Wall of Glass

Written for the LiveJournal Harry/Draco World Cup. My prompt was the Chariot, which can represent perseverance, triumph over obstacles and the merging of opposites. Read more about the card here.

Many thanks to C for patience beyond the call of duty; to my beta readers: tien_riu, janicechess, melusinahp and sev1970; to scrtkpr; and to everyone on Team Canon.

Outside the gates of Azkaban, Draco Malfoy raised his arm against the diffuse morning light.

A rickety old rowboat bobbed on the brown-grey water in the distance and, beside it, a weather-beaten old man stood waiting. As Draco made his way across the rocky shoreline, the old man turned and climbed in. Draco followed, stumbling only slightly as the boat shifted under his weight. He eased himself on to the only other seat, facing his travel companion. Then, without a single word, without even a glance at his passenger, the old man tapped twice on the side of the boat with his wand, and they lurched forward out to sea.

It was not long before they broke beyond the damp mist of the prison island and into blue skies and radiant sunshine. There must have been some sort of shield charm around the boat, Draco thought, because he felt no breeze off the water. Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the bright light, but even after several hours, the sun had not managed to drive the cold from his bones.

By the time the rolling hills of the mainland came into view, the sun was well above the horizon. As they closed the distance to the shore, however, Draco saw that the hills were in fact jagged, uninviting cliffs, and what he had taken for a small village was nothing more than a row of ramshackle huts, long disused. Faded signs hung loosely above their boarded-up entries, hinting at a former haven for holiday makers: an old bait and tackle shop; a fish and chips stall; an ice cream stand; and further down the beach, the remains of a carousel, now nothing but a series of horseless metal posts jutting out of an eroded wooden platform.

The old man moored the boat with agile speed, and waited, staring at him. Draco hoisted himself out of the boat and without a word, the man pushed off again, soon fading to a small dark speck against the sea.

Draco looked around. The warden had told him he would be transported to an Apparition Point, but Draco hadn't expected a place so bleak. Then again, that was Azkaban's speciality.

From his robes, he drew the wand that he had been issued that morning. It was the standard one given to all prisoners upon their release: eight inches, pine, gnome hair core. It was so thin and lightweight that Draco was sure any spell of significant power would reduce it to splinters. But that was irrelevant, because regardless of how much energy or focus Draco put into it, this wand would do only what it had been designed to do: basic OWL-level spells and limited travel to Ministry-approved destinations within Britain.

He waved the wand and cast a wordless levitation spell at the ground. A handful of grey stones and shell shards rose into the air. Draco directed them over the water, counted to ten and then let them plummet in.

It was the first magic he had performed in three years, and it was completely useless. He flung the wand away.

"Brilliant," he muttered, kicking at the ground and sending a shower of pebbles and grit into the air. "Fucking brilliant!"

The water lapped against the shore, smothering his words.

Draco turned to the hut with the faded bait sign, the peeling paint on the door, the cracked glass. And he hated it. He hated ... everything. He gave the door a solid kick, and then another and another until his foot throbbed. "I've had enough!" he shouted at the worthless piece of wood, but still the undulating waves broke over his words, swallowing them in a wordless reproach, refusing to carry them beyond this shallow curve of land and water.

Draco threw himself hard against the wall of the hut, his breath rising fast and painfully from his heaving chest. His shaking legs drew him to the ground. He closed his eyes and imagined the caress of fingers through his hair, the hushed, reassuring promises his mother used to whisper in the rare moments in that last year of the war when they were alone and certain that no one else could hear, when the Manor almost seemed like it was theirs again. You've been so brave, darling, she had said. Just be brave a little longer. It'll be over soon, and then everything will be all right.

She had lied, of course. To protect him, yes, and maybe to convince herself too, but they had been lies nonetheless. And where had any of it, lies or truth, got either of them?

Soon, Draco's breathing steadied and the pain in his foot subsided. He walked to the water, crouched down and splashed some on his face. He licked at the drops on his lips, forgetting that it was seawater. It left him thirsty.

His new wand lay among the pebbles and the twisted, slimy strands of seaweed. He wiped it against the sleeve of his robe, then held it to his mouth and spoke another simple spell. Water poured out of it, tepid, like from a glass left too long in the sun, but at least it didn't taste of metal and old wash water. Draco drank and then looked around.

He could not stay on this isolated stretch of midge-infested beach in the fucking middle of bloody nowhere all day. His options, however, were few. He could, if he wished, Apparate to the Ministry of Magic or St Mungo's, but Draco had no desire ever to set foot in the first, and he was nowhere near ready for the latter.

He could Apparate home, if there were still a place his family called home, but the contents of Malfoy Manor were reportedly in storage somewhere, at least whatever hadn't been lost in the impeccably orchestrated series of damage claims after the war. No Death Eater family had been left untouched, and with no one to act in their defense, none had seen its fortunes so staggeringly depleted as the Malfoys. Such was the thanks his mother had received for helping Potter win the war.

The Ministry also allowed Apparition access to three additional approved locations, such as friends and relatives, but when the warden processing his release had given him the forms to fill out, Draco had simply pushed them back at him, still blank.

"You sure about this?" the warden had asked, and Draco nodded. Goyle had gone to America after his own better-timed and infinitely more successful trial, and Draco had not heard from him since. Among the remaining Slytherins, none were friends, and none owed him any favours. Beyond that, well, he doubted he and his former cellmate would have much in common in the outside world, and the only person who had ever visited Draco had stopped trying to see him a long time ago.The warden shrugged. "Suit yourself. That speeds up the confirmation process, at least." He stamped the form. It read "Approved" in wet red letters.

Draco walked the length of the rocky shore and then back again. It had been a long time since he had Apparated, and he thought it wise to practise first. That was allowed. He focused on the nearest cliff top. Destination, determination ... When he couldn't remember the third "D", he threw caution to the wind and relied instead on instinct. He closed his eyes, and in his mind, he saw himself, whole, on the cliff above him, and then he turned. Seconds later, he was stumbling across the coarse grass and heather towards the edge of the precipice. He stared for a long time at the jagged rocks below and the violent foamy waves that crashed against them.

For three long years, Draco had anticipated this moment. Sometimes, it had been the only thing to keep him from feigning illness and begging the Azkaban Healer for one of the black pills he had heard about. But now, freedom felt like the wrong size robes. A questionable fit, something that would need to be taken in, altered, and taken in yet again until it finally fit right.

Draco wanted it to fit right.

He closed his eyes, turned again and set his mind on the only destination that was any option at all.

The shops in Diagon Alley were much as he remembered, though Fortescue's was now home to a posh French brasserie and Flourish and Blott's and several other shops had moved into new buildings that looked purpose-built and were nearly devoid of their original character. The sign above the wand shop still said Ollivander's, but Draco knew the old man had died right after the war -- a week after Draco's mother had been exonerated, and just days before Draco's own trial. Back then, Draco had thought the timing would be to his advantage -- the less said about what had happened in the Malfoy dungeons, the better. But then Rodolphus Lestrange and the last few Death Eaters still on the loose had obliterated half of Diagon Alley, killing the acting Minister for Magic and nearly getting Potter, too. The attack sparked such an outrage that the Wizengamot had pushed through a dozen pending trials in order to prove that they were doing something to ensure the security of the wizarding world.

Not even Potter's public condemnation of the Ministry's actions, published simultaneously in both The Daily Prophet and The Quibbler, had stopped them. While the hero lay in St Mungo's, having half the bones in his body regrown, Draco was sent to Azkaban.

At least his mother had been spared. At the time, Draco had actually been grateful for that.

