Finding Elvis

Chapter 2 - Missing, Presumed Dead

"Do you know how many people were struck with the Enmagio curse during the war?" Harry asked Celsus over lunch the next time he was in London.

"Enmagio? Er... don't know off the top of my head. Why?"

"Weren't you working at St. Mungo's at the time?"

"Yeah, but that was fifteen years ago. And it wasn't exactly the worst we had to deal with, we had Cruciatus and Imperius and Exuviae-"

Harry suppressed a grimace at that last one, having seen it up close once. Removal of the epidermis. One thing you could say about the Death Eaters: they were certainly creative. He interrupted Celsus' litany of horrifying curses. "Has it been used since?"

"Not much, I don't think. I think there was a case about five years ago. It wasn't a terribly easy hex to cast, though. The body fights off any attempt to remove magic pretty hard. One Death Eater said it felt like trying to smother an unrestrained person with your bare hands - it could be done, but not easily. It sometimes took two or three of them combined to do it right."

Harry frowned. "Why use it then, instead of an easier and deadlier curse?"

"Usually they did it to hostages or prisoners of war. That way they were rendered harmless, but could still be used to bargain with."

"Near the end of the war they were still thinking about bargaining?"

"Not much." Celsus eyed him shrewdly. "That's part of why some people thought Draco Malfoy was still with the Death Eaters. Because if he couldn't be a bargaining piece any more, why wouldn't they have just killed him?"

"It's a good point."

"They may have wanted to punish him, for turning on them."

Harry shrugged. "Good point again."

"Why are you asking?"

"Just curious." There was a pause as Celsus waited patiently for Harry to continue. Harry sighed. "I went back to the bookstore."

"And?"

"It's possible. That that man might be Malfoy."

"Really."

There was another, longer pause. "So what should I do?" Harry finally asked.

"Do you mean, confront him, tell the Ministry, keep it a secret?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know."

"You're the one who was pushing and saying that it might be him. What did you expect me to do if I decided you were right?"

"I didn't really expect you to do anything; I was mostly just reacting to your unattractive cynicism at such a young age."

Harry chuckled.

Celsus took a bite of his stew. "So how does he look?"

"Fine. Older, I guess."

"Aren't we all. I take it he didn't recognize you." Harry shook his head. "It might not be him, then."

On impulse, Harry decided not to tell Celsus about the Dark Mark. He shrugged. "Maybe."

"You know, even if you're sure it's him, there's no reason you should do anything about it."

Harry eyebrows went up. "Oh really? What if he did betray us? Should I just let him go free, if he got our people killed?"

"Why not?"

Harry gaped at Celsus.

"I'm just playing devil's advocate, but think about it," Celsus said, leaning across the table and gesturing at Harry with his fork. "Why should you identify him? Would it bring any of his victims back?"

"Celsus, if he pretended to be a spy for our side but was really still with the Death Eaters, he doesn't belong in a bookstore. He belongs in Azkaban."

"Why?"

"Justice? The Rule of Law? Punishment?" Harry paused. "Vengeance?"

"Do you not think that being a Muggle is enough punishment?"

"For killing people? No, I don't."

"I'd say for Draco it would have been."

"He didn't look like a man living out a life sentence. He looked like he enjoyed his job. Liked working with books."

"So what would you do? Bring him in? Demand he account for himself?"

"Maybe somebody should."

"Maybe somebody already did. You don't know what the Ministry did or didn't do back then. Besides, the Enmagio... if he survived that, he got as much punishment as anybody could possibly hope for."

Harry looked at him, puzzled.

"Didn't you ever read what happened to those people? A lot of them went insane. Quite a few killed themselves."

"Really? Why?"

"Well, use your imagination, Harry. What do you think it would be like? All of a sudden, you can't do half of what you could do before. And all around you, your world is set up for people who can. Remember Filch? Why do you think he was such a nasty piece of work? Half crazy with jealousy, being a Squib in the wizarding world."

Harry frowned, considering that.

"And he'd had his whole lifetime to get used to it," Celsus continued. "That kind of thing, dumped into your lap from one moment to the next... I'd go stark raving mad, I'm sure." Celsus chewed pensively. "There were other side-effects, too. Read Alisia D. Crede, she wrote some papers about it. Interesting work."

"But what if he didn't lose his magic?"

"Would he be working at a bookstore?"

"No, probably not. Unless he was hiding from the Aurors, still."

Celsus shrugged. "Why don't you try to figure out what happened to him, then?"

"How? Should I walk up to him and say Excuse me, you wouldn't happen to be Draco Malfoy, would you? There's some Aurors that would like to talk to you-"

"No, ask around. Maybe you can figure out what happened back then."

"Celsus, nobody figured it out fifteen years ago."

"Nobody looked all that hard, either."

"Excuse me? The Quibbler ran daily stories about sightings-"

"The Quibbler is for entertainment purposes only. You of all people should know that. The real Powers That Be were too busy rebuilding the Ministry and stamping out the last resistance and holding back rogue Dementors and frantically trying to hide from the Muggles. They were just barely keeping their heads above the water. Widows and orphans and blasted villages and castles and dragons and harpies running amuck... they didn't have the time or inclination to hunt down one lone possible Muggle, possible suicide/death. And half the people who knew him wouldn't have talked to the Ministry anyway. Years later... who knows?"

