Metanoia

Metanoia

Part I: Reconciliation

His feet slapped against the ground, repeatedly propelling him forward. Arms pumping furiously at his sides, breath coming in staggered gasps. His robe whipped out behind him, billowing fiercely. Hair was streamlined back from his face, slightly obscuring his vision. A fire to his side, shouted curses behind him. He wanted to turn around, to see what was going on, but he knew he would be dead before he could see anything clearly.

All he could do was run.

He managed a small extra burst of speed after hearing a mangled cry from somewhere far back and to his left. He couldn't stop; he had to keep going. The edge of the grounds was just in front of him. His feet felt leaden; he knew he was almost there.

The shouts behind him increased. A jet of light burst past him and he gasped. That was it. He was doomed, he'd be caught and thrown in Azkaban; his parents would be killed and he couldn't do a thing about it.

The ground beneath him was loose, rocky. He was getting closer to the end of the grounds. Freedom was there, just out of reach. His arms reached out in front of him, futilely grasping at air. If he could only reach the grounds...

There! That was Professor Snape's voice, screaming something out. Then Potter shouted what sounded like an Unforgiv- but he got cut off. They sounded farther back; he should check, just glance back to see - but no. There was no going back.

He just had to keep running.

Breathing was drinking fire; running was dancing on needles. He thought he'd never run so much in his entire life. Blood pumped through his veins; he swallowed thickly and felt his throat like sandpaper. His eyes clenched shut, then opened once more.

Finally he could feel the barrier breaking over his skin. The tingle was all the notice he needed. He Apparated, leaving Hogwarts and his old life behind.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"The Dark Lord wishes to speak with you."

Draco's head snapped up at the sudden voice. Ever since his arrival at the Dark Lord's hideout, he had been held in this one room. It seemed as though the Dark Lord had heard of his failure and was not amenable to hearing any excuses.

Not that Draco had any to give. What could he say? The Dark Lord would know that he hadn't killed Dumbledore. Surely Professor Snape would have given him a full, detailed account of his failure.

And what a failure it had been. Not only had he not carried out the Dark Lord's orders, but he had also forced Professor Snape to come out as a spy. All those years of work, all that trust he had built up with the other professors at Hogwarts, it was all gone. Destroyed, thanks to his inability to carry out a simple task the Dark Lord has set aside specifically for him.

Then again, it hadn't been such a simple task, had it? At first, Draco thought he would be able to accomplish it. Sure, he had known it would be difficult. In fact, chances were likely that he would be caught before he could complete his mission, and then he'd be stuck. Faced with the choice of expulsion from school and death from the Dark Lord, or attempting to kill a wizard many times more powerful than he could ever really hope to be, Draco knew what his choice was.

Even so, he had known it would be close to impossible to carry out. He recalled, quite clearly in fact, the first time he had broken down during the year. It had been just a few weeks in, and he had known even then that things would never work out, that he should have never accepted such a ridiculous task in the first place. His legs had carried him far away from the Slytherin dorms to a disused girls' bathroom he had heard about.

He had leaned against the sink and breathed heavily. Things were not going his way. The defenses around Hogwarts were just too strong for him to break through, they were flawless, they had been designed by the most skilled wizards of his age, and he would never be able to find a crack in them. No matter how hard he looked, or for how long, he would never discover a way around that shield. The spells and barriers that protected Hogwarts from invasion and treachery were impenetrable.

He remembered clenching his hands into fists at his sides, wondering where he would go from there. There was no hope of giving up now; he had to do it. No matter the consequences, there was no choice left. His parents' lives were at stake.

He couldn't fail them.

His thoughts had been in such chaos that he hadn't even really noticed the other presence in the room until she had made herself known. He had given a loud gasp and turned around, ready to attack even before had saw who had dared to spy on him. Then he had discovered that it was a ghost. In other words, someone who couldn't be bribed, tortured, attacked, or killed. That severely limited his options for concealing information.

To make things even worse, it seemed like the ghost was actually interested in his dilemma. It was almost embarrassing, and definitely annoying, the way she wanted to know all of his problems. She told him her name was Myrtle, that she had been killed before she graduated by a monster that Potter (he rolled his eyes when she sighed) had killed when he was only twelve years old, and that she was known for haunting the bathroom. He had never seen her before, and he told her so. She smiled and said that she had seen him. He remembered the way she had giggled, as if she was remembering some less than innocent event; he grit his teeth just thinking about it.

But he didn't have the luxury of being so choosy. All throughout that year, Moaning Myrtle had continuously shown him both empathy and sympathy, which he had sorely needed. He knew he couldn't let on to anyone in Slytherin that he was having trouble completing the task, or even that there was a task at all. He wasn't entirely sure who in Slytherin might know that he had been given a mission by the Dark Lord, but he couldn't risk the chance that the wrong person would find out and start telling other people that he was having difficulty with it. If word got back to the Dark Lord, he wouldn't be able to escape the punishment that would be meted out to him. However, the longer his plans didn't work, the more stress and worry had had to hide from the prying eyes of his housemates and other, unknown parties who might end up betraying his weakness to the Dark Lord. Moaning Myrtle had been kind to him at a time when no one else had. If she hadn't been so obsessed with Potter, he might have actually befriended her.

"Draco! Get up, damn you. Unless you'd like to keep the Dark Lord waiting." Amycus smiled cruelly, indicating that it was fine with him if Draco angered the Dark Lord. The Death Eater probably thought it would be an enjoyable amusement, watching Draco get punished for his failure.

Draco stood up. He could reminisce later. Right now, he had an appointment to keep.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Keep that racket down!"

The voice bellowed up the stairs for the fourth time that afternoon. Harry knew there was no helping it, what with Hedwig, Pigwidgeon, and Crookshanks all trying to get along in the same room. Still, he made a half-hearted attempt to quiet the two owls, who were currently trying to maneuver in their cages for more room.

Hermione narrowed her eyes and scowled. "I told him if we didn't let them out they'd cause a ruckus. Honestly, did he pay any attention at all to a word I said?"

"Nope," Ron said, glaring in the general direction of the voice. "I don't think he'd fancy trying to live like this."

Harry turned back to his friends, frowning. "Look, guys, I know you all don't much like being here right now. But there's not a lot we can do about it."

Hermione sighed. "It's not that, Harry. We all know why we're here."

"Yeah," Ron added, nodding. "That protection your mum gave you needs to get done again, or re-put on or something."

"And that's important, truly it is, Harry. So I won't complain even if your uncle continues to yell up here every chance he gets."

Harry looked at his friends. They had done a lot for him already. Just because they stuck by him when no one else had, he'd really come to appreciate them. He valued them like nothing else. Hermione was always there for him, so steady and reliable. Always ready with a solution to any problem he had, quick to learn anything that was needed, and more than willing to listen to him when he needed to talk. She cared about him, and that was important to him.

As for Ron, well, what could he say about him, really? He was Harry's best friend. He was the person Harry could turn to when he really needed a laugh. Sure, they had been through some arguments before, but now it seemed like things were back to the way they used to be. Ron had been a constant in Harry's life for years, and that was something Harry couldn't say about many other people.

He had been surprised when both of them had insisted on staying true to their word and accompanied him to the Dursleys. He was sure they would wait for him at the Burrow until he had finished getting his mother's protection for the last time, yet they seemed so ready to be right by his side, regardless of the situation.

"Harry?"

Hermione's voice filtered through his thoughts, causing him to blink and smile at her. "Yeah, Hermione?"

"Look, an owl's coming." She gestured out the window, eyeing landscape just outside the glass. They all watched as the owl landed on the mailbox outside and stared balefully at the bars blocking entrance.

"You'd better go get it," Harry said, turning away from the window.

Hermione hesitated, then nodded. She turned around and left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Ron quickly closed it, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

Both boys were quiet. Ron walked over to stand next to the window, face turned towards the glass. Harry watched Ron look out the window. His best friend, against all known laws of science, had grown taller. Ron was well over six feet now, and when he stood up and stretched in the mornings he placed his hands flat on the ceiling, elbows slightly bent. He had still retained plenty of his childhood behavior, though. They were constantly joking around with each other. Ron was still a pro at wizard's chess; he had won against Harry fourteen times since the start of the summer. Harry had never realized how grateful he was that Ron acted... well, like Ron. At times idiotic, at times slightly cruel, but always fun to be around.

Harry had been surprised when Ron and Lavender had started dating last year. He had suspected that Ron was going to ask a girl out that year; he just hadn't thought it would be Lavender. Ron and Hermione had seemed like a sure thing. In fact, in Harry's eyes, they still were a sure thing.

"When are you going to ask her?" The question was out before Harry had finished thinking it, and he clamped his mouth shut to stop anything else from escaping.

Ron jerked his head back to look at Harry. "What?"

Harry shrugged. He scuffed his foot on the ground and finally said, "I said, when are you going to ask her?"

A blush began to spread across Ron's face. "Ask who what?"

Harry crossed his arms and stared directly at Ron. "Ask Hermione out."

"Out?" Ron squeaked.

Harry bit his lower lip to keep from smiling too much. He thought it might have worked. "Yes. You know, on a date?"

Ron cleared his throat, blushing even more. "I don't know what you mean, Harry."

"Oh, come on," Harry said. "Are you going to ask her out or not?"

Ron's eyes narrowed, and he looked suspiciously at Harry. "Why? You're not after her, are you?" Harry opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by Ron snorting. "Of course you're not. You're dating Ginny, after all."

Harry flinched. Both Hermione and Ron had approved of his relationship with Ginny, although there were plenty of other people who hadn't. Still, his friends support had encouraged Harry to keep dating Ginny even after it had felt... wrong, somehow, to him. At first, he thought he was in love with her. She seemed to be in love with him, and wasn't that how it worked? If someone loved you, you were supposed to love them back, right? At least, that's what Harry had always thought. He had been told that two people fell in love, got married, bought a house, had kids, and died together. That was the way things worked.

But with Ginny, things had been different. The longer they had dated, the more doubts Harry found he had. Of course, the snogging had been great. He had no complaints about that. What had bothered him was that he hadn't felt comfortable around her. She had always looked at him with a happy, trusting expression. He had never been able to relax around her because of it. He felt like if he did something wrong, even a little thing, it would send her entire world crashing down. So he had tried to be as perfect as he knew how to be. He had done whatever she wanted; he had made her happy in every way he knew how. But in doing so, he had drifted further and further away from her. Whenever he had something important to tell Ron and Hermione, he would wait until Ginny was out of the room. He never even considered telling her. He just knew that she wouldn't be able to handle it. And even if he thought she could deal with the stress and pressure of knowing everything about Voldemort and the war, he didn't feel like he could rely on her to take care of herself.