At Gringotts, the goblin that escorted him was all business, though Draco suspected he took the hairpin turns along the narrow cart track with a recklessness the creature would never have attempted when his father was the passenger. Back then, Lucius Malfoy had commanded respect and fear, and the family vault had been a welcoming cove filled with glittering stacks of coins and precious heirlooms; now, his father was wasting away behind bars and the vault was a barren tomb. Draco's shuffling footsteps kicked up a cloud of dust from the floor and echoed against the naked walls. He scooped up a handful of Galleons from the small pile that remained and brushed past his waiting escort.

He took a room at the Leaky, ignoring the look on Tom the innkeeper's face that told him he had got better than a Malfoy deserved. But the man's scorn faltered when Draco offered to pay for a full week in advance.

"Well, I wouldn't normally take it ..." Tom began, eyes focused on the wall behind Draco, "but seeing as how you're ... well ..." The words faded into uncomfortable silence, and Draco fixed him with a knowing look as the innkeeper's fat fingers closed around the coins.

From the tiny window in his room under the eaves, Draco watched Diagon Alley awaken. A shop gate rattled open while a delivery wagon laden with shiny new cauldrons teetered up the cobblestone street. The bell above Madam Malkin's door jingled as a very pregnant woman in a blue hooded cloak pushed it open and wobbled inside. A boy waived a newspaper in the air.

"Daily Prophet. Get yer paper here!" he cried. "More Death Eaters released from Azkaban! Minister for Magic refuses to stand down. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes celebrate five years in Diagon Alley. Two-for-one vouchers, this edition only! Two-for-one Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Get yer Prophet here!"

Draco pulled the shutters and the window closed and rested his forehead against the darkened glass until the acidic taste in the back of his throat was gone. He lay down, not bothering to remove his cloak or his boots. He slept for fourteen hours straight. He didn't dream.

He would, the warden explained, be allowed no visitors the first month. They claimed this "facilitated assimilation", but Draco saw it for what it really was: another essential move in a game he had long lost. After that, Draco was told, his visiting hour would be the first Tuesday of the month. That was seven weeks away. By the end of his first day, it seemed an eternity.

"That's better than 'ow it woz before," his cellmate said when Draco complained about the long wait. "My first time in, they weren't allowing no visitors at all. But You-Know-'Oo's Death Eaters eventually got in anyway -- and that crazy bitch woz there and got me wiv the Imperius curse again. Talk about bad luck, eh?"

"Yeah," Draco said, trying to find a comfortable position on the thin mattress pad on his bunk. "Sounds like you've had it rough." Above him, his cellmate continued talking, even though it was past lights out and the guard had already cast one sharp warning for silence through the bars of their door.

"Well, it ain't been easy, that's for sure," he agreed. "But it's better now, like I said. Treatin' everyone a bit more 'uman-like." He lowered his voice. "I'm gettin' out pretty soon, though. I know 'Arry Potter personally, see." Draco's eyes flew open against the thick darkness of the cell. "Used to be his personal escort on the Knight Bus. 'E knows I didn't have no choice when them Death Eaters came. Not like some--" He stopped abruptly. "Well, anyway, we've talked. 'E said 'e'd see wot 'e could do for me. 'Course that was before that whole Diagon Alley mess, but I reckon if 'Arry Potter says he's gonna do somefink, he'll do it, you know wot I mean?"

"Right," Draco mumbled, turning on to his side to face the stone wall. What would we do without Potter? he thought. The question was still hanging silently in the thick, humid air a long time later, while Stan Shunpike snored noisily and other sounds that Draco didn't want to try too hard to decipher drifted from the neighbouring cells through the night.

After Shunpike's comment about Potter, Draco thought it wise to take everything he said with a grain of salt, but he turned out, nonetheless, to be a useful connection. He taught Draco a few clever tricks that made navigating their area of the prison less disorienting; he suggested that, given the choice, working with him in Laundry Services was preferable to Food Services because although both areas were warm, there were fewer rats in Laundry; and he spoke from experience about what was safe to eat in the canteen, and what was sure to come back to haunt a man by the end of the day.

"Anyfink wiv beans, look the other way," he sagely advised as they joined the lunch queue one afternoon a few days after Draco's arrival. "Now that," he said, pointing at a tray of stringy grey meat and gravy, "actually ain't as bad as it looks." He nodded to the dinner lady, and Draco's stomach lurched as a large ladleful of the greasy substance oozed across a metal lunch tray. "The mash is all right when they don't add too much water to it," Shunpike continued, and a thick mound of yellowish potato landed on top of the meat and gravy. "But I'd stay away from the veg if I woz you. I pulled a worm the size of a goblin's cock out of the broccoli once."

Draco didn't want to know the circumstances under which Stan Shunpike had ever had the opportunity to get that up close and personal with a goblin, so he didn't ask. But when the dinner lady turned her scowl on him, Draco hesitated only for a moment before saying, "I'll have what he's having."

Mealtimes afforded the most convenient moments for Shunpike to offer Draco some pointers on who to talk to, who to avoid, and who among the other prisoners was too unpredictable to ever be sure of. Not that there were many occasions for socializing in Azkaban. Aside from the twenty minutes allowed for breakfast, lunch and dinner, the prisoners were expected to put in their eight hours of work and keep quiet. So far, Shunpike was the only person who had spoken to Draco at all.

Casting a surreptitious glance towards a table packed with several hulking men Draco hadn't seen before, Shunpike quietly rattled off their names. "Adams, Carlyle, Hicks, MacKay. Southwark gang. Pretty mean chaps, especially MacKay. Left a Vauxhall alleyway smeared with the remains of a couple of sorry Muggle poofs," he said. "But they're close wiv a couple of the old guards, so they get certain ... special liberties. Anyone disappears in the middle of the night, it usually means them guys have earned themselves some fun." Shunpike shovelled down another mouthful of potato while Draco snapped his attention away from the table, just as one of the men sitting there looked up and caught his eye. Draco kept his head down and stared at the sickly looking tray of food in front of him. He had taken a few bites, but his appetite was most definitely gone now.

Their conversation waned while Shunpike ate and Draco moved the food around on his tray. Snippets of chatter carried over from neighbouring tables, but mostly, the room was filled with the clink of busy forks and spoons against lunch trays. Then, just as Draco was picking a long, wiry black hair out of his meat and mash, an angry screech of metal against metal rang out, and the heavy steel doors to the canteen swung open.

A rumble of protest rolled through the room. There were still eight minutes left to lunch -- and no one liked having their meals cut short.

Every head turned towards the door. And then there was silence.

Standing in the entrance to the canteen were half a dozen Aurors in full uniform.

Beside Draco, Shunpike's fork fell to the floor with a ringing clatter. In a flash, he was on his feet. "'Arry!" he called, arm bursting frantically into the air. "'Arry!" Shunpike clambered up on to his chair and addressed the staring crowd. "That's 'Arry Potter," he yelled.

The mood in the room shifted instantly. Discontent melted into jubilation, and as the room erupted into applause, Draco saw him. Potter. Almost hidden at the back of the group of Aurors. He looked like someone struggling to find a polite word of thanks for an incredibly inappropriate birthday present. But no one else seemed to notice -- everyone, even the Southwark gang, was cheering as loudly as their lungs would allow. Hooting, hollering, whistling through their fingers. Someone started pounding on one of the table tops, a two-beat rhythm, and the room was alive with just one word: Pot-ter, Pot-ter, Pot-ter, Pot-ter. The gratitude of a hundred men pulsed through the room, while the bearer of the name they chanted flushed as red as his scarlet robes and the other Aurors stepped aside, opening a path for him.

Finally, Potter smiled, raised his hand to the crowd and took a small step forward. Four Azkaban guards, wands at the ready, swarmed around him as he reached out and shook a few hands. Just like the Great Hall after the Battle, everyone wanted to get closer, to touch him, to tell him how much they owed him. Potter nodded as they spoke, smiled as they thanked him -- these men who lived behind bars and had nearly every minute of every day regimented for them -- these men were thanking Potter for giving them back their freedom.

