going through denial; Draco was! "Right," he said to himself, and chased after his Auror partner.

Before he could catch Draco, however, Hedwig smacked into the back of his head with a Special Edition of the Daily Prophet. "LUCIUS MALFOY NOW MINISTER" and in smaller headlines on the side, "AUROR RE-EVALUATION" gave its sinister warning. Harry's eyes had barely the time to scan the articles before shock kicked in. "Oh hell! Draco, have you seen this?" Harry yelled down the hallway, just as Draco was nearing the staff door.

"Stop. We're done, okay, Harry? Let's just eat, and we'll talk it over later," Draco said quietly, as Harry panted up to him. "Enough about my father. Enough about our jobs. I've just lost a lot of blood and I'm sore. I'm tired."

"All Aurors in active service are gonna be required to log how much magic we're using, for what purposes. Our badges are to be recalibrated for monitoring, and there'll be personal re-evaluations for the lot. Draco, this is serious, you can't just run off for lunch now, we've got to see what's going on," Harry protested. "We have to get to the Ministry. Give your classes to Lupin; your girlfriend's overstaffed anyway. Let's go to London. We've got to turn your father around. This was his first order as Minister of Magic."

That did it. Draco's pale eyes grew just fractionally wider, but he said nothing as he pushed the door open. Harry watched as his bony frame bent down, kissed Lynch on the lips, and spoke with her. She frowned, nodded, then wrapped two roast chicken legs in her napkin and slipped them quietly into the pocket of his robes. He smiled, kissed her on the cheek, and met Harry again at the staff door. "You've got what you wanted," he said, handing Harry a chicken leg. "Let's go."

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

"Level one," wheezed the lift, and a dozen paper aeroplanes whizzed out.

"Nervous?" Harry asked.

"No," he lied, as they stepped out into the corridor. "Aurors Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy to see the Minister of Magic," he told the harried secretary at the gilt-edged marble desk, who was hurriedly snatching interoffice memos and stabbing them with his wand.

"Just in there," he muttered, then 'accidentally' set fire to one.

"Don't let us keep you," Draco replied, and opened the dark mahogany doors to Lucius Malfoy's new spacious office. He stood at the window, looking out at the fake weather of fog at midday with his hands clasped behind his back. A small cold feeling began in the pit of Draco's stomach and worked its way up to his throat. It was just like when he was a child being called up to his father's study over some infraction. He looked over to Harry, who was rubbing his scar furiously, and said nothing.

"Draco, Mr Potter. I knew I'd be seeing you very soon, following the papers," Lucius drawled haughtily, and he turned around, still in his Minister ceremonial regalia. It felt like the usual formal wear for him.

"This place is rather empty for your first few hours of office, Dad," Draco remarked, never breaking eye contact. If he'd been an Auror for this long and still had to look around for traps and guards, it was already too late.

"I sent everyone away to resolve complaints and affairs that were long overdue. It would appear the previous Minister was very inefficient. Not difficult to believe of a Weasley," Lucius smirked. "And after six years, of course, how could I refuse a visit from my only son?"

"You seemed to find it very easy to leave my owls unanswered during all those years, so I can't see how difficult it would be to do the same now," he replied stiffly. Why was he even here? Worthless talk, all of it. Something had to be done.

"Again, you place personal amusement and pleasure over practicality. Is he this absurd when he works with you, Mr Potter?" Lucius asked lightly, and Draco had to wonder when Lucius had taken to publicly humiliating his son in front of his co-workers. Of course, he'd never met his true co-workers. There was no precedent. After all these years of missing his father despite their differences, Draco still found him to be insufferable and dangerous. But he was family, and Draco had missed him.

"Draco's one of the better Aurors I know, Minister," Harry replied. Oh the idiocy of the move, to make Draco seem so likeable by the very people Lucius despised! They'd never get their argument out now.

"Is he?" Lucius Malfoy arched an eyebrow, and Draco knew he was in for it. Time to act quickly.

"Two things I want to clear up at once," he said. "One, rescind your order for the changes in the Aurors. Two, why was Hermione attacked for her children?" It was a question that had bothered him since the incident, and now that he could think clearly, potion-free, its urgency returned to him. He hadn't expected to ask it, but it was out there now, burning in the air, waiting to be doused.

"Why should I tell you any of that?" asked Lucius with his usual arrogant confidence. This was going to get nowhere.

"You're my father. I demand to know what it is you're up to and if you're going to do something foolish again," Draco insisted, secretly alarmed. Flashes of light were appearing before his eyes, confusing and blinding him. He tried to focus on Lucius. "Just tell me the truth for once!"

"I won't rescind my order for the monitoring of the Aurors. You have all been allowed to run on too long a leash, and we need to determine which of your privileges must be curtailed at once. As for why you care about defending that Mudblood when you chose to save a few dozen worthless Muggles instead of your mother, I'll never know," Lucius hissed. The way he said 'Muggles' made it sound like he was talking about 'animals,' or 'creatures' or 'filth.' But it was that last bit...Draco closed his eyes, feeling his fists tighten and tremble. He was so tired. He just wanted to sleep and give in to the dreams.

What Father had said was true. He had chosen to save a scattering of Muggles instead of his mother. His own mother. Draco's hands were trembling again, the same way they did before an attack. It wouldn't be long now, before he'd have to take his potion. He didn't want to know what it did to him. "I'm sorry." When had his voice ever been so timid?

"You should be. What sort of son did I raise, to choose Muggles over his own flesh and pure blood?" Lucius asked again, and he strode towards him. His fingers shook all the more violently, and he tried to focus on the sound of his father's voice. Explosions from white stars kept appearing before his eyelids, and he opened them to try to stave off the blinding light. "You'll be remembered as a blood traitor, Draco. Narcissa died because of you."

Of their own volition, his hands went up and snatched at Lucius' throat, pressing in hard. His father's identical pale eyes bulged, and he felt two pairs of hands on him, Lucius' trying to loosen his grip, and Harry's trying to pull him away. "Let me...go..."

"Guards," Lucius croaked, and his vision suddenly spun, colours swirling as he stumbled, feeling nauseous. A simple Confundus jinx, but he could hear, dimly through it all, his own father say, with panting hisses, "in his pocket there is a vial given to him by his neuromancer, Lynch, to control these bursts. Give the entire thing to him, and he won't give you any trouble."

"You give him that much and you'll kill him! How do you know he has it in the first place?" Ah. Harry. Good show, Harry.

Nevertheless, his lips were being pried open. Cool liquid tingled down his throat, nearly choking him with the sensation. He struggled against the guards, but even as his vision came back into focus around Lucius' satisfied look, he could feel himself opening up, deep within. Harry was arguing in Lucius' passive face, and Draco felt just like his father. Nothing could touch him. He was free and open and clear. If he had had any control over his muscles, he could have smiled. He dangled happily.

"Gentlemen, please bring my son to the cell beside the prisoner specified in Auror File 032487, at the Lockhouse, if you please. Charges of attempted murder and past unpunished offences. Mr Potter, I have things to attend to, and if you'd like to follow Draco's violent actions against a Minister of Magic you're more than welcome. I'm sure your age-old enemy would like a few words. Good day, as always," Lucius Malfoy said, as Draco hung limply in the two guards' hold.

He watched as (a red in the face and furious) Harry was ushered out before him, then dimly registered that his feet were being dragged along the floor as he was taken out too. It didn't matter. He was going to be free soon.

Percy Weasley met them at the lift entrance, frantic and out of breath. Draco barely heard him say, "It was Lynch and Creevey!" before he swam in familiar inky darkness.