That had been a major problem for him. Ginny was a nice person; she was funny, and sweet, and pretty. She had a great laugh, and it was so infectious Harry found himself laughing along with her, even when he had no clue what was funny. For all her good traits, though, there was still one thing that Ginny was missing. She couldn't be trusted to take care of herself. She had done well enough in the Department of Mysteries, Harry supposed, but when the Death Eaters had invaded Hogwarts she had gotten in trouble. Harry had taken several crucial seconds to stop and help her when he should have continued chasing Snape.

He knew it had been his choice. He was the only one at fault for deciding that he would help her. And yes, it had really only taken a few seconds. But Snape had gotten away, hadn't he? Harry couldn't help thinking that if he hadn't helped Ginny, Snape might not have gotten away.

The worst part about it was that he didn't blame Ginny. How could he expect her to fight against the Death Eaters and not need assistance? He didn't think anyone could do that, not even himself. But Neville had been lying on the ground, injured, and Harry had only run past him, shouting as he went. In his hurry to catch Snape, Harry had even passed by some bodies on the floor, only giving a moment's thought to whether or not they were friends of his. He had seen Ron and Hermione fighting, and he hadn't stopped to help either of them. It was only Ginny that he had helped.

There was only one reason for it. It wasn't that he cared about Ginny, since he cared about his other friends and he had left them alone. He knew he wasn't in love with Ginny; the very idea seemed absurd to him. He might have felt lust towards her at some point, but that was gone now and he was left feeling awkward and unsure around her. The reason he had helped her was because he thought of her as weak. That was it. That was the only explanation for his actions. He knew everyone else could take care of themselves, but Ginny had been tired and rather run-down the last few weeks of school. He just hadn't thought that she could stand up for herself, that she could fight the Death Eaters and win.

When Harry had figured that out, shortly after they had started dating, he had felt like a prat. What did it matter if he didn't think she could survive by herself? That shouldn't matter, really. If he was there with her, to protect her, she'd be all right. Then reality kicked in, as it eventually does. He wouldn't be able to be there for her all the time. Eventually, he'd have to choose. Either he could be with her literally all the time, in which case she'd be put into a lot of dangerous situations that he was absolutely sure she wouldn't be able to handle herself in. Or he wouldn't always be with her, which meant he'd worry about how she was doing and whether or not he had done the right thing by leaving her behind.

All of this worrying about her had only increased his anger when Snape had gotten away. If he hadn't been so focused on helping Ginny, Harry was sure he would have had a better chance at catching Snape.

But he was going around in circles. What was important now was that they had broken up. He had felt bad about it, especially since Ron and Hermione both had seemed less than pleased when he had told them, but overall he thought it had bee the right thing to do. It wasn't fair to Ginny to stay with her only for the snogging, and he didn't think he'd ever be able to love her in the way she wanted him to. Harry was quickly getting over it, and he hoped Ginny was doing the same.

Of course, Ron talking about Ginny and Harry as if they were still going out made things a lot worse.

"Ron," Harry said after a considerable pause. "You know I'm not dating Ginny anymore."

Ron shrugged. "Not now, no." He looked back out the window. "But after the war..."

"Ron. We broke up." Harry leaned against the wall. His arms dangled at his sides, and he shoved them into his pockets distractedly. "It just didn't work out with her."

Ron nodded. "Yeah, Harry. Sure. Whatever you say."

"Anyway, you're just trying to change the subject."

"What?" Ron looked back at Harry and scowled. "No."

"Then when are you going to do it?"

"Do what?"

Harry growled. "Ask Hermione out!"

Ron opened his mouth and shut it quickly. After a few seconds, he said, "I don't know if she wants to."

Harry rolled his eyes. "She wants to, mate. Believe me. She wants to."

"Yeah, and how do you know that?"

Harry looked at Ron and raised his eyebrows. "Ron. Honestly now. Anyone who's seen the two of you together knows that."

"I don't know, Harry."

"Ron--"

Harry was cut off by the door opening. Hermione came back in; her hair was even more of a mess than normal from the heavy wind outside. She shut the door firmly and began walking across the room to Harry. Halfway there, she stopped. She looked at Harry, who was busy looking at his shoes. Then she turned and saw Ron looking at the ceiling.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Both boys quickly shook their heads.

"What? No, no, of course not," Harry said, frowning a little.

"Yeah, Hermione. I mean, no. Bugger. You know what I mean," Ron said, sighing.

"Right then." Hermione nodded and handed Harry a letter. "Here, this is for you."

"Thanks." Harry took it and slid his finger under the top, unrolling the parchment. He scanned it and sighed.

"What? What is it?" Hermione asked, moving closer and trying to read it from the back.

"My Hogwarts letter," Harry said. For some reason, since he had decided not to go back in his seventh year, he hadn't expected to get his letter. A wave of realization crashed over him. This was for real. He really had decided he wouldn't be going back to Hogwarts for his final year.

"Oh," Hermione said. She looked at Harry and then back at the letter. "Do you mind if I... if I see it?"

Harry shrugged and handed it over to her. He watched as Hermione took it, hands only barely gripping the sheet of parchment. Her eyes scanned the words once and then moved over them one by one, as if memorizing them. She mouthed a few of the words and nodded to herself.

"Right then. Thanks," Hermione said, passing it back over to Harry.

Harry nodded and took it back from her. "Sure," he replied, rolling the parchment back up.

"Wait a minute," Ron said, so quickly that both Harry and Hermione looked up at him. "Where are ours?"

"They're probably at our houses, Ron," Hermione said.

"But don't we always get ours at the same time?" Ron asked. He looked to Harry for confirmation. "We do, right?"

Harry shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. What does it matter?"

"I guess it doesn't," Ron said, shrugging. "I'd just like to know."

"Obviously they're going to be late getting here, aren't they?" Hermione said, then cleared her throat and looked at Ron. "So what were you two talking about, anyway?"

Ron blushed and shook his head. "Wait a minute, Hermione. Why would they be late getting here?"

"Ron," Hermione said, titling her head pointedly in Harry's direction. She widened her eyes and pursed her mouth, jerking her head towards Harry again.

Ron looked at her. He blinked. "Huh?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Ron. Think about it." Ron shook his head slowly, side to side, and continued staring at her. Hermione sighed. "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Hey," Harry said, cutting Ron off mid-nod. "You can answer the question, you know. What's the big problem?"

Hermione wrung her hands in front of her, took a step towards Harry, and then stepped back again. "Oh, all right." She looked at Ron and, glancing at Harry from the corner of her eye, took a breath. "The both of you know the headmaster normally sends out the Hogwarts letters, don't you?"

"So?" Ron asked, looking at Harry. Harry was looking down at his shoes again, so he turned to Hermione instead. "We should still get them on time."

Harry waited for Hermione to say something, but she kept quiet. He looked up at her to find her quickly looking away from him. Suddenly it all clicked, and when it did a rage welled up within him, so fierce and so powerful that he had to stop himself from walking over and shaking her by the shoulders.

"I can't believe you, Hermione," Harry said, practically forcing the words through his clenched teeth. "You really think that little of me?"

Hermione was shaking her head, wringing her hands in front of her. "No, Harry, of course I don't! It's just that--"

"It's just that what?" Harry interrupted, throwing her words back in her face. "It's just that you think I can't handle it?"

"No!" Hermione shouted, then immediately looked contrite. "No," she repeated, softer.

"Then what is it?" Harry replied, swallowing thickly. "You think I don't know he's dead?"

"Wait, what?" Ron asked, looking quickly back and forth between Harry and Hermione. "What are you guys talking about?"

"No, Harry! Of course I don't think that," Hermione said, her hands twisting around each other continuously.

"I know he's dead." It was a flat, emotionless statement that was somehow full of energy.

"I know!" Hermione blinked rapidly, inhaling so quickly it sounded like she was gasping for air.

"I saw it happen, all right? I was there. I saw it happen." Harry's voice was steady when he said it, but his hands were trembling. He fisted them as soon as he noticed and held them slightly away from his sides, unintentionally assuming an aggressive stance.

Hermione stepped towards Harry, right hand shakily outstretched towards him, left hand fisted in the bottom of her own shirt. "Harry, I didn't mean--"

"You can talk about him in front of me, okay?" Harry's gaze dropped down to the floor briefly before he brought it up again to glance at Ron. His best friend was staring at Hermione but he quickly turned to face Harry. They stared at each other for a moment, at a second at most, before Harry looked away. He fixed his stare once again on Hermione's face. She seemed distraught; he thought he saw tears collecting just under her eyes. An overwhelming sensation of guilt hit him then, and he swallowed against it.

"Okay," Hermione said, nodding, hand falling to her side. Her voice seemed oddly loud after the brief silence. "Okay, Harry."

"I haven't freaked out about it yet, have I?" Harry was speaking quickly, the words rolling off his tongue as soon as he thought them, as soon as his mouth could form the syllables. He needed to finish this conversation right away, so it would be over and settled and he would never need to think about it again.

Hermione shook her head once, tightly. "No," she said, voice small. "You haven't."

"Wait a minute," Ron said, waving a hand in front of him.

"And I'm not going to, either," Harry continued, speaking louder over Ron's voice.

"I said wait a minute," Ron said, striding forward and placing himself between Harry and Hermione. "Will someone please tell me what's going on already?"

"Hermione," Harry said, dragging her name out and throwing a dirty look in her direction, "didn't actually think that I could talk about Dumbledore without getting upset."

"I didn't think that, Harry," Hermione said, almost shouting with fervor. "That's not what I meant."

"But you are, aren't you?" Ron said, looking at Harry oddly.

"What?" Harry asked, turning his dirty look from Hermione and directing it to Ron.

Ron swallowed and shrugged, giving a half-hearted smile. "You are getting kind of upset, mate."

Harry spluttered incoherently. "I'm not, I--what are you talking about?"

Ron shrugged again, backing a step away from Harry, leaving just a little bit more space between them. "You're freaking out, Harry. That's all I'm saying."

"I am not," Harry said, getting defensive. He grit his teeth. "I just don't see why people have to keep on treating me like I'm a kid or something."

"We're not treating you like a kid, Harry," Hermione said, soothingly. She reached out and put her hand on his arm. "We're just concerned about you. We want to make sure you're okay."

"Yeah," Ron said, nodding. "And you shouldn't yell at Hermione when she's right," he added, frowning slightly. Hermione shot him an exasperated look but he didn't notice. "She's just worried about you, mate."

Harry literally felt his anger leave him. One instant it was there, burning steadfastly against anyone, regardless of their intentions towards him. The next instant it was gone, leaving behind only an empty hole where it had been. Harry's shoulders slumped, his chest sagged, and his knees bent the tiniest bit. His whole body seemed to lose its resolve to prove his point, and if he was honest with himself, he wasn't even sure what his point was.

Was it that he was okay with Dumbledore's death? Was that what he was trying to say to Ron and Hermione? That standing there, frozen, unable to do anything other than stare blatantly as Snape had cast the Killing Curse on Dumbledore hadn't affected him? It had affected him. Watching Dumbledore being killed in such a way--as he was lying on the ground, completely helpless, wandless, with no one nearby who was either willing or able to assist him in any way--had been one of the worst experiences of his life.