A lot of good it's doing them here, Draco thought as he watched Potter make his way along the edge of the crowd. Shunpike was still on his chair, his enthusiastic calls managing to somehow rise above all the others, so that Potter couldn't have ignored him if he had wanted to. He was getting closer now, and to Draco the room was getting uncomfortably hot; his insides were writhing -- in rebellion against the slop he had forced himself to eat, and out of a sudden, intense fear that at any second Potter would notice him. He wanted nothing more than to disappear. But he was frozen in his place. He could not move.

Beside him, Shunpike was now scrambling down, stretching out his hand just inches in front of Draco's face. He was pumping Potter's arm up and down, calling him "mate" and giving every impression of being dangerously close to wetting himself in excitement. Draco gripped the edge of his seat and tried not to watch.

"All right, Stan?" Potter said. "You hanging in there?"

It was, Draco realized, true: Shunpike did know him. Did that mean the rest was true as well? Was Potter really trying to get him out?

Then Potter's hand slipped out of Shunpike's, and he turned.

At that moment, the guards moved closer and began ushering him back to where the other Aurors were waiting. Potter didn't hesitate, didn't look back. A moment later, they were gone, and the steel doors slammed shut.

Potter hadn't seen him.

"All right!" one of the guards shouted, sending a shower of blue sparks into the air. "You lot settle down. You've got five minutes to finish your meals and get back to your workstations."

Shunpike flopped down into his chair, grinning madly. "Sorry, mate," he said, clapping Draco on the shoulder. "I woz gonna introduce you, but I didn't 'ave a chance."

Another mighty spasm twisted through him, and Draco, unable to fight it any longer, doubled over and vomited all over the floor.

The Azkaban infirmary had nothing on Madam Pomfrey. It was as dismal as the rest of the prison, and the Healer in residence was an old geezer who smelled of mothballs. His pasty white skin suggested it had been ages since he'd been in contact with sunlight. He pointed his wand at Draco's abdomen, then squinted at him through spectacles so thick his eyes were reduced to minute black points.

"Delicate!" he shouted.

"Pardon?" Draco shouted back.

"You," the Healer said, now jabbing his wand between Draco's ribs. "Delicate."

"I'm not delicate," Draco argued, despite the firm evidence to the contrary

that his stomach had displayed.

The Healer grunted and stuck his wand in Draco's left ear.

"Hey! Watch it with that thing, would you?"

"If I've seen it once," the old man mused, sliding his wand back into his robes, "I've seen it a thousand times." He hobbled over to his desk, shoved Draco's unread file out of the way and proceeded to scribble something on a scrap of parchment he fished out of the rubbish bin.

"Seen what?" Draco asked. "Is it serious?" He wondered if prisoners with life-threatening conditions might be released for treatment at St Mungo's. He found himself wishing fervently that he had contracted one of them. If he remembered correctly, uncontrollable vomiting was an early sign of Dragon Pox.

"Cacogastritis," the Healer said. "Also known as upset stomach." He squinted at Draco again. "When'd you get in?"

Draco scowled. If the old man had bothered to read his file, he would know the answer to that. "Five days ago," he replied.

"That explains it," he said. "And what age are you?"

"Eighteen."

The Healer shuffled back across the room, shaking his head. "Getting younger all the time," he mumbled to no one in particular. He handed Draco the scrap of parchment. "That'll let you off work for the rest of the day. I can't give you any more time than that. Take this when you get back to your cell." He pressed a small green pill into Draco's hand. "Extract of wartweed. It'll settle your stomach. You should be feeling fine by morning."

Draco slipped the pill into his pocket and thanked him.

The curtain around the examination cubicle flew open, and the guard who had escorted Draco from the canteen to the infirmary stepped forward to take Draco back to his cell. The Healer leaned forward once more, still squinting. "And watch what you eat for a few days," he said. "The food here takes some getting used to. The broccoli's usually quite nice, though."

For the next three days, Draco trusted his stomach with very little. Some of the other prisoners laughed when they saw him sitting in the canteen, alone or with Shunpike, nursing a glass of water and forcing down pieces of stale white bread. Draco did his best to ignore them, even when MacKay strode up to his table at the end of dinner one night. They had never spoken, but MacKay knew his name. He crouched low across the table.

"Oi, put a little meat on them bones, would you, Malfoy?" he said. "A little something to gnaw on, eh?" He grinned, baring two rows of sickly yellow teeth, then licked his lips.

Draco felt the colour drain out of him and he looked away, studying the piece of bread in his hands like it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen.

MacKay laughed. "I'll see you later," he promised. Draco discreetly watched him stroll past the canteen guard and out of sight. For the first time, Draco wondered if there were any werewolves in Azkaban.

Shunpike let out a low groan. "Didn't I tell you? Better just to stay out of trouble, if you can."

"I didn't do anything," Draco snapped, crushing the disgusting bread to crumbs in his fist.

"Got his attention, didn't you? That ain't good."

Draco dropped the argument a moment later when a guard appeared at their table. "You're to come with me, Malfoy."

"What? Where?"

The guard ignored his questions. "Let's go." Draco looked to Shunpike, but his cellmate was busy examining the streak of greasy residue left on his now empty plate as if divining the next day's dinner. The guard grew impatient. "I said move!"

Every eye in the room was on Draco as the guard cast a binding spell and led him out, wand pressed against his spine. They were nearly at the door when someone behind them shouted, "Hey, Palmer, tell MacKay to leave some pudding for the rest of us." Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw the Southwark gang dissolve into laughter. He willed his legs not to give out underneath him. At least not yet, when they could all still see him.

Palmer steered Draco down the corridor to a part of the prison Draco had not yet seen. The blood was pounding in his ears as he followed the guard's orders to turn left, then left again through an unmarked doorway, then up two flights of stairs. The little bit of food he had managed to swallow was churning uncomfortably in his stomach, and Draco wondered if he was going to be sick again, right there in the corridor. Or if that would happen later, after MacKay was finished with him. That's how it had been with the Dark Lord.

The memory rose, unbidden, in his mind -- the Dark Lord standing over him, his magic surging maliciously around him, cutting invisibly into him -- and strangely, Draco found, it calmed him. He had survived. Whatever MacKay had in store for him, Draco knew he had been through worse. It was just the unknown, the unpredictable that was giving rise to his panic. He must steel himself for what was coming, and then he could survive it.

With immense effort and as much firmness as he could muster, he addressed the guard. "Where are you taking me?"

Palmer gave him a disgusted look and stopped. They were at a dead-end, a hallway with just one door. "You have a visitor."

A mixture of relief and wary confusion washed over him. "I was told I wasn't allowed any visitors until October."

"I guess you must be special, then," Palmer sneered, pointing his wand at the door. It swung open. He jerked his head to the side, gesturing for Draco to enter. As he stepped across the threshold, his bindings dissolved and the door clanged shut behind him, leaving him alone in a room that was brighter than any he had been in since arriving at Azkaban.

White walls, white tiled floor. A clean, woodsy smell. It was a small narrow space, half the size of his own cell, and smaller than his wardrobe at home. And except for a small wooden table built into the wall and a chair facing the wall, it was empty. His fears about MacKay began to ease away. He was safe, for now. And best of all, his mother had come. He wished now that he had been eating more. She would notice he was thinner. She would worry. But Draco would brush off her concerns. He would remember to smile.

He pulled the chair out and sat down. Immediately, the wall before him shimmered and turned to glass. On the other side was another table and a chair, too. Someone was already sitting in it, looking at him.

I guess you must be special, then, the guard had said. But now Draco understood. It wasn't him. It never was.

"What are you doing here?"