Harry shrugged. "All right, then, how about you? What do you know?"

"What?"

"You were there the night he lost his magic. What happened?"

"Harry, it was fifteen years ago - how do you expect me to remember-"

Harry started to laugh. "My point exactly."

Celsus blinked, then gave a short laugh followed by a sigh of resignation. "Oh, all right. Give me a minute. I'll try to remember."

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You need a story, thought Harry at The Book Cellar a few days later. Like during the war. Get a story, use it so you can gather information without looking like that's what you're doing.

He wandered, stopping at the computer section. This was one of the only things he occasionally missed about the Muggle world. These machines had a magic of their own, and when he'd left the Muggle world they hadn't been as common as they were today. He could use them - most witches and wizards his age could - but he didn't handle them with the ease that Muggles did. Or, for that matter, with the ease that Malfoy did.

He glanced surreptitiously at Malfoy, who was on shift today. Marvelling yet again at how comfortable Malfoy seemed here. He'd swept the store, whistling absently to himself, helped a few people locate books, and was currently on the phone chatting animatedly about a new order of children's books.

Young adult books. Harry could be collecting young adult books for a school, as a volunteer project, with money raised by the students. And... he would need to come back a few times, as the students requested new books.

That should work. Harry got himself a computer book, then wandered over to the young adult section and looked at the titles with a reasonable facsimile of interest.

Talking to Celsus and reading Alisia D. Crede's work had been interesting, but somewhat unsettling, he thought as he scanned titles. Mostly he'd been appalled at how little he'd known - or cared - about how anybody but himself and his close friends were doing in the aftermath of the war.

Granted, it had been a difficult time for everybody. Just dealing with Ron and his shattered family was surely as good an excuse as anybody could have for sealing themselves into a bubble and away from the rest of the world for a long, long time.

Except that Harry had stayed in that bubble for years. Long after what was left of the Weasleys had settled into whatever passed for peace and no longer required him and Hermione to spend the bulk of their lives dealing with them.

Don't think about Ron and his family right now, he told himself wearily. There was plenty else to think about.

Like, for example, Crede's first article on Enmagio, written during the war. The quotes from survivors and their families had haunted him through a couple of the more boring meetings today.

"Paranoia, is what it feels like. Rampant paranoia. Missing out, knowing that everybody around you knows a secret that you don't."

He looked over at Malfoy, still on the phone, writing something down and laughing at something the person on the phone was saying.

"It was unnerving. It was just... I couldn't do anything for myself. I felt so helpless, all the time - and knowing that people around me could see and sense things that I couldn't, that was the worst. And it was so hard to explain, because... because for example I could explain that it bothered me that I couldn't see the Knight Bus, and people would nod and say Yes, that must be frustrating, but the real frustration came when you knew for a fact that there was nothing magical to see - and yet you still felt like you were half-blind. And people would say, "Honestly, Tim, there's no secret doorways or pictures, it's all perfectly visible to any Squib - oh, I'm sorry," and they'd look embarrassed at the word Squib and you wouldn't care because you wanted to just smash the pity off their faces, not for calling you a Squib but for thinking that if they could reassure you that there was no invisible magic, you would stop imagining that you were missing anything."

Malfoy got off the phone, tapped something into the computer in front of him, frowning at the screen slightly.

"She slowly started going insane. She insisted that we were hiding things from her, performing spells behind her back, fooling her. We tried so hard to reach her, but she got more and more angry and withdrawn. She'd have these bursts of rage, then break into tears, for no reason at all."

Harry shook his head, banishing the article's words and images, and concentrated on the books on the shelf before him.

Why young adult books, he wondered. The salespeople here seemed to specialize in a few areas of the store. Why had Malfoy chosen literature written for teenagers? Why, for that matter, had he chosen music or mystery, the other two areas he seemed to know fairly well?

Well, if you were talking about spy mysteries, that would be rather obvious, what with Malfoy's direct experience in that field. But most mystery books weren't about spies, they were about private investigators, and as far as he knew, Malfoy hadn't been one of those.

"May I help you?" Malfoy asked, startling Harry even though Harry had been expecting him. Harry quickly launched into his story.

"They're how old?"

"Eleven to seventeen, boys and girls."

"Well the Adele books are fairly popular with that age group, but most of them have probably read them all, except for the last one, which we can't seem to keep in stock." He frowned thoughtfully at the shelves, picked out a couple. "This one's a big hit. It's a little hard to get into at first, but the kids who stick with it love it to death. Do any of them have learning disabilities?"

Oh dear. "Oh, er, yes - dyslexia," Harry said, grasping at the only term he knew.

"This one's highly recommended for dyslexic kids - my niece is dyslexic and she's hooked on them." His niece? Malfoy was an only child. No nieces. Harry realized Malfoy was still talking. "...getting the kids to read is the first step - they find something they enjoy and they'll put a lot of effort into it, a lot more so than their lessons."

"Oh." Harry paused. "How old is your niece?"

"Thirteen," Malfoy said absently, still scanning the titles and pulling out a few more. "Any horse enthusiasts in the group?"

"Er, I don't know."