It had been painful, and not in the way that a well-placed healing charm could fix. Not even in the way that a hug from Hermione or a game of chess with Ron could fix. This was something that had no easy answer to it, no solution waiting for him just as soon as he thought of it. There was no simple way to erase the guilt and dread he felt every time he thought of what had happened.

The more he thought about it, the more he thought he wouldn't ever be able to get over it. After all, he had been the only one who had any chance at all of helping Dumbledore. True, he had been trapped under both a Petrificus Totalus and his father's invisibility cloak. No one who knew what had happened could have expected him to do anything; in fact, the only people who knew placed absolutely no blame on him. It had been agreed that there was nothing he could have done, that Dumbledore had been too fast right before Malfoy entered, that even Harry Potter couldn't have changed the outcome of that night.

Of course, Harry himself didn't believe that for an instant. After all, he was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, defeater of evil, and general protector of everyone who was less powerful than he was. Harry knew he didn't live up to his reputation, knew he wasn't even close to it, but that didn't stop him from wishing he was. He had faced Voldemort four times already, five if you counted when he was a baby, and still he was alive and well. He couldn't help thinking that, if he had really tried to, he could have broken free of the spell and saved Dumbledore.

There was a part of Harry that knew it sounded ridiculous. How could he have broken free of the Petrificus Totalus? There was no way to. But another, more convincing part of his mind felt it necessary to remind him of the number of times he had thrown off the Imperius Curse. Compared to the Unforgivable Curse that controlled people's minds and forced them to do things against their own wills, the spell that simply forced people to remain still for a period of time was nothing--so simple it didn't even warrant being mentioned in the same breath. So why was Harry able to throw off the Imperius Curse with barely a problem, while the Petrificus Totalus had left him completely defenseless?

He didn't know the answer to that question. He didn't know why he was able to do some things that were impossible, but, at the same time, he could be open and vulnerable to other, less powerful spells. It was something he wished he knew how he could change, or even if it was possible to change it.

Harry wanted to become his reputation. He wanted to become that powerful, mythological man who was immune to all attacks and could save everyone with no effort at all. If only he could accomplish that, he wouldn't have to stand by on and watch as other people died protecting him. His father and mother had been the first, but as he grew older the list got longer.

Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. Ron was right. There was no reason to take out his frustration on Hermione. She had been trying to be kind to him, thinking that he didn't want to talk about Dumbledore. She was absolutely right, of course; he didn't want to talk about Dumbledore. But there was no way he could admit that, at least not without also admitting the reasons why since Hermione would surely want him to talk about it.

Things always had to be complicated, Harry thought, sighing. His life just couldn't be normal. Ever.

"You're right, Ron," Harry said, looking contrite. His head was bent slightly, following the rest of his body's lead, and he leaned against the wall behind him, thankful for its assistance in keeping him in a somewhat upright position.

"Huh?" Ron said, blinking. Then he seemed to come back to the conversation and nodded fervently. "Well, of course I'm right, Harry."

"Oh, honestly, Ron," Hermione said, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry, Hermione. I didn't mean to yell at you." Harry smiled a little, the self-deprecating half-smile that he wore when he didn't know what else to do. Hermione's face softened. "I guess I'm just tired or something."

Hermione smiled back, a soft, gentle smile that set Harry instantly at ease. "We all are, Harry," she said in a tone that matched her smile perfectly. "We all are."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Draco had never really looked at the Dark Lord before. Sure, he had seen him briefly when he took the Mark. But it hadn't been like this. There had been a huge crowd then, since all of the Death Eaters were required to attend the initiation ceremony. Black robes and masked faces had gone back almost as far as he could see, and after that had been a wasteland. Debris had lain scattered on the ground, stepped on by everyone that had passed. Not only the Death Eaters, but also the countless people who had walked through there for other, less-malicious purposes. As Draco knelt there, he had thought it was rather odd that his attention wasn't focused on the ceremony taking place in front of him. Then the Dark Lord had stood in front of him, and his mind had abandoned any attempt at coherent thought. Draco had only seen him from the waist down, but it had been enough. The air around the Dark Lord was heavy and hard to breathe. Draco concentrated on breathing, and, later, on not screaming.

He found himself concentrating on the same things now as he had then. It was harder to look the Dark Lord in the face, or almost in the face. After all, no one was allowed to look at him directly. Draco was glad for that. He didn't know how he would be able to handle both breathing and not screaming at the same time otherwise.

It hadn't always been that way. There had been a time, before the end of fifth year, when Draco had looked forward to serving the Dark Lord. He used to dream about it. Getting revenge on all the filthy mudbloods who had dared to enter his school, his world, his life. Making sure they knew where they stood, which was far beneath him. Granger admitting that she wasn't the best in everything, that he was better then she was. Finally beating Harry bloody Potter, once and for all, and so thoroughly that no one would dare say it hadn't been fair, or he had cheated, or they should go another round just to be sure. Then hearing his father say how proud he was, how he had lived up to the Malfoy name, how all his previous failures were nothing compared to this success. Draco had thought serving the Dark Lord would accomplish all of those things.

He had never realized serving the Dark Lord would also require killing people. It seemed foolish in hindsight, but he had always assumed that the Dark Lord would have specific Death Eaters who went and did all the torturing and killing. Of course, he had been prepared to use the Unforgivables as necessary, but his real talent was in researching and Potions making. He had figured that the Dark Lord, being omnipotent and all that nonsense, would surely know that and use it to his advantage. He had never thought that his first assignment would be to kill someone. Not just any someone, but Dumbledore, one of the most powerful wizards that ever lived.

It was ludicrous to expect Draco to be able to kill someone who was so much stronger than he was. What was even worse was that Draco hadn't been expecting to have to kill anyone, much less Dumbledore, and so he felt like had had been played into a trap. Standing in front of the Dark Lord with his head respectfully bent, Draco knew his suspicions were true. The Dark Lord had set him up, knowing he would fail. There had never been any chance to save his parents. There had never been any chance that he would succeed. He felt even more of a failure than he ever had before.

The Dark Lord looked at him and smiled. Draco focused on keeping up his Occlumency. The Dark Lord could never know that such thoughts existed in his head. He'd be killed and his parents would have no hope. He couldn't let that happen.

"Malfoy, your parents were very disappointed to hear that you had failed in your mission." The Dark Lord's voice was slow and raspy. His slit nostrils moved with each breath, making a quiet whooshing interrupt his speech at odd intervals. His skin was pale and almost translucent. Red eyes seemed to slice through the darkness of the chamber, two glowing embers in a deadened world. Draco found himself wishing he were kneeling again, if only he didn't have to look at that monstrous, deformed face.

Draco didn't know what to say. There was nothing to say, as far as he was concerned. His parents were disappointed in him. For some reason, he got the impression that he wasn't getting the full story. Of course, asking the Dark Lord to explain himself was out of the question. There was really only one thing to say, which was the fall-back line in any and every situation.

"Yes, my lord." Draco's voice was flat, completely lacking in emotion.

"I told you that I would kill them if you did not kill Dumbledore for me."

Draco's heart clenched. His throat tightened. His hands fisted. "Yes, my lord."

A silence took over then, and Draco was forced to wait quietly for the Dark Lord to speak to him again. He focused only on Occlumency. The Dark Lord was a skilled Legilimens, well-known for using his talents at every opportunity. Draco wasn't planning on giving him one.

The thought that his parents might be dead was pushed aside. There would be time for that later. Not now, not here.

"Normally I would be exceedingly angry that my orders had not been carried out. However, Snape was able to do what you were not."

There was an expectant pause. "Yes, my lord."

The Dark Lord moved closer, and Draco remained where he was, unsure of whether or not he was expected to move as well.

"Since my order was carried out by someone else, I will grant you another opportunity to prove yourself to me. If you fail a second time, your parents are dead." The last word came out on a hiss, almost as if he relished the taste of them.

Draco started, unable to contain his surprise at the statement. "My lord?"

The Dark Lord looked at him calculatingly. A distinct pause followed, during which Draco tried to stand up straight and exude the air of confidence and strength. The Dark Lord studied him for hours, it seemed, although it must have only been seconds. "Your parents are still alive," he finally said, still peering at Draco, looking for any reaction he could find. "Both are now under my protection. They are safe as long as you agree to complete this task for me." The warning was inherent, explicit--it didn't even need to be stated.

"Yes, my lord." Draco didn't even have to think about it.

The Dark Lord took a step closer to Draco, robes billowing out behind him in a move that was more for effect than anything else. The effect worked brilliantly, in Draco's mind. His resolution to remain standing still wavered, and he moved his right foot back the tiniest bit before halting the motion. The Dark Lord smiled, and it was the same vicious, conniving smile he had used before telling Draco about his last mission. "I want you to kill Kingsley Shacklebolt."

Draco paused for a moment, torn between agreeing immediately and wondering who in the bloody hell that was. "My lord?"

"You can gather information about him from my other Death Eaters," the Dark Lord said, darting his tongue out to lick his lips slowly, almost savoring the action.

The movement disturbed Draco deeply. He fought against the impulse the step back further and instead focused on his memorized line. "Yes, my lord."

"Once you do this, your parents' lives will be spared." The Dark Lord took one more step forward, and this time Draco couldn't help it. He moved a step back, still keeping his head respectfully bowed. He didn't miss the smile that split across the Dark Lord's face, though, and Draco knew that he had lost whatever game of power they had been playing. Not that he had expected to win, but still.

"Yes, my lord."

Draco waited, expecting another reply to his words--a dismissal, perhaps, or another order. But there was nothing else, and Draco eventually understood that the silence was his cue to leave. He kept his head lowered and backed up several steps, maintaining the look of a submissive servant until he was almost halfway to the door. Then he turned around and strode out, constantly aware of the glowing red eyes that followed his every move.

~*~*~*~*~*~

His trunk was packed. He checked around his room once more, inspecting every corner and niche, in the off chance that he had missed something the last seven times he checked. The closet was empty, even the corner that always seemed to have something stuck in it. There was nothing important under his bed, or on top of it either. His floor was cleared of everything he cared about. There was nothing left in, around, or on his desk. His dresser, too, was completely cleared out. Finally, he lifted up the section of the floor that came up and checked in the hiding place where he had left so many important things for years. There was nothing, of course. He had packed everything that had been in there first, checking so often to make sure he had left nothing behind that he had started imagining items just to give himself something to do.

"Harry, come on!"

Ron's voice drifted up the stairs to him, and Harry swallowed. It was weird, to be emotional at a time like this. He'd looked forward to leaving Privet Drive ever since he first thought he'd be able to leave, about four years ago when Sirius had offered him a home. Back then, the idea of a home was something he'd dreamed of but never really expected to have. Privet Drive had never been a home to him. It was where he slept and ate occasionally, true, but it wasn't his home.