Harry Potter said nothing at first, and Draco used the opportunity to collect himself. Only moments ago he had expected to be torn to pieces by MacKay. Perhaps, in comparison, that fact alone made seeing Potter not nearly as terrifying as it had been a few days before. He was in his Auror robes again, but now Draco noticed three thin black lines running the length of each sleeve. Training robes, like the ones in the career advice pamphlets that had circulated among the houses in his fifth-year.

Draco had never considered the Auror Department a suitable career option -- it was a dangerous field, populated with too many self-righteous blood-traitors to be worth his while. But with their pages of extremely fit men wielding powerful magic in all sorts of compromising positions, the brochures weren't a complete waste of ink and parchment. Draco had gotten off on them for weeks behind the curtains of his four-poster bed, a double imperturbable charm firmly in place to ensure his privacy. But then one of the other Slytherins -- he had always suspected Nott -- stole them from under his bed, and Draco had been forced to revert to the old Quidditch Today standby.

In the years since then, however, Draco had encountered more real Aurors than he cared to remember -- the fully qualified kind who didn't usually bother with the flashy robes, and who operated on pure adrenaline and moral superiority. Since the day after the Battle of Hogwarts, when three of them had taken him and his parents away, through the farce of his trial, until the unseasonably cold summer day when a lone Auror with two missing fingers and a bad case of halitosis had transported Draco to Azkaban, it almost seemed he had not lived a day unmolested by them.

Damn Potter waltzing in here, completely outside of visiting hours no less, flaunting how well the new robes fit, how fantastic his life was now that he had once again evaded an untimely death and returned to ensuring that all the nasty Death Eaters and lowly minions like him were getting their due. He had probably been waiting a long time to see Draco like this, shut up, wandless, behind a wall of glass, already half a stone lighter in his hideous orange Azkaban uniform, with his hair cropped so close it may not have been there at all.

Draco folded his arms across his chest and sat back in the chair. He hoped it looked like a casual, indifferent move. He waited for Potter's sanctimonious rant to begin. He was, after all, a captive audience.

"Hello, Malfoy," Potter said at last in a voice surprisingly soft and devoid of its usual sharp edge, the one that had always sounded like speaking to Draco was, for Potter, akin to scraping something nasty off the bottom of his shoe. "Are you ... all right?" The staccato delivery of the words suggested he had rehearsed them many times, and given up trying to make them sound natural.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, Draco wanted to laugh. But he didn't. "With accommodation this superb, how could I be anything but all right?" he asked. "But don't tell me you came all this way just to make sure I'm comfortable."

Potter shifted, sat back, crossed his arms, too. On him, the movement did look casual -- but not at all indifferent. Draco scowled.

"No," said Potter. "I'm here for Auror training. We have to spend a few days seeing how the prison works. I'm Portkeying out tomorrow morning."

"Lucky you," said Draco. "And you've chosen to spend your last night here with me? How flattering to find myself the object of your attention."

Ah, this felt good, Draco realized. It felt familiar. It felt, unlike everything else about his new environment, safe.

Potter shook his head, but for a fleeting moment, Draco thought he had seen the hint of a smile on Potter's face. "You're not the-- Oh, forget it," Potter said. "I just thought ... well, you didn't look well the other day."

So he had seen Draco paralysed and sick to his stomach in the canteen.

"And this concerns you why?" asked Draco.

"Because, for one thing, they're supposed to be looking after all the prisoners properly now," he said. "You've got rights. It's not like before." Potter paused, as if uncertain whether to say more. "And also ... because ... well, you probably won't believe me." He ran a hand through his tangled mop of hair and then looked straight at Draco. "I'm sort of sorry things worked out this way for you. Five years in this place --" His eyes darted around the room and he shuddered, as if he himself were sitting not in this clean white room, or whatever warm lavish quarters the Ministry had made available to him and the other Aurors, but in a damp cell like Draco's, surrounded by mouldy grey stone, rusted bars, and the unmistakable trace of the Dementors' long tenure of terror. He shook his head. "Seems a bit harsh, even for you."

To himself, Draco smiled. If Potter was actually feeling sorry for him, then maybe he would offer to help him, like he was helping Shunpike -- but thinking of Shunpike only reminded Draco of how his cellmate had grovelled before Potter in the canteen. Unlike him, Draco hadn't lost every ounce of his pride, and clinging to the last bit he did still possess suddenly seemed essential. "Maybe I got exactly what I deserved," he said. "You weren't at my trial, you have no idea the things I'm capable of."

"Oh, I think I have," Potter countered, so quickly that Draco felt any delusion of safety slip sharply out of his favour. "I think you're capable of doing almost anything you have to in order to survive."

Almost.

"And I suppose you consider that a bad thing," Draco said.

Potter was quiet for a moment. "Once I would have thought so, yes. But that was before--" He hesitated.

"Before what?"

Potter's expression darkened, sending a chill through Draco, and though his gaze was no less penetrating when Potter spoke, Draco found he had to lean forward, his forehead almost pressed to the glass, in order to hear him.

"Before I saw the things Voldemort made you do."

"My trial was closed," Draco said. "How do you know--"

"I could see into his mind sometimes," Potter continued, reaching up and absentmindedly rubbing the famous scar. "I saw you." Here it was: the moment he had been waiting for. The chance to rub Draco's face in everything he had done. Potter closed his eyes for a moment and when he looked again at Draco, they were flickering with anger. "I saw how afraid you were." He paused. "Up until then, I'd always believed that everyone had a choice."

Draco had thought that, too, once -- back when the Dark Lord had first summoned him and planted promises of reward and the satisfaction of revenge in his mind.

He did not want to imagine the things Potter might have seen. Those memories had no place in Draco's waking hours, the scant time when he was master of his own thoughts; they had already claimed his nights. But now they were crowding forward, like a tide against a dam. "I told the Wizengamot about all of that," he said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. "It made no difference to them."

"No," Potter agreed, "it made no difference. No one tried since the Diagon Alley attack has been given less than five years, and the Wizengamot refuses to honour any appeals. They've made their point. It's a joke."

"And what exactly is your point, Potter?"

A long silence stretched between them. Potter looked at Draco as if he were some sort of puzzle he couldn't quite decipher. "I guess ... I was just wondering," Potter began, shifting a little in his chair, "if you regret anything at all."

This time, Draco did laugh, a sound bitter as black coffee. "Is that what this little visit is all about?" he asked. "Your fucking forgiveness? Do you think that's what I need? Is that supposed to make everything better? It certainly wasn't much help to Snape--"

"Leave Snape out of this," Potter said in a low, dangerous voice." Draco had hit a nerve. It felt good. The unwanted memories staggered to a halt. He hoped he could hit another.

"You don't get it, do you, Potter?" Draco said. "It's not about you this time. It's about me. And, frankly, nobody cares about the finer details."

"Some people do." He didn't name names, but his eyes were filled with fire. Draco could feel the heat of an inferno closing in on him again. Smoke that wanted to choke him, flames that wanted to burn -- and against his chest, the fleeting safety of Potter's solidness, his determination. Draco wanted out. He was exhausted. He didn't want to play this game any longer.

"You really have no clue," said Draco. He thought of his father, sentenced, like all the other Marked Death Eaters, to solitary confinement in the prison's highest security ward. He thought of his mother, alone at the Manor, every inch of the place tarnished by the Dark Lord. A wave of grief crashed against his chest. "Have you seen my mother?" he asked quietly.

The question clearly surprised Potter. "Um, no. Not since her trial." He paused, looking at Draco with intensity. "Do you want me to give her a message?" he asked, taking the change of subject in stride. "I don't mind."

Draco looked away. What would he owe Potter for this? "Just tell her I'm fine. That she shouldn't worry."

There was another long silence. "OK. I'll do that."

Draco heard the scrape of wood against the tiled floor. Potter had stood to go.

"Anything else?"