"Well, if it's girls there'll be at least one or two. Boys tend to prefer the violent computer games - and there's this series, it's actually based on a game; boys tend to really like it, but it's rubbish as far as literature is concerned. Maybe have that as a hook, again - get them reading trash they'll like, they see reading's fun, and come back for the good stuff."

Harry nodded, observing Malfoy. He really seemed into the work, the books - not marking time or hiding in this bookstore, but actually fully involved and enthusiastic about it. A lot more enthusiastic than Harry was about his own job, come to think of it. He doubted he'd want to talk to anybody at great length about anything having to do with the Velleywold conference... or, for that matter, anything connected to his job.

Malfoy also didn't look, at all, like what Harry had expected after reading the Crede works. They were nothing but depressing.

Of the twenty-six people known to have been hit by the curse since it appeared eleven months ago, eight have committed suicide and another ten have made serious attempts on their lives. Six of those are currently confined to St. Mungo's. Of the twelve remaining known victims, five report emotional symptoms that most resemble a Muggle condition known as "Depression" syndrome, characterized by severe joylessness, anxiety, fatigue, sleeplessness, and lack of mental acuity. The remaining five claim to be coping well. It is significant to note, however, that three of these five are Muggle-born and one is half-Muggle. They have ties to the Muggle world and four of them have effectively moved into it.

Malfoy didn't have ties. Granted, that article had been written in the first few months of the existence of the curse, but the one written five years later, as a follow-up, was hardly a picture of cheer. Particularly the concluding statistics:

xx Total known number of cases: 56

xx Committed suicide within one year: 16

xxo Committed suicide since the war: 4

xx Still confined to St. Mungo's at this time: 8

xx Moved into Muggle world: 15

xx In wizarding world: 8

xx Fate unknown: 5

xx Confined to St. Mungo's for any length of time: 12

xx Reporting severe "Depression" syndrome at any length of time: 22

xx Still reporting severe "Depression" syndrome, in St. Mungo's, wizarding world, Muggle world: 6

So how had Malfoy ended up here? Functioning, rational, seemingly quite at ease? Harry had read some other things about Depression syndrome, and none of the characteristics fit.

The likeliest answer, Harry thought, assuming Malfoy wasn't a Death Eater still hiding from the Ministry - which seemed rather unlikely - was something that he'd encountered near the end of the last Crede article:

"No, she went Muggle. Said she couldn't bear to live as a blind cripple any more. So she, well, she, she went to Knockturn Alley and found somebody who - you know there's people who'll place a very good Obliviate on you, for a price. I begged her not to, but she couldn't - and so I helped her, we set her up with a Muggle-born friend's family. We exchanged our money for Muggle money, they took her in, and she was a new person. Didn't remember us. I've gone to visit her a few times, but it's too painful; she doesn't remember anything of her life, she's been told she's this Muggle who's lost her memory through some accident or something ridiculous like that and she believes it. She believes it, and doesn't know any of us any more."

"So they raised the money themselves?" Malfoy asked as he moved over to the non-fiction books.

"Yeah, they sold biscuits."

"What kind of group is it?"

"Book club, actually."

"That's nice, kids going out of their way to read. Oh, here's another one they may like - the parents might not want it though, it's got a bit of adult content. It's written for teenagers, but it talks about sex and drugs and things like that. Check with the parents before making it available."

"She's happy now, I think. Works at a 'coffee shop' - it's sort of like a restaurant, where they only serve this bitter drink, not like our coffee at all. She was an Auror, you know. Took nine NEWTs, she had a brilliant future ahead of her.

"It's so hard now, to think of her and see what she's become."

"That should be enough... twelve books, nine fiction, three non-fiction. You get a Book Cellar card free if you buy more than six books, so with the discount that's... about thirty euros. Did you want to look at any others?"

"No, that's fine. Thanks."

There were no real answers here, from the articles or from Malfoy himself, thought Harry as Malfoy took his books to the cash. And Harry still had no idea what to do about any of it. Not without knowing how Malfoy had gotten from there to here.

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Harry looked at the stacks of papers on his hotel room desk. In one pile was yet another report on Romanian dragons and the structures in place to maintain them under control - the dragon handlers, what training they had, where the funds came to maintain them and keep their training up to date; the supplies needed for care of injured dragons and the spells needed to keep strong the wards around dragon country.

Another pile of documents about werewolves, and examples of discrimination faced by werewolves, statistics about how many werewolves had actually attacked people in the last twenty-two years (two, one fatally, out of 135 registered werewolves).

The last was a small stack from his brief investigations into Malfoy. He should be slogging his way through the first two piles, but instead here he was, re-reading the third.

Dry, factual report of the battle with Blaise Zabini's group - diagrams, timeline, statements from Aurors and prisoners of war. Terse medical reports on both, as there wasn't time for much more detail in those days. Death certificates, same. Scrolls that had probably not been opened in at least ten years but still felt almost like new except for the dust.

Paracelsus Green (second team medic)

xx minor injuries (healed, Skele-grow, third-level Knit charm)

xx aftereffects, v. brief Cruciatus (healed, Serenitas) and Exsanguine (healed, Ferritas)

xx dehydration (healed, Aquafire)

Tamara Silvanine (first team member)

xx Deceased, Avada Kedavra

Rupert Grisenwold (first team leader)

xx Deceased, Avada Kedavra

Ginevra Grisenwold (second team member)

xx Deceased, Avada Kedavra

Seven more of those; three others of survivors treated for physical and psychic injuries caused by physical and magical means.