For a while, he had considered Hogwarts his home. Of course, the school held more history for him then Privet Drive did, what with the memories of his parents that seemed to pop up more frequently the longer he stayed there. Also, the wizarding world was where Harry felt more at ease. People there didn't treat him differently because he could do magic; practicing magic was as everyday an occurrence as breathing in Hogwarts. At Privet Drive, his abilities had been hidden away, locked inside the cupboard for much longer than he himself had been.

"Harry! We're leaving without you!"

Harry rolled his eyes at Ron's comment. He began looking around the room once more. His gaze lingered on the window, and he walked over to stand next to it. Harry placed his hand on the windowsill and ran it along the edge, fingers curving into the holes left by the bars that Mr. Weasley's Ford Anglia had broken off just before second year. His fingers also grazed along the dents and scratches left by Hedwig's claws from all the times she hadn't been allowed to fly outside and had perched on the windowsill, staring outside for hours on end.

He raised his head to stare out the window. The transparent glass seemed almost muddy and dull in the dim electronic light. He saw his own reflection against the glass, imprinted over the cookie-cutter houses that lined the street and the small stores and cars that existed between them. His hair was disheveled. He ran a hand through it distractedly. It was habit-forming, trying to get his hair to behave. His hand dropped to his side after failing, and he caught the face in the window looking tired, almost resigned.

"Harry?"

Harry pushed himself away from the windowsill and turned around. Hermione was standing just inside the doorway, looking at him. Her head was slightly tilted and she had a small frown on her face. Harry took a minute to look at her. She still resembled the snobby, talkative girl he had met on the Hogwarts Express six years ago. Her hair hadn't calmed down any; it still cascaded wildly down around her shoulders, bushy and untamable as ever. Her eyes were the same, as well. That warm, soft brown color hadn't changed at all, even though the face around those eyes had. She had grown up, Harry realized with some surprise. He had known that it was happening, of course, but he hadn't expected the revelation to come to him all at once. Hermione had grown up. So had Ron, of course. Six years was a long time. Harry supposed he himself had done some growing up, too.

Hermione moved closer to Harry, stepping a few feet further into the room. She hesitated in front of him, wringing her hands together in an old nervous habit that she just couldn't seem to shake. "Are you all right?" Her tone was concerned, and Harry could tell that she wanted to say more but didn't.

Harry smiled at her, the lopsided smile that he gave when he wasn't sure exactly what else to do. "Of course I'm all right, Hermione. I'm finally leaving Privet Drive for good. I'm better than all right. I'm fantastic."

"Oh." At Hermione's nod, Harry realized he might not have been as convincing as he thought he had been. "That's good, then. Ron's waiting downstairs. We're both ready to leave, as soon as you are, I mean." She took a step back and made a small shrugging motion. "But we can wait for as long as you need."

Harry jerked his head to one side and picked up his trunk. Then he hefted his broomstick and Hedwig's cage. That was it. His trunk held all of his clothes, school supplies, and extra things like old birthday cards and letters that he had stuffed in where there had been room. His entire life fit into one medium-sized trunk.

"Nah, let's go. I'm done here, anyway." Harry followed Hermione out of the room. He placed his trunk on the floor and closed the door with one final look at Dudley's second bedroom, the room that had been his for years. Then the door clicked shut, he reached down towards his trunk, grasped the handle firmly, and headed towards the front door.

Harry stomped down the stairs, taking a small pleasure in creating a type of ruckus that he would normally have been scolded for. He walked into the foyer, looking around as he did so. Ron was standing next to the front door, looking ready to bolt at any moment. His eyes kept on darting around the room, constantly on the lookout for one of the Dursleys. Harry looked from his left to his right once and walked towards Ron.

"Where are they?"

"Harry," Ron said, whipping his head around to stare at him. "You ready to go?"

"Where are they?" Harry repeated, glancing around once more.

Ron shrugged. "I think they were in the kitchen before."

Harry nodded and turned towards the kitchen. "Give me a minute," he said.

"Harry," Ron said, taking a step towards the brunette. "Can't we go already? I hate it here."

"Ron," Hermione hissed, admonishing.

"In a minute," Harry said. He left the two of them to bicker in the entrance hall. He knew from experience that they always felt better after bickering. It would probably do the both of them some good to get it out now, while they had some extra time. Plus, Harry wouldn't have to hear them going at it later.

Then Harry was in the kitchen, which was odd because he didn't remember deciding to go there. It seemed his feet were doing things without telling him. The Dursleys were sitting at the table in the connected dining room, eating dinner as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on. Harry supposed it was an accurate assumption to make. Nothing unusual was going on. Harry had been leaving Privet Drive for years; it was only that now he wasn't planning on ever coming back.

Harry surveyed the room. This was the kitchen where he had spent so many hours cooking and doing dishes and sitting silently waiting for whatever leftovers he would be given. He knew every inch of this room, had committed it all to memory long ago. The faucet that leaked sporadically, the third cabinet from the top that creaked when he closed it too slowly, the small smear on the glass window that he had never been able to clean off, no matter how hard he had tried. All of those things were still there, exactly as they always had been. Harry assumed they would always be there, as well.

The Dursleys seemed not to notice him. Uncle Vernon was sitting at the head of the table. He was eating slowly, but each bite was enormous. Harry watched him eat for only a second, the familiar sight still slightly nauseating to him. The huge man squinted down at his food as if inspecting it for something. Uncle Vernon's moustache was quivering from the movement of him chewing, and as he swallowed he turned the red-purple hue that Harry knew so well from his frequent bouts of anger. It seemed nothing was out of place, though, as Uncle Vernon began eating again at an even slower pace than before.

Aunt Petunia was sitting directly opposite him, her back painfully stiff and upright, almost as if she wouldn't be able to bend over even if she tried. She took small, dainty morsels into her mouth one at a time, chewing each one thoroughly before going to the next. Harry watched her nose scrunch up and her mouth twist into a frown. She unhurriedly swallowed and extended her hand towards her drink, calmly grasping the cup and sipping from it. The frown on her face was replaced with the residual blank look she wore more easily than clothing, and she continued her meal with no fuss.

Dudley was watching him. Harry knew it; he had known it from the first step he had taken into the room. Their eyes met and Harry was left with a vague sense of discomfort. Dudley was stuffing his face as usual; his hands worked quite efficiently, hurriedly cutting the food and eating it as if desperate for more. He chewed like a chainsaw cut--loudly, painfully, leaving destruction and partially damaged items in his wake. Dudley swallowed and reached for more, one hand gulping down soda while the other stabbed a fork into his meal. All the while his gaze was trained on Harry.

Harry stepped farther into the kitchen, still not entering the dining room. There was a barrier there, and not just the gaudy island that Aunt Petunia had required as a "division of space" between where the food was cooked and it was served. Harry had been in the dining room plenty of times, of course. He had to clean it and bring out the food, after all. He'd even eaten at the table before, plenty of times, more than he could count. But this was going to be the last time he set foot in this kitchen, the last time he saw the Dursleys eating at that table. It was impossible to go in that room and say... what? Good-bye? Thanks for nothing? There was nothing to say. And even though he knew that was a lie, knew it down to the magic that flowed in his bloodstream, he didn't have the words to say what needed to be said anyway.

He found himself stopped in front of the window that he had looked out of countless times before. The view was far short of spectacular--the white-washed outside wall of the neighbor's house, the fence ambling along in between the two houses, the freshly mowed grass standing at attention, and the sky above it all, only a small sliver of dark, dark blue levitating above everything else. It might not have been a spectacular view; it really wasn't even a good one, but it was something Harry had seen for days on end for years on end, and that made it spectacular in its own, humble way.

The smudge that Harry had never been able to clean seemed suspended in front of the entire scene. It stood out like it was meant to. After all, it was the only part of the Dursleys house that really was out-of-place. Leaky faucets and creaky hinges could be fixed, but that spot had refused to move for years. It had been waiting there, challenging anyone who came near to get rid of it. It had persevered beyond all expectations; it had survived everything that had tried to destroy it.

Harry eyed it for a moment before turning away. He strode out of the room without looking back. Ron and Hermione's voices filtered through then, whispering and hissing to each other barely loud enough to be audible. He couldn't make out the conversation, but the timbre of their voices and the length of their sentences told him more than words could have. They wanted to leave. Come to think of it, so did he.

Harry walked back towards them, stopping suddenly half-way there. Ron was still whispering under his breath to Hermione, watching her nervously, attempting to anticipate her reactions. His attention was focused solely on her, and Harry was sure that Ron hadn't even noticed him yet. Hermione noticed him briefly, a quick glance in his direction, the beginnings of a smile, but then something Ron said made her look back at him and whisper in a sharp tone. Harry stayed there to watch his two friends for a few seconds before he realized.

He was standing in front of the cupboard. It was silly, really. He urged his feet forward but once again they had their own ideas. He stood still instead, caught between the Dursleys behind him, Ron and Hermione in front of him, and the cupboard beside him. Harry wanted to move forward, he really did, but something was holding him back. He didn't know what it was, only that it left him feeling quite uncertain about everything. There was a small pain in his stomach, and he clutched at it. It seemed as though he wouldn't ever be able to leave.

He glanced towards the cupboard and away again. His eyes trailed back to stare at the door, the worn handle, the rusty lock, the metal plate that was currently closed. Harry got the childish impulse to do something; he didn't know what, but it would be drastic and horrible and powerful and thrilling and beautiful.

Instead, Harry walked away. He didn't do anything because he wasn't a child anymore. He was an adult, he had responsibilities, and he had to get out of there before his own head twisted things around even more.

Harry walked over to Ron and Hermione, picked up his trunk, and Disapparated with a pop. He figured they would follow him to Grimmauld Place, as planned.

When he reappeared, seconds later, just inside the entranceway of his godfather's old house, Harry walked up the stairs and into the room he'd be staying in without even looking around to see who was there. When he finally closed the door behind him, he leaned against it. Than he noticed his hand was still clutching his stomach. He blinked, surprised and yet not, and let his hand fall to his side. It banged against the door, making a muffled thump, before resting limply near his leg. Harry breathed in the musty scent of his new room and closed his eyes.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Professor, you have to help me."

Draco sped up his pace, walking briskly down the dimly-lit corridor in the Dark Lord's hideout. The walls were so dark they seemed to disappear into the shadows and, regardless of the amount of light that was used, they never got any brighter than they were at that moment. Draco wished they would, so he might have a chance at decoding the look on Snape's face. Instead, he merely watched as Snape turned slowly towards him.

Professor Snape, although no longer a professor, still maintained the ire and misery that had collected around him from years of grading awful essays and having to send students to the infirmary because of their own idiocy. The Death Eater robe he wore now was so similar to his normal attire that for a brief moment, Draco believed he was back in Hogwarts, simply hunting down the Potions Master to have a particularly difficult problem answered for him.