There was so much more Draco wanted to say to her. I'm scared. I'm sorry. I miss you. I love you. But he could never say those things through Potter, so he just shook his head. A moment later, Potter was gone.

"Palmer won't say what you and him got up to last night," MacKay jeered when he intercepted Draco on his way to Laundry Services the next morning, "but as far as I'm concerned, you and me ain't finished yet, Pudding."

Another guard called down to them from the top of the hallway. "Oi, MacKay! Shouldn't you be gettin' your arse to Quarry?"

"I'm goin'," MacKay yelled back lazily, knocking shoulders hard with Draco as he passed.

For the next few weeks, every corner turned, every shadow arching through a beam of dusty grey light was MacKay, until Draco knew otherwise. One day, he saw all four of the Southwark gang gathered around a very pale, nervous-looking Shunpike; a little while later he watched as his cellmate, eyes averted, carried his tray to another table and turned his back on Draco.

"Sorry 'bout that, mate," Shunpike said afterwards as he took a leak in the stained toilet that stood in the far corner of their cell, "but you gotta understan' I don't want no trouble."

Draco said nothing, his throat too tight for words. He pulled the thin blanket up around his ears and tried to sleep, but his eyes were tearing. He told himself it was only because the cell was so much colder tonight; the icy air stung his eyes.

October was drawing near. The leaves would be changing now across the Manor grounds. Draco tried to picture it: the glint of the sun in a clear blue sky bathing the white marble of the house in the season's soft light; the crisp, fresh air scorching his lungs as he flew as fast as he could from one end of the estate to the other, a carpet of leaves beneath him, a blur of red and gold. His chest heaving, breathless, as his hold tightened. A tangle of soft silk robes and rough calloused hands; a body, taut with hunger beneath him, wanting him, despite the cold. Despite everything.

Why had he come? Draco had lost count of how many times he had asked himself the question since Potter's visit. It didn't matter. He knew that. But that didn't stop Potter insinuating himself night after night into Draco's thoughts. He wanted him gone, but the only way to be rid of Potter was to hold more tightly still, until there was only friction and heat and a muffled, solitary gasp of triumph.

On the eve of Draco's first visiting hour, Stan Shunpike was released from Azkaban.

"Wot did I tell you? 'Arry Potter, good as 'is word." He emptied a rumpled laundry sack filled with his bed linens into the Laundry Services bin. "Well," he said, turning to Draco, "good luck." He held out his hand.

Draco finished folding a sheet and placed it on top of the pile he had processed that afternoon. Since Shunpike's snub in the canteen, he and Draco didn't talk much.

"Aw, don't be like that, mate," Shunpike said as Draco pulled another sheet out of one of the dryers and began folding. Shunpike watched him for another minute, then shook his head and left.

It was the middle of the night, when a hand closed around his shoulder and started shaking him. Instinctively, Draco raised a fist, but another hand caught it in mid-air.

"Watch it," a low voice warned. Through the faint wandlight and dark shadows, Draco could just make out the round, fat face of the new guard called Mesher. Slowly, he released Draco's arm and stepped back. "Get up."

Draco heaved himself out of bed and began pulling his baggy uniform on over his pyjamas. Mesher was already in the corridor, waiting.

"This way," he said, as Draco stepped out of his cell, still somewhat disoriented from being so abruptly woken.

They walked quickly, in silence, the guard's wandlight flickering eerily against the stone walls, casting shadows that leapt the length of the cellblock. It must have been very late, Draco thought, because other than the occasional snore from one of the cells, the block was quiet. No whispering, no shuddering breaths, no sound of bodies against bodies.

They passed the canteen, dark and empty, the chairs balanced like grave markers on the table tops. They stopped at a familiar unmarked doorway, and then Mesher muttered a spell. A new passageway opened in the wall and closed again as soon as they had stepped through it.

Draco felt his heart quicken as a flare of panic shot through him.

Soon they came to a stairway that swivelled several storeys upwards, stopping on a narrow landing outside another door.

"Alohamora," said Mesher and the door swung open. Then, without looking at him, the guard turned and hurried down the swivelling staircase. A moment later, it had vanished, leaving Draco with only one choice.

He took a deep breath and stepped into the room.

The first thing he noticed, as he blinked against the sudden light, was the carpet. Thick and soft and pale yellow. His feet sank into it, and it was the most luxurious sensation he had ever experienced.

The room was spacious, with no walls or glass slicing it into barren cells. The lighting, now that his eyes had adjusted, was warm. There was a shelf laden with books -- books -- a winged-back chair and mismatched ottoman, a small sofa, a coffee table, and to one side, a second room. Through the open doorway, Draco saw a bed, and sitting at the foot of the bed, hunched over with his elbows propped on his knees and his head resting in his hands, was Harry Potter.

Had he been dragged out of bed for another session of Potter's self-absorbed dramatics? Draco's hands closed into fists, and he was just about to demand an explanation, when Potter raised his head, slowly unfolded himself and stood. He was wearing worn Muggle jeans and a black dragon-hide jacket that looked like it was still being broken in. But it was the look on his face that stopped Draco demanding anything at all.

Potter looked exhausted. More disturbingly, he looked defeated.

"Hi," he said. It was then that Draco noticed Potter was shaking. It was almost undetectable, but as soon as Draco became aware of it, he saw that the subtle tremor had gripped him entirely. His hands were at his sides, tightly clenched, knuckles white from the effort to control it.

He searched Potter's face for an explanation, but all he heard was, "Draco." And his name on Potter's lips sounded nothing like it ever had in Draco's lonely fantasies. No, on Potter's lips, it was something fragile shattering beyond repair.

"What's going on?" Draco finally managed. He looked away, trying to find anything other than Potter's anguished expression to focus on. "What time is it?" he snapped. "Really, Potter--"

"I'm sorry."

It wasn't an apology, the kind of polite response one might expect to hear after being woken in the middle of the night. The words held something darker than that, something unforgiving.

Draco pressed his feet into the carpet. It was so soft, and he was suddenly grateful for it.

Potter started to say something, then stopped, then started again. "I wanted to tell you myself," he said. He shook his head. "I don't even know how to say it."

"Say what?" Draco heard himself ask. Soft, so incredibly soft.

He would think, a long time later and forever afterwards, about how Potter's words became, in an instant, indelibly etched in his memory; how they cut clean through his single imperfect life with swiftness, taking from him the thing that mattered most, and leaving, in return, a before and an after. There were no neat or ragged edges to be sewn back together, only one deep cut that burned for a long time, its scar, invisible to the eye, never fading.

"Malfoy Manor was attacked tonight," Potter began. He was still shaking, but his eyes bore into Draco's as if the effort might be enough to steady them both, and Draco could not look away. "There were ... at least a dozen Dementors," Potter continued. "Your mother ..." He shook his head. "She had no chance against so many. She sent a Patronus, but by the time I got there ... I was too late."

There were more words, but Draco didn't think he was hearing them right. He lost sight of the anchor Potter had been offering. Everything was blurry now, fuzzy, and the words didn't make sense.

Lestrange. St Mungo's. Kissed. Draco? Kissed. Kissed. Kissed.

The room was so cold now, and Draco's lungs refused to take in air, or expel it. Something was choking him. He felt himself falling, but then there was Potter, reaching across that holy space between them, hoisting him up by the armpits, manoeuvring him to the sofa. Draco wanted to tell Potter to repeat what he had just said because it was the middle of the night after all, and he had been rather rudely awakened from a sound sleep, and the carpet, oh, the carpet was so soft beneath his feet, he wanted to sink into it, and he didn't think he could hear correctly through all that thick plush softness. But when he opened his mouth to speak, the words were drowned out by a deafening, inhuman wail. It must be a full moon tonight, and all the werewolves of Azkaban, the MacKays and the Greybacks, were howling, tearing their own skins to shreds. Couldn't the guards do something about it? He was trying to have a conversation here. He was trying to drown in the soft velvet carpet, as far away from Potter's senseless words as he could get.