Draco Malfoy (second team informant and scout)

xx minor injuries (healed, Skele-grow, third-level Knit)

xx blood loss and internal bleeding (healed, Hematos and Venasurgio)

xx dehydration (healed, Aquafire)

xx aftereffects of Exsanguine (healed, Ferritas)

xx aftereffects of completed Enmagio (unhealed)

A later medical report

Draco Malfoy, Enmagio

xx no magical abilities present

xx being followed for emotional aftereffects

Another report, briefly stating that he'd requested release from St. Mungo's once three Healers had confirmed the diagnosis. He'd been released into his own care, although he did not give an address, as he did not have one. Homelessness was hardly unusual at the time - people were staying at the Ministry, Hogwarts, various safe houses dotted around the country and in Europe.

A one-paragraph report on a visit to him at the home of Pansy Parkinson. He reported no unusual ill effects, checked out medically, and agreed to report to St. Mungo's in a week to be 'followed.'

Clip of two-sentence report from St. Mungo's: "Visit to home of Pansy Parkinson following missed appointment of patient Draco Malfoy, Enmagio after effects. Patient not in premises, Parkinson unsure of his whereabouts, will contact St. Mungo's to reschedule appointment."

More reports from St. Mungo's: "Patient Draco Malfoy has not contacted St. Mungo's or Ministry for medical follow up or secondary debrief re raid of March 18."

"Whereabouts of Malfoy unknown."

"Whereabouts of Malfoy unknown."

"Whereabouts of Malfoy unknown."

"Whereabouts of Malfoy unknown, last seen at home of Pansy Parkinson, no other family or acquaintances report contact with him. Ms Parkinson believes him to have committed suicide, see Crede article "Enmagio and its effects."

And the last entry, from the Ministry: "Missing, presumed dead."

Not much to show for a life. Not much to show thanks or care towards Malfoy for his service or sacrifice.

Of course, Harry was familiar with the reports of the time - how many incredibly complex and time consuming events had been reduced to "raid completed successfully"? How many had no reports at all? That didn't mean nothing had happened. Only that nobody had time to write it down.

But even memories hadn't yielded much, as Harry, bored out of his mind by the administrivia he was currently involved in, had tracked down people whose names he recognized from the reports. He'd asked, and they couldn't add anything useful to the reports.

The Quibbler was even worse. Harry had spent about an hour, more for entertainment purposes than anything else, leafing through the batch of old clippings that had been put together for him by a very eager and giggly clerk at the paper.

Malfoy grave found in Glastonbury! and Malfoy's body finally unearthed, missing eyes and four fingers! were just two examples of headlines. Harry read about sightings at an Eerie Brothers concert, Hogwarts, the Pixie Woods just outside Limerick, a Montrose Magpies/Chudley Cannons Quidditch match (as mystery replacement Seeker), two Muggle supermarkets, one Muggle hospital in France, and a Muggle medium-security jail in Cornwall, before he gave up. None of them seemed remotely plausible or worth looking into - the 'sources' were unnamed, the facts hazy, the situations implausible.

He could start looking in the other direction, he supposed. He could try to figure out when "David Bergsen" had appeared in the Muggle world, and what he'd done there. But he had no idea how to even begin that. It would probably involve the use of computers, too. Which he wasn't terribly comfortable with. And nobody he knew was comfortable with them either.

Too bad he couldn't ask Malfoy for help with that, Harry thought, and chuckled to himself as he finally put aside the interesting stuff and started on his stack of tripe from the conference.

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"Pansy Parkinson?" Harry said tentatively. The thin, angular woman standing in the doorway before him, hair pulled back severely and mouth pursed tightly, did not look like the sly Slytherin girl he'd known at school. This woman bore an uncanny similarity to Madam Pince, the draconian Hogwarts librarian. Same air of severe competence and suspicion.

"Harry Potter," Pansy said neutrally. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I um... I wanted to get some information from you."

"About?"

"Draco Malfoy." Harry watched her eyes widen in genuine surprise.

"Draco? Whatever for?"

"I, er... I'm trying to figure out what happened to him, because he, he was sighted a few weeks ago, and I'm trying to figure out if that was him."

Pansy's severe features relaxed into amused condescension. "Well, if that isn't just like the Ministry. Don't give a damn about a person while they should, and come back to the subject fifteen years later when it makes no difference whatsoever. Nice assignment you've pulled, Potter."

Harry didn't bother to correct her assumption. She sighed and pushed a strand of hair out of her face. "Potter, I don't know anything about Draco that I didn't tell the Ministry fifteen years ago. I told them what I knew - he was here for a little while, then buggered off and I never saw him again. I read the same bizarre little stories in the Quibbler that everyone else did, and I never believed any of it."

"This sighting looks to be genuine."

Pansy laughed bitterly. "Of course it does. Look, I don't have time to play Thirteen Questions for the Ministry. I hope you didn't inconvenience yourself too much coming all the way out here, but-"

"I only want to hear from you what happened - how long he stayed, how did he behave, where did he say he was going-"

"Three weeks, fine, and he didn't. Have a nice day-" Pansy started to close the door but Harry stopped her.