Snape pursed his lips together and frowned. "What is it this time, Draco?"

"Do you know anything about Kingsley Shacklebolt?"

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Why do you ask?"

Draco swallowed. "The Dark Lord has just given me a mission." Both of Snape's eyebrows rose at this comment, but he made no remark and so Draco continued speaking. "I'm supposed to kill Shacklebolt." After several seconds of silence, Draco made an impatient noise and sighed. "Professor, do you know anything that could help?"

"Why is it," Snape began. From the tone of his voice, Draco could tell he wouldn't like the end of the question, and with that in mind he began preparing several good excuses. "...that last time you were assigned to kill someone you continuously refused my assistance, and yet this time you actively seek it?"

Draco lowered his eyes. "I don't know." He looked back up at Snape to find the man scrutinizing him intently. "But if I don't kill him, my parents are dead. I can't let that happen, professor. I just can't."

"So you're willing to swallow your pride and admit that I might be able to help you?"

Draco thought it over. He wanted to answer quickly, to just tell Professor Snape that yes, in fact he was able to admit that and could they please get going already? But saying that would only end with him being rejected, and that was the absolute last thing he needed right now. He didn't know or trust any of the other Death Eaters enough to ask for their help, except perhaps for his aunt Bellatrix, who really was quite crazy, and therefore rather difficult to get information or decent help from. Professor Snape was both intelligent and sane, which could not be said for most of the other Death Eaters, and as such he was Draco's first and really only choice for getting help from.

Of course, while thinking over the question, there was the tiny bit of his mind that felt it had to point out that if it wasn't for Snape, Draco wouldn't even be in this whole mess to begin with. That wasn't entirely true. Draco had accepted the job to kill Dumbledore, and he had been attempting to do it all throughout sixth year. Of course, he had also been seconds away from accepting Dumbledore's offer of protection for him and his family. It was a good thing there had been no one there as a witness; otherwise, Draco might not have gotten this second chance to save his parents.

That was what this was all about in the end. Draco needed to save his parents. That was it. He would have to swallow his pride if he wanted Professor Snape's help. And, although he hated to admit it, he did need help. Professor Snape was the only one he could turn to. He wouldn't keep his damnable Malfoy pride if it cost him his parents' lives.

There were no other options. He had to agree.

"Yes."

Snape nodded. "Very well then. I'll have a look at the information we've collected on him, and we'll meet back here in two hours. That should give you enough time to curse your fate and coddle your foolish ego."

Draco sneered. Professor Snape raised an eyebrow and Draco's sneer vanished.

"Right then. Thank you, Professor." Draco fought to maintain a neutral voice. He thought he saw Professor Snape smile in response, but of course the former Potions Master never smiled, and he certainly wouldn't have done so in the presence of a student.

Professor Snape strode past Draco and continued down the hall. Draco turned to watch him go. Only when the last of his robe had cleared the corridor did Draco resume his original pace, now heading back towards his room. He would wait for two hours.

It would be just enough time to curse his fate.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When Harry first heard about it, going to live in Grimmauld Place hadn't seemed like such a bad idea. Yes, it did bring back memories of Sirius, but even those didn't hurt as much as they had a year ago. Besides, the Order still used it as its base of operations, and the closer he was to the Order the more information he could obtain.

The Order had showed some anxiety, at first, about using Grimmauld Place. Concerns over how much information Kreacher had given Voldemort had come up. However, Harry had finally ordered Kreacher to tell him exactly what he had told Voldemort, and the Order had found out that Kreacher had never said where Grimmauld Place was. Instead, Kreacher had only told Voldemort how he could get to Harry. So, Harry ordered Kreacher to never tell anyone anything he had heard in Grimmauld Place. After that, he had ordered the mutinous house-elf to live at Hogwarts, help the house-elves with their work there, and never again go into Grimmauld Place. Just to make sure, Harry suggested that there be a new secret-keeper for the Order's hideout, but of course someone else had already thought of that. No one would tell Harry who it was, though, and Harry was forced to speculate. With all of the extra protection, Harry assumed it would be all right to keep on using Grimmauld Place as they had been. The Order wasn't completely convinced that Grimmauld Place was as safe as they had once thought it was, but it was their only option for a hide-out.

Harry was glad that the Order had continued to use Grimmauld Place, especially because that was the only guaranteed way that he would receive any type of information about the war. He was still considered too young to join the Order, which was a load of rubbish in his opinion, and he knew that it would require serious effort from him to be accepted into the ranks. After all, when Dumbledore had been alive, the Headmaster had been quite adamant that Harry wasn't to be allowed to join the Order until after he turned seventeen.

Of course, now that Dumbledore was dead, everything was slightly different. Some people felt that abiding by Dumbledore's wishes was the only way to give him the respect he rightfully deserved. Then there were others who believed that Dumbledore had been blinded to too many things during his tenure as Headmaster, and that now that he was dead it was time for someone who knew how to handle war without being sentimental lead the Order. For the most part, though, the majority of people were still uncertain about what Dumbledore's death would entail. There had been talk of closing Hogwarts, which had met with great opposition from many people. Professor McGonagall--Headmaster, now--had stated that the last thing Dumbledore would have wanted was for Hogwarts to close because of Voldemort's actions. Luckily enough, the school governors agreed and, with the promise of extra protection and safeguards, they decided to reopen Hogwarts as scheduled.

That decision seemed to be echoed in the entire wizarding world. Everyone was attempting to live their lives as if a war was not going on around them. Of course, people couldn't be expected to simply give up their lives and stay on the lookout all the time, but Harry had expected there to be some more caution present in everyone's daily routines.

Turns out, no matter how many times Death Eaters attacked, the average witch or wizard just didn't think it could happen to them. Harry sighed and rubbed his forehead. The longer this war went on, the more casualties it would claim. All he wanted was for it to end. Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore, and the countless others whose names he didn't know had been more than enough. Harry was ready to end the war. Now.

Harry opened his trunk and began taking out the clothes he had stored inside. He was in his bedroom in Grimmauld Place. It was dusty from disuse and disheveled from the lack of care he had treated it with the last time he had been there. Normally, the house elf would have taken care of it, but since he had ordered Kreacher to leave and never return, the upkeep of the house had gone distinctly downhill. Apparently the Order had better things to do than clean house.

He eyed his belongings as he took them out. Harry had packed quickly, more then ready to leave the Dursleys, Privet Drive, and everything else his old life had contained. His new, Dursley-free life might be lived in wartime and he might be sleeping in a dusty, unkempt bed, but at least he was free of people staring at him in fear or hatred and talking about him behind his back.

Harry chuckled to himself as he continued unpacking. That wasn't exactly true. He didn't think he'd ever be free of people gawking at him, since he was the Boy Who Lived. As long as he had that lightning bolt scar on his forehead, he'd have people staring at him and gossiping about him. Even so, leaving the Dursleys felt like a victory to him, and he was going to bask in it until he was completely satisfied. They had made his life hell for years. There was no reason for him not to enjoy being gone forever from them now.

Harry picked up his empty trunk and dropped it on the floor. A small cloud of dust drifted up to him and he coughed from it. He waved his hand in front of his face and stuck out his tongue. He would definitely have to clean first, even before he put anything away. There had been some cleaning supplies in the closet down the hall from his room the last time he had been here. So, with a clean room in mind, Harry left his room and walked down the hall.

The closet was full of various cleaning fluids along with everything he could have ever wanted to clean with, including brushes, sponges, rags, and the obligatory broom. Harry shrugged and started grabbing things he thought he could use.

"What are you doing, mate?"

Harry looked up at the sound of Ron's voice and grinned. "My room's a mess. Just figured I'd clean it before all my stuff got dirty, too."

Ron looked at Harry and waved his hands about dramatically. "Well, this whole place could use a good once-over. While you're at it, I mean."

"Gee, Ron. Thanks."

"No problem, mate." Ron grinned cheekily and Harry swatted him with a sponge. "Ah, come on, Harry! Who knows where that's been?"

"Can't be as bad as your room at the Burrow," Harry said, grinning wider and dodging Ron's hand with a swift step backwards.

"Honestly. I can't leave you two alone for a minute, can I?" Harry heard a foot tapping and imagined the half-scowl on Hermione's face before he saw it. He turned around and smiled at her. "Oh, don't give me that," she continued. "What are you doing?"

"Cleaning," Harry replied, holding up his armful of products as evidence.

Hermione turned to Ron. "And you're just bothering him, I take it?"

Ron managed to look offended and amused all at once. "Bother him? Bother Harry? I'd never! I wouldn't even dream of it!"

"Right," Harry agreed, nodding slowly. "He wouldn't even dream of it."

Hermione shook her head and finally cracked a smile. "Well, do you need some help, Harry? After all, we're not doing much of anything hanging around here." She paused and chanced a glance at Harry, who eyed her back. "Of course, if we were moving our own stuff in, we'd be--"

"Hermione!" Harry sighed and walked closer to her. He kicked the closet door closed and walked past her, back towards his room. "How many times have I got to tell you? You two don't need to move in here."

"But Harry," Hermione said, following closely behind him. "We promised we'd stay with you all the time, no matter where you went."

"Yes, yes, and you have," Harry responded. "But just because I'm moving in here doesn't mean you guys should leave your homes to live here too!"

"But Harry--" Ron started.

"No, Ron," Harry said, cutting him off. "I'm serious about this."

"Well, so are we!" Ron shouted, gesticulating wildly.

"You guys have already lived with me at the Dursleys--"

"Well, we told you we would, Harry, and--"

"--and I really appreciate it, but I'm not going to make you give up your families for me!" Harry took a deep breath, opened his mouth to continue, then stopped suddenly. He turned around to look at Ron and Hermione, both of who had stopped walking after he'd said that. Harry looked at them and then dropped his gaze to the ground. "Look," he said after a considerable period of silence, "I just don't want you to do something you'll regret later."

Ron stared at him, blinking occasionally. The redhead seemed like he was going to say something, but instead he just stood there.

Hermione, on the other hand, looked as if she had nothing to say. "But Harry," she said, and stopped there, as if she was surprised at herself for speaking.

Harry kept on looking at the ground, and then when the silence really was too much, he looked up at her. "What, Hermione?"

"We won't..." She took a breath, and then another, and then continued speaking. "We'd never regret spending time with you, helping you."

"Yeah, mate," Ron said, nodding a little. "We want to help you. The both of us."

Harry swallowed. "I know. And I really appreciate it. But you guys aren't thinking about this like you should be."

"What is that supposed to mean!" Ron shouted, shoulders shaking with suppressed anger. "Of course we're thinking about this! We just want to help you!"

"Harry... think about what you're saying," Hermione said, quietly.