Potter's eyes were wet and bright with alarm. His voice shook. "I'm so sorry, Malfoy."

"No," Draco said, shaking his head. "No, no." He realized he could hardly see. Potter was pulling him closer, awkwardly burying Draco's face against his chest, the cool leather and coarse wool of his street clothes an assault against his cheek. Draco tried to pull away, but Potter wouldn't let go.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered again, and now Draco heard the pounding of Potter's heart beneath his ear. Alive and strong. Potter's hand moved uncertainly to the back of Draco's head and began clumsily stroking the short hair, and still he murmured the same words over and over again, and Draco did not want to hear them. Potter's apologies meant nothing. After everything his mother had risked for him, Potter had let this happen.

Draco wrenched himself out of Potter's hold. "You're not sorry," he seethed, brushing a coarse sleeve across his face. He liked how it scratched, how it hurt. "You don't fucking care." He slammed a fist into Potter's chest. "You've never cared about her." He struck again. "You could have stopped it if you really wanted to, but you didn't."

"I couldn't have-- I couldn't," Potter said, trying to block Draco's blows. "Of course I would have-- you-- you know that--"

"Liar!" he screamed. "You fucking liar!" This rage felt good. He wanted to feel nothing else. He swung again and hit Potter clean across the face with his fist, sending his glasses flying. Potter reached for Draco's arm, but for once, Draco was faster. One fist caught Potter in the tender spot of his temple, the other flew from his face to his chest again. Potter tried to slide out of his reach, but Draco launched himself across the sofa, his full weight pinning Potter against the armrest. He hammered into him, cursed him, ground into him with his hips until Potter shifted sharply and they slid, a tangle of flailing limbs, to the floor.

Potter rolled out of Draco's reach, crashing into the coffee table, and then Draco was on top of him, straddling him again. He grabbed a handful of Potter's hair and slammed his head into the floor. Potter winced, let out a curse and tried again to arrest Draco's thrashing hands, but again Draco struck, nearly blinded by his tears and his rage. Potter's nose crunched under his fist and blood covered Draco's fingers as small specks of red splattered across the carpet. So soft, and now, ruined. Potter gasped for breath, wiped a streak of blood across his face and then dropped his arms. Only then did Draco realize that Potter had not thrown a single punch. It should have made Draco want to hurt him even more, but instead, he felt his rage slip away, leaving him numb and heaving great shuddering sobs.

"You're lying," he said, over and over, with Potter still pinned, motionless, beneath him. "It's not true."

It seemed a long time before Potter stirred, and when he did, it was to reach up and gently take hold of Draco's wrists and pull him down to the floor beside him. Draco turned on to his side -- he did not want to see Potter's face -- and Potter curled up so close behind him that Draco could feel his heat radiating through their layers of clothing. Then Potter's arm snaked over Draco's side and scrabbled around until his hand found Draco's. He squeezed it and pressed both their hands tightly against Draco's chest. Draco made a feeble attempt to wrench himself free, but Potter only held on more tightly and threw one leg over both of Draco's, pressing against him more firmly. Finally, Draco stopped fighting and allowed himself to surrender to the warmth that was Potter.

His first thought upon waking was that it had all been a dream, but the sinking feeling that immediately dropped through him put to rest any such illusion. Even without opening his eyes, Draco knew he was in the room at the top of the swivelling staircase, his aching body sandwiched between a thick duvet and a firm mattress. The air was not stinging cold here, but warm. He wished he could fall back asleep and never wake again, but a gentle light pressed against his eyelids and beyond the sound of his own breathing, he heard the distant crash and roll of waves. He opened his eyes.

The bedroom, Draco now saw, had a window. He rose and crossed to it. He gripped the handle, expecting resistance, but it turned smoothly under his hand, and he pulled it open.

The air was damp against his face and cold, but unlike the stale, stagnant air inside the prison -- even in the dingy walled courtyard where prisoners took their daily five-minute walk -- this air moved. It smelled of salt, not sweat; of something green, not grey. He took a deep breath, held it, and released.

Far below, the sea stretched out endlessly before him, streaks of coral and rose washing into it from the sky above. Empty but for a dark speck, perhaps a small skiff, in the distance that rose and fell with the whitecaps. Draco leaned over the edge and looked down. This room must have been in one of the towers, he guessed, it was so high up, and the drop to the rocky beach below was a long, clean one, unobstructed. He leaned out a little further.

"You're up."

Draco spun around. Potter was in the doorway, looking warily from him to the window, one hand plunged deep into his jacket pocket.

"There's tea," he said after a moment.

Draco stepped away from the window, and a second later it banged shut behind him. He looked at Potter, who shrugged, slid his hand out of his pocket and turned into the other room.

Potter had cleaned things up. The furniture had been straightened and the carpet was spotless. As Potter sat down on the sofa and poured the tea, Draco cast a furtive glance at him. His face didn't look bad, just a little puffy, as if he hadn't slept.

He sat down next to Potter and stared at the steam twisting upwards from the mug of milky tea Potter pushed towards him. There was a plate piled high with toast, too, and a pot of marmalade.

"I have to go soon," Potter said after a few minutes. "Training starts at eight and--"

"You said she sent a Patronus?"

From the corner of his eye, Draco saw Potter nod. "Yes. It's how the Order of the Phoenix communicate with each other," he explained. "When I went to give her your message from last time, she ..."

"She what?"

Potter took a deep breath. "She asked if we'd made any progress tracking down Rodolphus Lestrange. She showed me a letter she'd received. It was unsigned but she was sure it was from him. It said she would pay for betraying Voldemort and causing the deaths of his most loyal followers. She tried not to seem too bothered by it, and she didn't want to make an official complaint -- said it would just look like she was trying to distract attention from the reparations."

"Reparations?"

"Oh, right," Potter said, "you wouldn't have heard. Um ... there's a group, the Wizarding Alliance for Equitable Restitution. Mostly it's people who were tortured or otherwise victimized during the war, or who lost loved ones. They're suing all the Death Eater families for millions of Galleons in damages."

"Oh." This news should have angered Draco, but he had no energy for that. Instead, he thought of how scared his mother must have been if she had turned to Potter for help.

"So I taught her the Patronus," Potter continued. "She picked it up really fast. I told her she could contact me any time she wanted, but I didn't hear from her again." His voice had faded almost to a whisper. "Until last night."

That was as much as Draco wanted to hear. He picked up his tea, wrapping both hands around the mug, and let the heat burn through him while he and Potter sat once more in silence.

"You asked me, last time," Draco said after a while, "if I regret what I did." He shook his head. "I don't regret anything that kept her safe a little longer. I'd do it again if I had to. In a heartbeat." He heard his voice crack, and he leaned forward, putting down his untouched tea and turning his head away. He wouldn't let Potter see him cry again.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, a gentle squeeze. Why did Potter have to care? Couldn't he just make things easy and hate him? Hate his mother? Rejoice, like everyone else, at how the Malfoys were being made to pay for their sins? But Potter, damn him, had never been like everyone else.

But he was going to leave any minute now, and then Draco would be taken back to his cell and forgotten. His life would carry on like it had for the past seven weeks, only without the shining hope of knowing that his mother was out there, loving him and thinking of him and looking forward to seeing him, if only for a single hour once a month. And the weeks would stretch into months and the months into years, and one day they'd finally let him out, and there would be nothing to go back to. Nothing to live for.

"Has my father been told?" Draco asked, shaking Potter's hand away with a shrug; it fell to the sofa, casually brushing down his back in a featherlight touch.

"Someone from the Ministry is supposed to see him today. I'm not sure when. I could ask if they'll let you talk to him."