"You told the Ministry he'd only stayed a few days."

"Days, weeks, what does it matter? He stayed, he left. I think he died. Fifteen years ago."

"Pansy-"

"Look, I didn't like talking about him then and I don't want to talk about him now. I tried very hard to leave the war behind me, Potter. Many of us on the losing side did."

Harry frowned. "I thought you'd switched sides. You and Malfoy."

"We saw what a lunatic Voldemort was," she snapped, "but that doesn't mean we wanted to side with the rest of you. No matter who won, we lost." She stopped herself and pursed her lips again. "Look, Potter, I know you're probably under orders from the Ministry to leave no stone unturned but honestly, I have no information to give you, even if I wanted to-" she suddenly broke off and seemed to be thinking about something. "Wait. I do have something - my sister Juniper died last summer-"

"Oh, I'm sorry-" Harry murmured automatically. "I didn't-"

"-and I went to tidy her things and found a slew of letters from me to her, from the war. I doubt there's much there that you could use, but I've no earthly use for them. Why don't you take them?"

"Oh. Oh, yes, that would be-"

"Here, wait a minute - I was just going through the boxes last week - wait a moment." Pansy went into her house and left him standing at the door for a few moments, listening to her moving about. "Here," she came back, hidden behind a couple of large boxes. "Do a lighten spell. They're full of papers and such and they're bloody heavy."

8888888888

"Harry?" Emma Sprout popped into Harry's London office the next day.

"Yeah?"

"A few of us are going down to the Cauldron for a beer, are you coming?"

"No thanks, too busy."

"All work and no play, Harry," Emma chided.

"I know, I know."

"When are you going to get out and relax?" she said. "You've been going back and forth, Velleywold to here... you look like you need a good drunk."

"I need to get drunk, or I need to meet a drunk?"

"Either or both, darling. You look peaked."

"I'm fine."

"Yes, aren't you always," Emma sighed, giving up. "Fine."

Harry waved as she and the rest of the London staff headed out, and he looked over the piles of work before him.

On one side of the desk were the reports of the Committee on the Re-evaluation of Registration and Administration of Magical Creatures and Magical Beasts. On the other side were Pansy's letters, which he'd sorted by date before reading. He started with the one dated the closest to the end of the war.

xxxxxxxx

Dear Juniper:

Sorry I haven't written much lately, this stupid war. I suppose you've heard of Draco by now. Well he's staying with me. I think I'm not supposed to say anything about him being here, but I'm sure he didn't mean that with regards to you.

He's acting very odd. Draco, that is. He's been awfully quiet, and he hasn't spoken at all about It. That's how I think of it now - It. But then something will come up and it's so awkward. Yesterday it was asking him to floo down to the store, and I just wasn't thinking - but he didn't say anything, just stared at me until I remembered, even though I'd started yelling at him that he wasn't the spoiled Malfoy heir any more and I didn't have house-elves to help me out at home and a lot of other garbage. A simple "I can't, Pansy" would have sufficed. Honestly, men. And I mean, you remember what he was like as a child, he'd make a biggest fuss out of the slightest injury - when that Hippogriff scratched him at school you would've thought it took both arms off for all the bother he made - but then this 'It' happens and he's just silent about it. I ask him how he's feeling, and he just shrugs.

This stupid, stupid war. I hate it.

How's Francis doing? Is he back from Bulgaria? Don't tell me if it's a secret, obviously, but I'd like to know. I can't stand how this keeps ripping apart all the best families. I found myself wishing I were a bloody Weasley the other day, as they're all on the same side, at least. With us you can never tell who's where any given day of the week.

Made myself sick at that last thought, by the way. Me, a Weasley. Bad enough that I'm on their side; I certainly have no wish to emulate them...

xxxxxxxx

Harry chuckled and scanned ahead, skipping a long description of a party that followed the Weasley reference.

xxxxxxxx

Found out the oddest thing the other day - did you know we must have different taste buds than Muggles? Yesterday Draco nearly spat out a mouthful of perfectly good pumpkin juice. Made a face at it and asked if it had gone bad, which it hadn't, it tasted fine to me. He had it for breakfast at school every morning for six years, but he can't stand it now, says it tastes quite bland and foul. Honestly, he'll be bringing Orange juice or some such Mudblood concoction into my home next. Mother would've been scandalised.

She'd be scandalised if she could see what else he's drinking these days, and how much. You know him - barring a few rather wild nights after the OWLs, he hated that kind of thing, and not just because Lucius would've killed him if he'd done anything stupid while drunk; Draco just didn't like the feeling of lack of control. Well now it looks like he's decided there's no reason not to get disgracefully drunk on a regular basis. Not that he's doing anything disgraceful, although I almost wish he would. All he's doing is drinking till he falls asleep or passes out, whatever you want to call it.

He will get better, won't he? I keep thinking of those awful articles from that Crede woman. The worst of it is, Draco said he'd read them - before that night, as a matter of fact. He knew, damn him. Why didn't he just let somebody else take out Blaise?