"I am thinking about what I'm saying!" Harry shouted, finally losing his temper. "And you know what? You guys have families, okay?! Families that love you, and look out for you, and all of that! How would you feel if you never saw them again?"

"What do you mean?" Ron asked, raising his voice to match with Harry's. "Of course we'll see them again, what are you going on about?"

"This is a war, Ron, okay?" Harry looked at Ron and then at Hermione. He registered the look on Hermione's face, knew that she had gotten what he was trying to say, and went back to staring at Ron. "A war. If we're not careful, we could die."

"I know that, Harry, I--"

"No, Ron, you don't. Because if you knew that, you wouldn't be trying to convince me to let you stay here. Do you think, if I had a family, I'd be here right now? No! Of course not! I'd be with them!"

"Look, Harry, just because you don't--"

"God, Ron, just think about it! The more time you're with me, the less time you're with them. And the longer this war goes on, the more likely it is that someone you know is going to get killed. Don't you want to spend as much time as you can with your family, while you can spend time with them?"

Harry breathed quickly, shallowly, regaining his composure after losing it so spectacularly. He saw Ron's eyes widen and felt somewhat satisfied. Now both his friends knew what he had been trying to say. That if he had a family, he'd want to be with them right now. He'd want to be with them while he could, while he was still alive and relatively happy.

"But Harry," Hermione said. Harry turned to face her and nodded for her to continue. "We still want to help you."

Harry nodded once more. "And I want you two to help me. But I also don't want you guys missing out on spending time with other people you care about. Look, just think about it, okay? You can live at your own houses, and you can still help me whenever I need to do anything." Harry hefted the cleaning supplies in his arms and turned back towards his room. "Right now, though, I've got to clean."

He walked back to his room, trotting carefully to avoid dropping anything that could spill and potentially create even more of a mess than there already was. Half-way there, one pair of hands grabbed a bottle of cleaner while another took a rag from his armload. Harry smiled and followed his friends into his room, mentally preparing for the battles that would come, both against the dust bunnies and grime and against the more malevolent, harder to vanquish threats that seemed to constantly be right behind him.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Snape was sitting on an intricately carved chair, absent-mindedly tapping his fingers in an unidentifiable tune against the armrest. The table directly in front of him was filled with rolls and rolls of parchment, all detailing various events that had taken place over the course of the Dark Lord's rise to power. Every one was handwritten, some of them in terribly illegible script, others in carefully done print. There were many more, just like those, that also existed, but since they had no relevance to the information Draco was looking for, Snape had left them behind.

Draco, for his part, was extremely interested in the writings on these scrolls. The collective knowledge of the Death Eaters was spread out before him, and it stood to reason that he would learn a lot about the way the Dark Lord worked and the types of missions that other Death Eaters had been sent on. Draco felt that it was his duty to learn as much as he possibly could, in order to complete his goal.

He would kill Shacklebolt and save his parents. That was all there was to it. Well, not all there was to it. There seemed to be quite a lot of other things that he hadn't prepared himself for, like going through all of this paperwork to study Shacklebolt's life. Of course, it was a necessary step. The process was time-consuming and tedious, but Draco felt that it would be well worth it in the end.

"Draco, are you listening?" Snape asked, eyeing him with impatience. His finger stopped tapping and he pointed at Draco. "You're the one who wanted my assistance. If you can't even be bothered to take it when it's offered, my time would be better served elsewhere."

Draco shook his head and leaned forward, clasping his hands together and resting his elbows on the table in an extremely impolite manner. His mother would be appalled if she saw him now, he thought with amusement, but then he remembered why there was no way his mother would be able to see him and all of his amusement vanished. "I'm sorry, professor," Draco said, not sounding contrite at all. He felt as if the apology needed clarification or type of explanation to go along with it, but as he had none to give he merely sat there, waiting.

Snape raised his eyebrows and sniffed. "Hm," he said, resuming his tapping. He indicated a scroll with his other hand. Draco took it and unrolled it, glancing through the first part briefly before looking back up at Snape. "In there is a fairly detailed description of Shacklebolt's work schedule." Snape paused, letting the information sink in before he continued. "Yes," he said once Draco smirked, "that means you don't have to follow him for weeks on end to be certain of his schedule. You shouldn't, however, rely solely on that. It was written about a year ago, so it could very well be wrong."

Draco nodded. "I'll see if I can rely on this, then." He perused the parchment for a few minutes, noting what was probably correct information and what was probably outdated. He would need to follow him for a few days, at least, just to be sure, but he was relatively satisfied with what he had. "Professor?" he asked.

"Hm?" Snape replied, not even glancing up from the parchment he was reading through.

"Why did someone document this?" Draco asked, waving the parchment once.

Snape looked at him and narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Draco said, taking a moment to order his thoughts. "If someone was sent out to shadow Shacklebolt, it seems like there would be a reason for it."

Snape peered closely at Draco, who fidgeted under the intense scrutiny. "What are you implying?" he asked, voice low and unaccountably dangerous.

Draco swallowed. "Nothing, sir," he replied, voice quick and reassuring. "Nothing at all. I just thought that, you know, it might be easier to complete my current mission if I was aware of the other times that Shacklebolt had been the subject of one of the Death Eaters' missions." Draco looked down at the carefully complied parchment in his hands and then back up at his old Potions professor, who was studying him thoughtfully. "There's a lot of useful information here, but doesn't it seem odd that someone went through the trouble of finding out his schedule and never did anything with it?"

Snape leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving Draco's face. "It does," he replied, speaking extremely slowly. "But what concern is that of yours?"

Draco shrugged. "It's not my concern," he said, nonchalantly. "I'm only concerned with my own mission."

Snape nodded. "Make sure it stays that way." His voice left no room for arguments, and Draco felt compelled to comply.

Instead of continuing on the same line of conversation, which seemed to be a somewhat hazardous one, Draco opted for reviewing more of the parchment he was holding. It appeared that this person, whoever he or she was, was very meticulous and also an exceptionally good observer. These were notes that had been taken over a two month period of time, mainly focused on his work life. There was a list of the specific times, down to the exact second, that he had entered and exited the building every day. There was a detailed map of the inside and exterior of the building, including points where security guards had been stationed and where things called "ID badges" were needed to pass by. Each room on the inside was labeled with its function and who used the room primarily, as well as the times and dates that Shacklebolt had entered and exited from each room. As for the area outside the building, this Death Eater had drawn a map that showed the area about half a mile in every direction, marking off the best apparition points and the areas that were most frequented by muggles. There was also a line drawn to show Shacklebolt's path to the building each day with notations on when it veered from routine and the reasons for the oddity.

Draco smirked. With information like this, his mission would be no problem. He even had the times when Shacklebolt used the restroom, for bloody sake. This guy had no chance against Draco, not when the blonde had access to information such as this.

"Who wrote this?" Draco asked, intending to speak to the Death Eater in person about his or her own experiences with Shacklebolt.

"That's none of your concern," Snape replied. "You'd be better spent wondering about how exactly you're going to complete your task than about who attempted it before you."

Draco paused. "Wait, they attempted it before me?" he asked, blinking. Snape frowned. "Then why didn't they succeed?"

Snape leveled a look at Draco. "You do know where Shacklebolt works, don't you?"

Feeling suddenly ignorant, Draco shrugged. "Some muggle place," he said, making a face to indicate just what he thought of that.

"Some muggle place, indeed," Snape said. He was silent for a moment, then pressed his fingertips together in front of his mouth. "He works for the muggle Prime Minister." Draco was completely silent. "He's the Prime Minister's secretary."

"Oh," Draco said, sudden understanding dawning on him. "Oh."

"Yes," Snape drawled, clearly amused. "Oh." He looked at Draco, who was beginning to slouch down in his seat, and sighed. "This is not going to be as easy as you think it is, Draco. There are protections already in place on this building. Not only muggle protections, either. Magical precautions have been taken to ensure the safety of the Prime Minister."

"What type of precautions?" Draco asked, feeling a solid weight grow steadily in his chest.

"The type that you need to be prepared for," Snape replied. "Now finish reading that parchment. Once you're done, we can discuss your options for infiltrating the building."

Draco rested his head on his hands and stared at the wall behind Snape's head. His mission would require him to enter a heavily protected area that was filled with muggles. Not only that, but he would be expected to kill or otherwise subdue whatever muggles got in the way of his mission. He'd have to do it without being noticed, too. The thought seemed preposterous. Surely there was a way to get to Shacklebolt without having to go through a heavily populated muggle area that included a building whose defenses, while mainly muggle, would still present a problem for him since he was working alone.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized that the nameless Death Eater who had tried and failed to kill Shacklebolt had been something of an idiot. This person may have had the ability to make spectacular maps and take excellent notes, but what he or she didn't have was the knowledge about how to use all of that gathered information and make it work favorably. Just the idea of going into a building alone that has so many security features in place made his stomach churn.

No, there had to be another way. Draco leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. There was something else he could do, he was sure of it. He just needed to figure out how he was going to get to Shacklebolt. Draco reached out and lifted the parchment from the table, holding it up in front of his face. He skimmed the notes quickly, looking for the inconsistencies. There had to be a way that he would be able to work this to his advantage. He just needed to think about it.

His eyes fazed out, the parchment blurring in front of him. There was no logical way that Draco could enter the building. It just wasn't feasible. It was nice that he had the building's layout and all, but really, when it came down to it the muggles would attack him if provoked. Of course, entering the building with the intent to kill someone inside seemed like provoking them to him, and he did not want a horde of raging muggles after him. If he could place some sort of tracking spell on Shacklebolt things would be easier, but of course Shacklebolt probably had his own protection against spells of that nature.

Draco briefly thought about tracking down Shacklebolt's house, but instantly rejected the idea. Any members of the Order who didn't keep their houses well-guarded against possible attacks were either idiots or Harry Potter. In some cases, both. No, it wasn't at all likely that Shacklebolt had left his home open to attacks from random passersby. It was even more unlikely that, if there was a way to get around the defense, Draco would be able to accomplish the task and take Shacklebolt down before setting off some type of alarm that would alert Shacklebolt to his presence.

It seemed clear that the only time he would have an opportunity to complete his assignment would be when Shacklebolt was walking in-between his apparition point and the building he worked in. There were three blocks separating the two locations, and Draco knew that the Apparation area, at least, was well-hidden enough that he might have a chance at surprising him there.

Draco stared at the ceiling, blinking occasionally. If he got to the Apparation point before Shacklebolt went to work, he would be able to hide out there and lie in wait. Once Shacklebolt came, all he had to do was complete his mission. It would be easy.

Draco titled himself forward until he sat upright in his chair. He stared at Snape for a second before clearing his throat. "Professor," Draco said, calmly. He waited until Snape put down the parchment he had been reading and looked at him. "I'm not sure going into the Prime Minister's building is such a good plan." Snape continued looking at him, which he took to mean that he was to explain himself. "It seems like a better idea would be to attack Shacklebolt when he's outside, in the surrounding area," Draco said, gesturing at the map of the half-mile radius around the building.