Draco nodded.

"And I'll look in on her," Potter said quietly. "The Closed Ward at St Mungo's is really good. They--"

Draco held up a hand to tell Potter to stop. He wasn't ready to think about this yet. After a moment, Potter got to his feet.

"I'll ask them to give you a few minutes," he said. "You should try to eat something."

Draco nodded again. It was easier just to agree right now. Then maybe Potter wouldn't notice how hard Draco was trying not to look at him. He remembered the way Potter had tried to steady him last night with a single look, and he didn't want to need that again so badly.

"All right then," Potter said, sounding very much like he didn't know what else to say. "I'll go find one of the guards." He stood up. "Bye, Malfoy."

Draco nodded. When Potter was gone, he left the tea and toast and walked back into the bedroom, to the window. The sunrise had faded and been replaced now by a heavy cover of dark clouds. His hand was steady as it closed around the window handle, but this time, when he tried to open it, it would not give.

Draco had never seen his father cry. Even now, as they faced each other through the same wall of glass in the same room where Draco had first seen Potter, Draco knew that wasn't about to change. He wished he could wipe away the evidence of his own grief, hide it so that his father might think he was strong.

After five months in isolation, his father looked twenty years older and so withered, so small, he reminded Draco of Ollivander after all that time in the Manor's dungeons. His father listened as Draco recounted Potter's version of events, and his eyes were cold pits of hatred. Draco had to look away for fear of perishing in them.

He had had enough of hate.

So he waited. Waited for the words of comfort he craved. Waited for his father to rise and raise his hand and shatter the wall between them, like the powerful wizard Draco had spent his childhood believing his father was. He wanted him to reach through that barrier and take him into his arms and promise him that everything was going to be all right, even if it was a lie. Because that was what parents did, what his mother would have done -- had done.

He sat there, waiting. But the words never came.

Autumn set its hooks into Azkaban and an icy chill settled over the prison. Now that Shunpike was gone, it was only Draco and a scrawny little guy called Beetle who took turns on the Wash and Dry stations in Laundry Services. Dry was by far the easier of the two stations -- all it involved was rotating clothes in and out of the dryers and spending hours folding them to the warden's minute specifications. Wash was tedious, wet work that meant long hours scrubbing smelly piles of wrinkled sheets and prison uniforms by hand and then feeding them into an enormous steel centrifuge. But Draco found that the constant movement kept him warm and gave his mind less time to wander. By day's end, his aching body yearned for nothing more than sleep, which came quickly and impenetrably until early morning, when he would inevitably wake from visions of dead rotting hands reaching out for him, of cold, decaying lips pressing against his.

At mealtimes, Draco ate quickly and sat alone, and although MacKay and his gang still harassed him whenever they had the chance, Draco no longer feared them. They couldn't touch him. After awhile, their taunts stopped, and they gradually seemed to lose interest in him.

Without their bullying and without Shunpike for company, Draco's world became a nearly silent one.

A few weeks later, Potter returned.

"I wanted to make sure you were OK," he said through the glass.

Draco didn't say anything. He didn't think he was ever going to be "OK" again.

"I saw your mother yesterday."

Draco closed his eyes and looked away, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

"They're taking good care of her."

Draco pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. The glass turned immediately to stone again. He slammed his fist against it. "Shut up," he growled at the wall. "Just shut the fuck up." He paced across the room for a moment, then dropped back down into the chair. The glass returned, revealing a wary-looking Potter.

"I guess you're supposed to stay seated," Potter said after a moment.

Draco just scowled at him.

"All right, we don't have to talk about ... that." Potter frowned, apparently at a loss for what they could talk about. "I didn't know you and Stan Shunpike were cellmates," he finally said.

Draco shrugged. The top bunk was still empty. He hoped it would stay that way. He didn't need another waster cellmate.

"Stan's all right," Potter said approvingly. "He's back at work already, on the Knight Bus. Have you ever been on the Knight Bus, Malfoy?"

Draco had always wanted to, but his parents said it was filthy and dangerous and a magnet for undesirables. He shook his head and said, "No."

"Oh, it's brilliant," said Potter, seeming relieved that they had found a safe topic. He rambled on for a few minutes about his own adventures on the bus. "Stan makes one wicked hot chocolate, too."

"Must be nice for someone like Shunpike to have friends in high places," Draco said.

Potter gave him an inquisitive look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"He said you got him out. I thought the Wizengamot wasn't giving anyone any breaks."

"Oh, that." Potter did that annoying thing of messing up his hair. "Well, they're not, really. But there was pretty clear evidence that Stan was under the Imperius curse."

Draco just stared at Potter, waiting for him to continue.

"We had Bellatrix Lestrange's wand," he said. "From that day at the Manor. Hermione had the idea to cast Priori Incantatem on it. It reveals all the spells a wand has cast -- which meant we could trace all the way back to when she cursed Stan. The Wizengamot couldn't ignore that." He paused. "Unfortunately, most of the other Death Eaters' wands were destroyed during the last battle, so we can't do the same thing for a lot of other people who may have been in the same situation. And ... then there's ... well ... your situation is different entirely."

Draco thought about this for a moment with a sinking feeling. "I suppose my wand would only incriminate me further."

Potter nodded and took a deep breath. "They'd only see the spells the wand cast, not who was forcing you to use them."

Any hope Draco had held to get out of Azkaban was dead. "Have you done it on my wand?" he asked. "Granger's revealing spell?"

Potter fixed Draco with an intense look and leaned forward. "No," he said. "And I don't intend to."

"Why not?" Draco asked. "I'd do it. You don't have to be so fucking noble all the time, you know."

Draco didn't really like the way Potter was studying him, but he refused to look away again.

"You're not the only one who used that wand to cast magic you wish you hadn't."

It took a moment for Draco to register what Potter was confessing to. Then he laughed. "So you just want to protect yourself. Make sure no one ever knows about the great Chosen One's foray into the Dark Arts. That's just classic."

"No," Potter said with firmness. "That's not it at all. Even if they did find out, do you really think they'd give me more than a slap on the wrist? Everyone is so fucking nice to me these days it makes me sick. You, on the other hand, they'd tack another five years on to your sentence without a second thought."

Draco hated that Potter was right, and that, no matter what he said, he did have a noble reason. He changed the subject. "Well, at least I don't have to deal with everyone being so bloody nice to you all the time. It was bad enough before the war."

Potter smiled. "Yeah, I reckon you'd be miserable." A moment, surprisingly comfortable, passed between them.

"It's Saturday, Potter, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Then why the Auror robes? Are they making you work weekends now?"

Potter shrugged. "They ask fewer questions this way," he said, "when I go to the Portkey office. They just assume it's official Auror business. But, I guess I should get going. It's a Hogsmeade weekend, and, er, I'm supposed to meet Ginny at The Three Broomsticks."

"Hogsmeade weekend," Draco repeated. It was odd to think of carefree days traipsing around the village, skiving off homework. He thought of the time Pansy had caught him and Theo Nott snogging in the alleyway behind Honeyduke's -- the look on her face had been priceless, and for the rest of the term, they had actually let her catch them at it again several times, just for a laugh. But that all seemed like someone else's life now. It left a dull feeling in his chest. "So you and Weasley's sister ..." he heard himself say.

Potter started fumbling with the clasps on his cloak, and Draco's own fingers curled closed as he remembered the weight of Potter's hand in his, his body wrapped protectively around him. Feeling sorry for him. He had to remember that was all it had been. Pity and Potter's insufferable guilt.

"Yeah," Potter said, "we're sort of back together, I guess. I dunno."

"You don't know?"

Potter hesitated. "Well, we don't really see each other much. The summer was crazy with ... everything ... and then Auror training started straight away and Hogwarts reopened and, I dunno. She wanted to get back together, and I like her a lot, and she's easy to be with."