I hate this bloody war...

xxxxxxxx

Harry skipped ahead as Pansy's letter turned into a long diatribe against the Order. He started to skim through another one.

xxxxxxxx

...so glad you said Francis is playing Quidditch again. He must be feeling better.

Oh, god, Quidditch, Juniper. Another awkward moment, the other day I thought we might take in a game - the Magpies were playing. He just said No very brusquely and then I realized. He'll never play Quidditch again. I can't bear the thought. That's just... it's so horrible.

And then I read in the Prophet yesterday that the Sainted and Beloved Harry Bloody Potter played a game for the Cannons and probably every simpering witch in the stands tossed her pants at him - it's disgusting. Draco is grounded for the rest of his life, and the bleeding Wanker Who Lived is flying higher than ever. He wouldn't even be alive right now if Draco hadn't taken out Blaise that night. Not that anybody gives a damn, especially Potter.

xxxxxxxx

Harry swallowed hard. He hadn't. Given a damn, that was. He still remembered that game, remembered what a relief it had been to fly again, because during the worst of the war, after too many players had been blasted out of the sky, Quidditch had been ruled too risky and all games had been cancelled.

He'd been relieved and happy. Never stopped to think of the people who would never fly again.

No, that wasn't true. He'd stopped to think. He'd cared. He just couldn't seem to care for the right people at the right time, and certainly not as much they had needed him to care. What was it Hermione had flung at him, near the end?

"Harry Bloody Potter, the Great Hero. The Wanker Who Lived," yes, she'd said that too, only it had hurt a lot more coming from Hermione Granger than from Pansy Parkinson. "I'm sick of it - it's all you, you, you, like the rest of us never did a damn thing. Like Ron and other people didn't lose anything."

"That's not fair-"

"Oh, you never give interviews, you never let the Ministry parade you around as their trophy, just when we're supposed to be taking Molly to Ginny's grave and deal with Ron and-"

"That's not my fault! I'm trying, with Ron and them, but-"

"But you just don't have anything left to give to the rest of us after your adoring public is done with you."

He picked up the next letter in the pile.

xxxxxxxx

Dear Juniper:

No news of Draco. He's all right, isn't he? He would've called or something, if he were in trouble? Though how, I don't know.

There's been another bloody sighting in the Quibbler. In a Muggle "super"-market, of all places. Not bloody likely. He'd be eating in a fancy restaurant if he was doing anything in the Muggle world, he'd be utterly lost in one of their markets.

He's probably just lit out for Australia or something. I hope so, anyway.

There's rumours, did you know, that he's gone back to the Death Eaters. Another stupid article about Harry Bloody Potter, and nothing but sightings in "super"-markets and rumours of betrayal for Draco. It's a good thing he's not around to see this.

I think he's probably dead. You know that article on Enmagio, a lot of people commit suicide. And he was drinking so much. Who knows, he probably got drunk and walked off a bridge. I've read and re-read his letter and can't decide what's probably happened. You read it, and tell me what you think.

I just don't understand what's happened to him, what's the matter with him or how to help him.

xxxxxxxx

"What's happened to you? What's the matter with you?" Hermione had asked too. And "How can I help?" they had asked each other. For all the good it had done them.

xxxxxxxx

I keep thinking, even if he's not dead, he is, really. The boy I knew is just gone, and I have no idea who's taken his place, but he doesn't have the same sense of humour, the same spirit, the same anything. You know what he was like at school, he'd drive the Gryffindors mental and have us all in stitches imitating the professors in the common room. There's nothing of that left now.

Oh, I've got to stop worrying about him. I can't take this any more.

Did you know Millicent is getting married?

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"I can't take this any more, Harry," Hermione had said, right around the same time that this letter was dated. Harry blocked that train of thought quickly, picking up another letter. This one, oddly, was apparently from Juniper to Pansy, and it looked half-written, like it hadn't been sent.

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Dear P:

This stupid war. I saw the Quibbler too. And you're still clinging to the pre-war Draco, darling. He learned to forage in the forest during the war; he can certainly handle a supermarket.

About his letter, I don't know. Somehow it doesn't sound like Draco, that he would go Muggle, but then again, what else could he do? Can you imagine living like that in our world? I certainly can't.

Francis says to tell you he's doing all right and not in the tub any more - he said you'd know what that meant...

xxxxxxxx

Harry picked up another letter, different writing. A shiver went down his back as he read it.

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Dear Pansy:

Well, you're probably figured out by now that I've gone out for sugar quills and pumpkin juice and I'm not coming back. Sorry to be a little abrupt about this, but I didn't want a big scene.

Don't know when or if I'll come back. We'll see, I suppose. This letter probably won't make much sense - I'm more than a little drunk, and using a bloody Muggle pen to write this. They're impossible.

Thanks for letting me stay at your house, bother that I was. I'm sorry about that tea set, I know it meant a lot to you. Thanks also for your tact regarding our engagement and I'll save you the social awkwardness by calling it off myself. Oh and if anybody asks, just tell them that I was there for a day or two, then moved off and you don't know where. And don't worry, I'll be all right. Hope you're all right too.

Thanks, Pansy. I love you,

Draco

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Pansy and Draco Malfoy - engaged? Harry was somewhat stunned. No wonder Pansy didn't want to talk about him, if he'd up and left her with nothing but a drunken note and a lot of unanswered questions.