"Agreed," Snape said, watching as Draco's mouth dropped open. Snape raised an eyebrow. "I was getting bored with waiting for you to figure it out."

Draco clamped his mouth shut and glared at Snape. "If you already knew, why didn't you tell me?"

"You need to do this on your own, Draco," Snape said. "I can help you, but only up to a point."

Draco swallowed and nodded. "Right," he said. He was about to go back to his parchment to study the apparition area ore closely when his curiosity kicked in. "Professor?"

"Yes?" Snape's voice was calm, as if he had expected Draco to continue talking. He probably had.

"Why are you helping me?" Draco's voice remained steady on the question, but his mind was racing. There was no reason for Snape to help him, none at all. Yet here he was, sitting in a dark room studying rolls of parchment with him.

"I made a promise to your mother," Snape said.

He offered no more information, and Draco didn't ask.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Living with Order members constantly coming and going was a lot less exciting and a lot more annoying than Harry had anticipated it would be. He had thought there would be plenty of action involved. Even if he wasn't in on it, he imagined there would be the same type of secret meetings and goings-on that happened the last time he had lived at Grimmauld Place. He remembered, quite clearly and distinctly, the way the Order members had constantly spoken to each other in hushed tones that he wasn't supposed to be able to hear. Of course, he had been able to hear them, and now he was swiftly becoming disappointed in the lack of covert actions taking place in his house.

Oh, there were a lot of swift, meaningful glances going on. In fact, he saw at least four or five a day. They normally occurred just after he had entered a room, in the brief moment in between when the conversation abruptly stopped and he took his second step into the room. This only served to irritate him rather than intrigue him, though, as he rather quickly assumed that the glance was code for 'don't say anymore, Harry's entered the room, we'll talk later.' Of course, he could have been being paranoid. The glances could have just as easily meant 'I have lost my ability to speak for the moment' or 'I am an idiot, what were we talking about again?' But he thought the first option was much more likely than the last two.

Sure, he was underage and yes, he did have an unfortunate habit of running off to try and do things on his own. So there was the smallest fragment of a piece of a possibility that he might have been able to eventually understand where they were coming from in keeping things from him, yet again. But honestly. It was his house, for bloody sake. If it wasn't for him, they wouldn't still be allowed to use it as their base. So why the Order continued to leave him out of their plans was beyond him.

Still, with this being the current state of affairs, Harry could see only one option. He would try to pretend that it wasn't happening. It wasn't the best option, true, but it was better than ignoring the Order members and much better than moping about it. It did mean, however, that he had to act as if nothing was wrong whenever people started acting strangely around him.

You'd think they'd have learned their lesson from the last time people kept things from me, Harry thought. He had just walked down the corridor that led to the kitchen to make himself something to eat for lunch when he heard muted voices coming from inside his destination. Harry walked into the room, rolling his eyes when Tonks gave the familiar look to Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"Hey," Harry said, nodding at each of them.

"Hiya, Harry," Tonks replied, giving a cheerful smile and a friendly wave. Her short hair was bright pink today, and the color made Harry's eyes water for a second before he blinked the moisture away.

Kingsley nodded in return to Harry. "Hello, Harry," he said, speaking softly but with the power that was always present in his actions.

"We were just talking about going out to eat for lunch, wanna come with?" Tonks asked, still grinning.

Harry couldn't help himself; he grinned back. "Nah, it's all right. I'm just gonna make myself something here."

Tonks shrugged and said, "Suit yourself. But I should warn you, it was Mundungus' turn to go grocery shopping this week, so who knows what you'll find in there."

Harry laughed. "Yeah, well, I'm still not supposed to leave, you know."

Tonks smacked herself in the forehead. "Oh, right, sorry Harry," she said, sounding vaguely remorseful. "I keep on forgetting that you're not of age yet."

"You do act mature for your age," Kingsley agreed.

It had been decided that, until Harry was legally able to perform spells on his own, he shouldn't be walking outside. He rather thought it was a good idea, even if it did seem to be a bit too overprotective. Of course, he couldn't very well cast any concealment or protection spells on himself if he left Grimmauld Place, since the Ministry of Magic was sure to try and arrest him if he did. Harry wasn't on very good terms with Scrimgeour. Also, the idea of possibly encountering Voldemort, having to fight him, and then being arrested for it wasn't too appealing to Harry. The Order hadn't been too sure if he would get off for defeating Voldemort, but it had seemed like a sensible enough idea to wait until he turned seventeen, just in case.

Now, of course, Harry regretted the agreement. He was planning on going to search for the horcruxes himself soon, with or without the Order's help.

But since being thrown into Azkaban would be rather a wrench in his plan, he decided to wait and stay put for the time being.

So Harry shrugged and smiled. "Thanks," he said, looking at both Tonks and Kingsley. "I guess I'll take my chances with what's in here."

"All right. Come on, Kingsley," Tonks said, pushing out her chair. She stood up and stretched her arms. "We'd better get going."

Kingsley nodded and glanced down at his wristwatch. "I've only got another half an hour on my lunch break anyway." He stood up and pushed his own chair back, then walked around to do the same for Tonks.

"Thanks," she said, offhandedly. "I guess we'll see you later then, Harry."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, see you later. Say hi to Lupin for me, if you see him."

Tonks grinned even wider. "Will do."

She looked at Kingsley once more and they both Apparated away. The crack echoed in the kitchen for a minute, and Harry took the time to silently bemoan his fate. Being stuck in Grimmauld Place constantly just wasn't that exciting, when he thought about it. It was quite dull and boring and he rather wished he hadn't agreed to it. There was nothing he could do about it at that moment though, and his stomach rumbled loudly, protesting being ignored for so long.

He walked over to the refrigerator and opened it, preparing himself for the worst. Peering inside, Harry could tell that his fears were quite on target. When Mundungus Fletcher had gone food shopping this week, he hadn't paid any attention at all to what Harry had asked for. He sighed and took out a package of chicken, intending to make something, anything, that wasn't breaded chicken. Even grilled chicken would be fine. But if he had to eat chicken fingers, or chicken nuggets, or a chicken sandwich one more time, he thought he'd go mad.

Harry set about preparing to cook. If there was one thing he could thank the Dursleys for, it was being able to cook almost anything. It wasn't always great, but it was at least edible and that's all he wanted. Harry opened the cupboard and took out a pan, intending to grill the damnable chicken. He set about searching for the cooking oil, which of course wasn't in the last place he had left it. What with who knew how many people using this kitchen a day, Harry was surprised anything was where he had left it at all.

"Oh, Harry, we were just looking for you."

Ron's voice came from behind Harry, and he turned around expecting to see his two best friends standing there. Instead, he saw Ron and Ginny, both standing by the table looking at him. Ron waved a bit, smiling. Ginny smiled as well, but hers seemed less honest and more forced.

Harry swallowed. "Hey, Ron. Hey, er, Ginny. I wasn't expecting to see you."

Ron shrugged. "Hermione wanted to drop by too, but she's got some book or other to get at Flourish and Blott's. You know how it is." He motioned his hand sin the air in a carefree, what-can-you-do sort of gesture. "Anyway, I thought we'd just hang out until she got here."

"Oh," Harry said, nodding slowly. He looked at Ginny, who looked back at him. He looked away. "Well, I'm, er, just making some chicken." He indicated the pan and package of meat on the counter. "Do you want some?"

Ron shook his head. "Nah, it's okay. I just ate. Ginny hasn't eaten anything yet, though."

Ginny blushed and shook her head. "Oh, no, that's all right," she said. "I'm not really hungry anyway."

"Oh, come on," Ron said, nudging her. "Don't you want to eat Harry's chicken?"

"Ron," Ginny hissed, glaring at him.

"No, it's okay," Harry said, feeling awkward and unsure. "Why don't you both sit down?"

Ginny hesitated and then pulled out the same chair Tonks had been sitting on, making a loud screeching noise. She sat down and pulled the chair in. "All right. Thanks, then, Harry."

Harry turned back around to face the cupboards. "No problem," he replied.

"Sorry, mate, but I'm supposed to go and check in the library for some book Hermione needs," Ron said, grinning. "You know how it is."

Harry clenched his teeth together. Oh yeah. He knew how it was.

"Well, come back when you're done," Harry said, praying that Ron would understand and not take too long.

"Sure," Ron said. "I'll be back later." He walked out of the room, patting Ginny on the shoulder on the way out. Ginny shot him a look that was part death glare and part wordless plea, but he left without responding to her. She leaned back in her chair and specifically avoided eye contact with the general vicinity of Harry's body, instead choosing to look at the wall behind him.

Harry turned on his heel and began rummaging through the cupboards again. He found, much to his disappointment, that he was extremely conscious of Ginny's presence in the room. No matter which way he headed or where he was, the first and loudest thing his mind was reminding him was that Ginny was sitting in the same room as him. It told him, quite clearly, that she was watching him and studying him and not saying anything.

It was uncomfortable to the point of distraction. Harry couldn't even concentrate on finding... wait a minute, what was it again? He had completely forgotten whatever it was he had been trying to find. All he could think about was the last time he had seen Ginny--when they had broken up. He hadn't even passed her once since then, and now she was sitting in the kitchen while Ron was off somewhere doing something that was not helping to make the uncomfortable silence go away. Ron, his best friend, had left him there to live through an awkward moment that could have been completely avoided if he had only stayed in the room with them. Some best friend, Harry thought unkindly, making a mental note to tell him yet again that Ginny was not Harry's girlfriend anymore.

Cooking oil, that's what it was. Harry had been looking for cooking oil, to make the stupid grilled chicken. He sighed and opened another cupboard, expecting to have to search for it some more. It was right there, though, and he picked it up with a mixture of surprise and regret. Now he wouldn't be able to use this activity as an excuse to avoid speaking with Ginny.

He really was going to kill Ron the next time he saw him.

Harry walked over to the stove and began cooking. He twisted off the cap of the cooking oil and poured a bit into the pan, determined to avoid looking at Ginny the entire time. It was because of this that he had no warning at all when a hand lightly touched his shoulder. He startled, dropping the cooking oil on the floor. The bottle fell with a soft thump, knocking into the ground and spilling its contents all over the floor. The pale yellow liquid oozed and spread out of the bottle, slowly forming an odd shape on the ground.

"I'm sorry," Ginny said, retracting her hand immediately. Her eyes shone with guilt, remorse, hesitation, uncertainty, or some combination of all four. Harry wasn't quite sure. He looked away from her face, which really was too close for his comfort, and down at the puddle that was leisurely taking over the kitchen floor.