"Well, after defeating the Darkest wizard of the century, I don't suppose you're exactly desperate for a new challenge. Why shouldn't falling in love be easy?" It came out with more bitterness than Draco had intended.

Potter stopped fussing with his cloak. "We're not in love," he said. "I told you, I don't know what we are. I don't know what I really want right now."

"Well, if she's as easy as you say, you can at least get a decent fuck out of her while you figure it out."

Potter turned white. "Why are you being such a prick, Malfoy? I didn't come here looking for a fight."

"No, you came here to soothe your guilt," Draco shouted. "About my mother and about me and--"

"That is not why I'm here!" Potter yelled back.

"Then why, Potter? Why are you here? Why are you sneaking around the Ministry and lying to the Portkey office so you can come here? Why are you keeping your girlfriend waiting?"

"I don't know!" Potter was on his feet now, pacing wildly across the room. "I don't fucking know, all right? I just-- I wanted to see you. I wanted to make sure you were OK. And yes, I feel bad about your mother. I feel like I should have been able to help her, and I'm sorry I failed. But I should have been able to help a lot of people, and I couldn't, and I'm trying to live with that every fucking day of my life, and I'm so damn tired of everyone telling me it's all right, and that no one blames me for anything. Maybe that's why I'm here. Because I know that if there's anyone on this earth who will never let me forget, it's you. And I don't want to forget. And I don't want to feel all right."

"Well, I do want to feel all right," Draco said. "And I do want to forget. I want to forget everything. I want to forget about the war and all the people I hurt and all the people I saw die. I want to forget what a disappointment I am to my parents. I want to forget that stupid school and never being good enough. And I want to forget I ever met you and that you ever mattered. But I can't, not as long as you keep showing up here and fucking with my head, OK? So just leave. Just go find your little girlfriend and just ... get out."

There was silence now, so sudden and painful it hurt Draco's ears. He covered them with his hands.

Potter had stopped pacing. He was leaning across the table. "Malfoy." His voice was very quiet when he spoke, the two syllables breaking with a note of despair.

Just get out, Draco told himself.

"Malfoy, look at me."

Draco braced himself. He knew what he had to do. He raised his head and saw Potter's eyes asking him for something he couldn't give. He rose deliberately out of his chair and watched as glass turned to stone, and Potter disappeared.

The street lamps threw long, flickering shadows against the wet ground as Draco moved, phantomlike, down the deserted street.

A window glowed in the flat above the Weasleys' joke shop and a silhouetted figure moved inside. Draco quickened his pace until he was facing Gringotts for the second time that day. Music and roguish laughter rose faintly from the adjoining street. Draco had no intention of venturing down Knockturn Alley, but his defiant feet carried him toward the raucous sounds and muted lights.

Someone stepped out of a darkened doorway at the top of the street. Draco stopped. His fingers curled around his useless wand.

"You looking for something?" a woman's voice purred. She moved towards him, and in the dim light, Draco saw that she was heavily made up, and clearly not offering directions. She smiled and reached out a bony hand, but he recoiled and stumbled backwards until his back met a lightpost. It bathed him in its soft glow, and he saw the woman's eyes widen as if in recognition. Then, just as suddenly as she had appeared, she vanished back down Knockturn Alley, her high heels beating a frantic pulse against the pavement.

Draco cursed into the darkness. What use did he have for a Knockturn Alley whore, anyway?

Fat raindrops began to fall, and he pulled up his hood as he made his way back to the dim courtyard behind the Leaky Cauldron. Even at this hour, he could make out the muffled cacophony of traffic and sirens from Muggle London. As a child, the city had always frightened him, and the sounds were unsettling even now. Just another obstacle, Draco reminded himself. He had faced worse.

He raised his hands and pressed them against the wall. It was cold and familiar beneath his palms. He turned and leaned back, until the damp chill of the stone spread through his cloak. He took a deep breath and relaxed into the familiar sensation. He closed his eyes and stood like that for a long time, oblivious even to the rain.

"Malfoy?"

Draco opened his eyes. A figure stood in the doorway, casting a long shadow across the paving stones. Then it stepped out and stood before him.

"I wanted to come earlier, but I wasn't sure if I should."

Draco had hoped it would be a long time before he ran into Potter. And he had hoped that by then, seeing him wouldn't bring back memories of white tiles and yellow carpets and senseless words and walls of glass. He had hoped he would feel nothing, remember nothing.

"How did you know where to find me?" he asked.

"It's a small world." Potter shrugged. "Also, I was at George and Ron's tonight, and George said he'd heard from Tom that you showed up this morning." He frowned. "No one told me you were being released."

"You weren't approved," Draco said.

Potter nodded. "Fair enough." He looked thoughtful. "I guess the new Chief Warlock on the Wizengamot might be all right after all. He said he'd look into some of the decisions that were made right after the war, but I figured he was just telling me what I wanted to hear to get me to go away." Despite the rain and the darkness, a familiar intensity shone in his eyes. "They should know by now that I don't give up that easily."

Draco said nothing for a moment, then he stepped away from the wall. "I should go," he said. "I'm seeing my mother tomorrow."

Potter didn't move. "That'll be hard."

"I know that," said Draco. "I should have gone today, but I-- I missed visiting hours. I was told I can only go between two and four."

Potter frowned. "That's not on. You should be able to see her anytime you want." He paused. "Do you want-- I mean, I could ... I could go with you. We could even go right now, if you want."

Want. Draco let the word linger between them.

"Why would you do that?" he asked.

"Because ... they'll let me in. And you might need a friend."

Draco laughed. "I don't think we can be friends, Potter. I doubt your wife would approve." At Potter's confused look, Draco added, "I saw her going into Madam Malkin's this morning. Congratulations, by the way. When's the baby due?"

Potter looked up into the black sky, shaking his head. "She's not my wife. We broke up. About two years ago. She's married to Neville now. Baby's due in September, I think."

Draco had not been expecting this. "Two years," he repeated.

"You said you didn't want me coming back to visit you," Potter said quickly. "And every time I tried -- and you know I tried for months afterwards -- you just stood there, staring at that wall, saying a lot of terrible things, or saying nothing at all." He stopped abruptly. "You probably never knew visitors could see you from the other side."

Draco hadn't known that.

"After a while, I realized I was just making it harder for you. That's why I stopped coming. Ginny and I split up a few months after my last trip to Azkaban. I should have done it sooner, but it wasn't easy. The Weasleys were like family to me -- they still are. But breaking up with Ginny ... it also meant ... other things."

"What other things?"

Potter shrugged and said, "I dunno," as if he hadn't had two years to sort out his thoughts on the matter. "Things like ... figuring out why I didn't think about her all that much when she wasn't around. And why it wasn't her I was trying so hard to forget."

"You said you didn't want to forget anything."

"I don't," he said. The rain was falling more heavily now. Potter's hair was flattened into dark wet tendrils plastered to his face and water dripped off of his nose. "If you still want me to go away," he said, "I will."

"I don't know what I want," Draco admitted. "But it's probably not that."

Potter smiled.

Draco knew, however, that it was one thing to talk like this in a dark deserted courtyard, and another thing entirely to carry on like this in the light of day. He shook his head. "There's a whole new war just about to begin for me," he said. "I've already seen it -- the way people look at me, how they go out of their way to avoid me."

"You'll be all right," Potter whispered, taking a step forward. "And you don't have to face it all alone."

Draco was shaking. He stepped back, but they were close now -- so close, that if either of them wanted to, if either of them tried, they would be able to touch. No glass wall between them, no one to stop them. Short shallow breaths caught in Draco's chest. He wondered when had he last allowed himself to be touched, really touched, in a way that mattered. Maybe never.

He let Potter step closer.