There had been so much leaving at that time. So many friendships and romances that had survived the war, only to fall apart during the peace.

Harry tossed the letters aside, suddenly sick of the whole thing.

8888888888

The Book Cellar was busy the next day when Harry entered, but this time he really was just hoping to find some computer books. Anything to get away from the idiocy of this interminable Velleywold conference. He perused the shelves a bit, but looked up as the door opened and one of the female sales clerks groaned.

"Oh, it's our most favourite person in the whole entire world," she muttered, and Harry heard an answering tsk of annoyance from Malfoy. Both were staring at the front door, where a relatively attractive older woman with a murderous expression on her face was stalking in.

"Dave, your turn."

"What? No! I - I got her last time," Malfoy said.

"Monday?"

"Half a bloody hour she had me running back and forth-"

"She came back in Wednesday. I had the pleasure."

"Hell," Malfoy muttered.

"So," the other clerk said brightly, "have fun, mate, she's all yours."

"Thanks, Ann, that's very kind of you," Malfoy said, and Ann made a surprised sound as Malfoy deliberately stepped on her foot as he walked past her, smiling at her angelically.

"Hello, Ms Nicholson, how may I help you today?" he said pleasantly.

"This damned shipment," the woman snarled, and thrust a piece of paper at Malfoy. He took it and read it over, politely mhm'ing whenever the woman paused in her diatribes at the store and its employees. Harry's eyebrows climbed up to his hairline as the woman hissed viciously at the incompetence of everybody involved in her order.

"Ma'am, I am fairly sure you did request these three-"

"Don't be a complete imbecile, I did not such thing - what use could I possibly have for vegetarian cookbooks?"

"I've no idea," he replied pleasantly, "I just remember the publisher's name-"

"Well if you had paid any attention you would know that my boutique does not deal with that kind of cuisine. We deal strictly in cordon bleu tools and literature; this is... this is peasant fare!"

"Mhm, yes, pheasants," Malfoy nodded, polite smile firmly in place.

She glared at him. "But I suppose it's a little too much to ask for you people to think once in a while."

"Probably," he agreed mildly. "We much prefer to work on autopilot. What would you like us to do about your order?"

"What am I supposed to do with these damned books that I never bloody well asked for?!"

"You could use them as door prizes during your functions," he said seriously.

"Door prizes? What kind of functions do you think we run?"

"Not... functions with door prizes?" he guessed.

The woman glared at him. "You think this is funny? Should I have a word with your manager about this?"

"That's an excellent idea," he said cheerfully, and handed her a card, "There's her number - or would you like me to have her call you instead? I'm sure she'd love to discuss this with you." The woman glared at him again, but turned on her heel and flounced out of the store. "Have a nice day," he called after her, turning back to the other sales clerk, who was now laughing.

"Fifty-six seconds, new record. Although Marcy's going to kill you for that 'love to discuss this with you' bit."

"If Marcy wants us to do business with that woman, she can bloody well talk to her," Malfoy snapped.

"I'm sure she'd rather. You know it took her weeks to calm Nicholson down that time that you called her yacht a 'little boat.'"

"Yeah, that was fun, I'd never actually heard anybody 'splutter' before," he smiled nostalgically. "Marcy should just be relieved I didn't tell Nicholson to roll up her order very small and stuff it nice and tight into her nice and tight ars - oh hello, sir," Malfoy said smoothly, catching sight of Harry, who'd started to chuckle. "Did you need any help today?"

Harry laughed at Malfoy's bland expression, and looked after the woman who'd just slammed herself into her very expensive car. Malfoy caught the direction of Harry's gaze and grinned, utterly unembarrassed as he realized Harry had overheard him badmouthing a customer.

"Yeah," Harry said. "Computer books, though, not kids' today."

"Joan's not here, she usually does the computer section, but I've filled in for her a few times. What kind of books were you looking for?"

8888888888

"I can bring them back, if I still don't understand any of it?" Harry asked about fifteen minutes later.

"Yeah, we've got a deal with the computer company. Just bring your receipt." Three computer books. He was damn well going to figure the machines out, enough to put some music on them. Malfoy had been fairly patient with his complete cluelessness on the subject, commenting only that he'd also had a mortal fear of the things before his girlfriend persuaded him they didn't bite.

Malfoy started to enter his purchases. "Interesting tattoos," Harry commented casually and Malfoy nodded, typing. "Where did you get them done?"

"London."

"They look rather... fierce."

Malfoy smiled briefly. "They're from my previous life," he said dryly, still concentrating on the records in front of him.

"Really? You're not secretly part of a criminal gang?"

Small chuckle. "No."

"Why did you get them done?"

"Young and stupid," he said lightly.

"Really?" Harry waited, and Malfoy glanced at him, realizing he was expecting more.

"Tattoos like this are living proof that tattoo parlours ought never to serve anyone who's young and intoxicated. Because at sixteen, you never think about the fact that some day you may want a job at a bank, and a tattoo will not help you get it."

Harry chuckled. "A bank?"

Malfoy gave a small laugh as he stapled together the invoice and receipt. "Oh, who am I kidding. I'd've died of boredom working at a bank."

"How long have you worked here?"

"Six... no, seven years. Nice job, getting paid to read and talk about books, which I'd be doing as a hobby anyway."

"And they don't care about the tattoos," Harry remarked.

"Not a bit. As long as I don't highlight the merchandise or tear out random pages too often, the boss is happy." He handed over Harry's bag.

"You probably would've made a good librarian."

"Heh, yeah, maybe. You have to go to college for that, though, and I'm not terribly keen on academia."

Harry nodded, putting his books into his bag. Not terribly keen on academia, said the man who'd consistently come in first in their year in Potions, second, after Hermione, in Arithmancy and Runes, and near the top in many of his other classes.

"Well, thanks," Harry took it and started off.

"Have a good weekend, sir," Malfoy smiled and looked behind Harry at the next customer, a woman carrying a small pile of quilting books. "Hello Mrs. Andrews, will that be all today?"

"Yes, thanks Dave," she put her books down and took out her wallet, searching for her Book Cellar card as Harry left.

8888888888

And now here Harry was, back to Velleywold Village, and the interminable conference from Hell, which looked good to continue into another week. Not that Harry had anything better to do, but he was bored out of his mind with the speeches and useless frittering away of time. Did the Romanian dragon problem look like it needed Ministry intervention, or could the Romanians handle it on their own. Should part-Veela still need to be registered. Should the anti-discrimination laws about werewolves be updated or just enforced for once. Did it matter. What was enforcement, and why were they... he couldn't even remember what the topics were any more, and what his own position was on any of them.

"Do you even know any more, how you feel about any of it?" Hermione had asked him once.

"What kind of question is that?"

"A question I shouldn't have to ask."

"I don't have time for this-"

"No, neither do I."

"Hermione, come back here!"

Harry chewed on his quill thoughtfully, realizing he had no idea what the current speaker was talking about.

I'd have died of boredom working in a bank, Malfoy had said, dismissing the Mark on his arm as a simple reminder of foolish youth, never once looking at it directly.

It's so hard now, to think of her and see what she's become.

8888888888

"How should I know?" Pansy Parkinson asked, looking rather put out that Harry had returned.

"Did he talk about it? Setting himself up in the Muggle world, doing an Obliviate spell so that he could live in the Muggle world with no memory of what he'd lost?"

"No, he didn't. Besides, wiping out his memory of magic? How would he explain memories of his family, his job - anything about his life?"

"At least three people wiped their entire memories, started over. No memory of their former life at all."

"Good lord, why would anybody want to do that?" she shuddered. "Mental suicide."

"You thought he might have committed suicide for real, though, at the time. Do you still think so?"

"I don't know, for god's sake, I wasn't privy to his inner mind, I was just a friend trying to help out."

"Why did he switch sides in the war?"

Pansy pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes.

"Do you know?"

"Yes, I know."

Harry waited.

"And it's none of your business."

"It might help to decide for once and for all whether he went back to the Death Eaters."

Pansy sighed and looked away.

"It might-"

"No, it wouldn't. Look, those of you who never accepted that he switched, never will. And it doesn't matter. It was fifteen years ago. Let it go."

"Doesn't it bother you that a friend of yours - somebody you were going to marry - is still thought of as a traitor?"

Pansy's eyebrows rose. "How did you know-"

"His letter to you."

"Oh, right." Pansy chewed on her lip. "We were mostly just friends. We just hadn't realized yet that high school romances should be left in high school."

"Is that why - are you still angry at him for leaving you, is that why you don't want to clear his name-"

"Oh, for god's sake, Potter. No, of course I'm not angry at him. Fifteen years later, I've got nothing better to do with my time than nurse a grudge over the one who got away?" She shook her head. "Look, I know why he switched, and it's none of your business, but believe me, there was no way he could have gone back to the Death Eaters even if there had been any to go back to. And the reason I don't care about his good name is that he's gone, whether dead, or living as a Muggle - with or without any memory of what he was before. For all intents and purposes, as far as the wizarding world is concerned, as far as I'm concerned, he's dead."

"But-"

"Potter," she sighed, "just let it go. Let the dead bury the dead."

8888888888

Harry regarded the man in front of him as he ran the last set of books through the cash. There wasn't any point in this any more, there wasn't anything else to be learned from watching Malfoy's interactions with his coworkers or customers, there weren't any other leads to follow to figure out what the hell had happened to him - not unless Harry was willing to devote a hell of a lot more time to this, which he wasn't. The boredom and futility of his job and the rather empty slate of his personal life notwithstanding, he did have some semblance of a life, and this wasn't his problem.

He should just walk out of here. Yes, he'd seen Draco Malfoy. He was alive. He was a perfectly ordinary Muggle bookstore clerk. He'd either Obliviated his memory or done a damn good job blending in with the Muggles around him. And Harry had a life to return to.

Which was what he was going to do. He took the small stack of books as Malfoy finished with them, trying to remember the way to the library where he'd donated the last set. That was that. Malfoy handed him his receipt.

On impulse, he paused before putting the books into his bag. Now or never.

"Thanks... Malfoy," Harry said quietly, dropping his disguising spell.

The effect was electric. Malfoy froze, then blinked rapidly, then looked up at him, his face paler than usual. His eyes widened as he looked at Harry, and he swallowed hard. There was a very long pause.

"Potter," he said quietly.