"It's all right," Harry said, sighing. He stooped down and picked up the bottle, righting it and placing it next to its cap on the counter. Then he turned off the heat on the stove, knowing that he wouldn't be able to pay attention to it with a mess to clean up. Harry stepped over the puddle, careful not to get his trainers dirty, and grabbed a rag from a drawer across the room. He walked back over to where Ginny was still standing and knelt down, intending to wipe up the liquid before the spill got any worse.

"Oh, no, it's all right. Here, let me," Ginny said, bending down until she was on level with Harry. "It's my fault, after all."

Harry shook his head. "No, it's okay, I can do it."

Ginny hesitated and stood back up. "Okay," she replied, nodding. "If you're sure."

Harry nodded. "I'm sure," he said, swallowing. "Just go wait over there or something." He winced at the way the words came out; it sounded much more dismissive than he had intended it to. But he couldn't change it now, and as he heard Ginny's footsteps walking away he felt relieved.

He took a few minutes cleaning up the spill, until the floor was entirely clean. Once he was satisfied, Harry went to the sink and began to wash out the rag. It was all sticky and covered in cooking oil, which he found vaguely appealing in an odd, twisted sort of way. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and stuck the rag under the stream of water. Harry reached over and grabbed the bottle of dish detergent, squirting some onto his hand. He lathered the dirty rag with dish detergent, rubbing it repeatedly until the liquid soap morphed into bubbles. He continued his ministrations, watching the cooking oil slowly seep away and drip down into the sink.

"Harry, we should talk." Ginny's voice came from nowhere, it seemed, and Harry blinked, coming out of a trance. He looked over his shoulder at where Ginny was sitting. Her eyes flicked away from his the moment they met, and Harry pressed his lips together.

"Sure," he agreed in a dull voice. "What do you want to talk about?"

Ginny sighed. "About..." She trailed off, uncertainly.

Harry took this as his cue to stand there and say nothing while she struggled to come up with something to say. He watched her for a minute, noting the blush that was quickly spreading across her cheeks in an offhand manner. Harry placed the rug down in the sink and let the soap and water flow over it, hoping that it would finish washing itself. He pivoted until he faced her completely and stared at her. She appeared to be locked into a silent battle with herself. Her mouth would open, move just a little, and then close again. Harry looked at her, wishing that she would just hurry up and say it, whatever it was.

Harry had to say something, or else he'd go mad from the tension. "Ginny. What do you want to talk about? It can't be all that bad." Harry rolled his eyes and attempted a smile. He wasn't entirely sure he succeeded, but she did seem to relax a little.

"I just wanted to talk about... us," Ginny said, forcing the words out.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked. "There's nothing to talk about." At the look on her face, he hurriedly asked, "Is there?"

She licked her lips and hesitated. "I just think that... well, that maybe we were a bit too hasty."

Harry blinked. "Too hasty?"

Ginny nodded, blushing. "Yeah." After a prolonged silence, during which Harry contemplated what on earth she could be talking about, Ginny cleared her throat. "In breaking up, I mean."

"Oh," Harry said, voicing the only thought he had in his mind. Ginny looked at him expectantly, though, so he gave a half-hearted smile and said, "I don't really think so."

Ginny nodded furiously, then stopped suddenly. Harry assumed the gesture had made her dizzy. "I know you don't, Harry," she stated. "But I think that if we just tried a little bit, it could work between us."

Harry swallowed. He thought he had been clear when he told Ginny that he wasn't interested in her anymore. He had said that they had to break up, and it had seemed pretty clear to him that she knew why. She had acted like she understood, but now Harry realized she just didn't get it.

"I really don't think it could," Harry replied, shifting a little. He shuffled his feet and looked down at them, noting the stains that had gotten on his trainers from the cooking oil even though he had tried to be careful to keep them clean. He frowned and looked back up. "It's not going to work. We broke up."

"We could get back together," Ginny said hopefully. She had an odd look in her eyes that Harry couldn't interpret. "We could try again."

Harry grimaced and saw Ginny flinch. He felt a little guilty, but he had to clear this up with her. "Ginny, I just want to be friends with you, okay? I'm really not interested in going out anymore."

Ginny pursued her lips together. "No, Harry."

"Er?" Harry blinked, unsure of what to say.

"That's really not okay." Ginny paused and took a deep breath. She pushed her chair back and stood up. Then she moved towards him, slowly, as if approaching her new manager. She smiled and seemed to present herself at her best by standing straight up and walking smoothly. Harry was unmoved; his discomfort with the situation only increased. "I really like you, Harry."

"Ginny..." Harry said, trailing off. He wasn't sure what he could say to change her mind, though, and he ended up only watching her come closer.

"I've liked you for years, Harry. Way before you noticed me." Ginny stated it as if it was common knowledge, and upon reflection Harry realized it probably was. Hermione had mentioned something to him once, about the way Ginny had acted around him and his own obliviousness, but Harry hadn't really paid any attention to her. Now he was wishing he had listened.

"Er, Ginny, look, I..." Harry swallowed again. Why was his throat so dry all of a sudden?

"I know you're nervous, Harry," Ginny said, stopping in front of him. She glanced towards the ground and then back up at him. "I am, too. But there's no reason for us to be single anymore. We like each other, so we should get back together, don't you think?"

Harry stood there, staring at her. He realized with an abnormal combination of regret and excitement that he would have to tell her. He had never planned on telling her what he thought of her, since he knew that she still harbored some feelings for him. But now, with her standing here in front of him asking him to go out with her once again, he knew he really had no other choice.

"Look, Ginny," Harry said, clearing his throat. "It's not that I don't like you, I do, it's just... not like that."

Ginny blinked and titled her head. "What do you mean?"

Harry inhaled and held his breath for a few seconds before exhaling again. "I really only like you as a friend, Ginny. Just as a friend." When she failed to say anything, he added, "Not as anything else, I mean."

Thankfully, Ginny understood what he was trying and failing to say. "But we went out together," she replied, frowning. "You told me you liked me."

"And I do like you, but not like that. Not anymore," Harry explained, shrugging helplessly.

"But why?" Ginny asked, backing up a step and looking quite displeased. "I thought we were good together."

"I think you can do better than me, Ginny," Harry said, shaking his head. "There's a lot of guys that would be able to be a better boyfriend to you than I could."

"But Harry," Ginny said in a soft voice. "You're the only one I want."

Harry grimaced. "Look, Ginny, I'm just not interested in you anymore." Ginny's face paled considerably, and she took another step backwards. Harry attempted a smile and said, "Can't we just be friends?"

"I thought you liked me. You said you did," she said, speaking very quietly.

"I don't like you anymore, not like that," Harry repeated. He felt horrible, like he was kicking a puppy repeatedly. He just wanted her to understand and leave him the hell alone.

"Oh," Ginny said, retreating a step further back towards the door. "Oh." She swallowed and turned around completely, giving Harry a full view of her back. She walked away from him and to the door, stopping just before leaving. "I guess I'll see you later," she said, and then she bolted.

Harry heard her footsteps resound down the hallway, Mrs. Black's portrait making loud snide comments about blood traitors and their atrocious manners, and a door slam at the end of the corridor. He sighed and put a hand over his face, drawing it down slowly until it dropped to his side.

That hadn't gone well at all. He had wanted to make things easier for her, to be nice, to continue being friends with her. But it was extremely clear to him that there was no way he would ever be able to maintain a friendship with Ginny. In fact, it seemed like something that came out of a dream, like wishful thinking, like a dream that he had that would never become reality.

Harry swallowed nervously. He really was worried about losing his friendship with Ginny. After all, if he lost that, chances were likely that the entire Weasley clan would be out for his blood, so to speak. Ron had given him permission to date Ginny, and it seemed as though everyone in the Weasley family thought it was a good idea that Harry and Ginny went out together. He didn't want his break-up with Ginny to affect his status with the rest of the Weasleys, but he knew it would. Already, he hadn't seen Mrs. Weasley around Grimmauld Place, and last time he had been here she had been around almost constantly. He hadn't thought anything of it at first, but now he realized it might be because he had broken up with Ginny.

Harry sighed. His stomach growled, reminding him why he had gone into the kitchen in the first place. He spun around and faced the stove again, rolling up his sleeves as he did so.

He'd make this grilled chicken if it was the last thing he did.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Several candles lit the small, dusky room that Draco would have normally avoided for something with more space and better lighting. Unfortunately, that was the room where Professor Snape had decided to base their research. So that was where he would stay until all of this was over with.

After Draco had accomplished what the Dark Lord wanted of him, after he had rescued his parents, he could do whatever he wished. He wouldn't have to cower to everything other people told him to do then. For now, though, all he could do was focus on his mission.

Maps were spread out around them both--plans for the area surrounding the Prime Minister's office building, inside Shacklebolt's personal office, and the general layout of the entire building. They all had marks on them, quickly drawn sketches and carefully constructed lines connecting various locations to each other. There were indications of paths that Draco hadn't even thought about using, and he studied them intently.

Neither Professor Snape nor Draco said a word during these sessions. They had been occurring more frequently as the time drew closer for Draco to carry out his mission, but still they didn't speak. Draco knew that if Professor Snape would have said something to him, he would have answered. The silence was making him edgy. He felt as if they were waiting for something, but he didn't know what it could be.

He scanned the map of the area outside of the office building once more. There were a number of alleys that he could use to hide in. Any one of them could work. The difficult part would be getting Shacklebolt to get close enough without revealing himself or alerting the muggles.

A small notation on the side of one map caught Draco's eye. He pulled the map closer to himself to inspect it. He read the quick, scrawling writing once, then he read it once more just to be sure.

"Professor Snape," Draco said, quietly. The older man looked up, somewhat startled at the sound. He looked as if he was going to lecture Draco, so the blonde quickly pointed at a small section of the map. "This is Shacklebolt's apparating point."

Professor Snape's eyes widened. "Let me see that." He took the map from Draco and eyed it critically.

"I can get him there," Draco said, more to himself than to the man sitting across from him. "If I just wait there, he'll apparate in when he goes to work. He won't be expecting an attack right after he apparatus. Even if he is expecting an attack, apparition leaves people open for at least a few seconds."

Professor Snape leveled a clam look at Draco. "Your plan has flaws."

Draco waved a hand in the air distractedly. "You could set a clock by Shacklebolt's schedule. He'll be there, on time, and unprepared. It's the perfect chance." Draco paused for a moment, thinking. "It's the only weakness his schedule's got."

"Then use it," Professor Snape said.

"He'll apparate in, and I could do it then." Draco stopped, imagining it in his mind. Shacklebolt appearing, suddenly, and Draco would already be there waiting for him. His wand would already be pointed and he would say the words before Shacklebolt could do more than blink. Then, he'd take the body and apparate back before anyone even knew Shacklebolt would be missing work. It was workable. It could be done. "It could work," Draco said, slowly.

Professor Snape stood up. Draco looked at him. "I have other things to be attending to. Now that you have a plan, all that's left is for you to carry it out." Professor Snape turned around and exited the room quickly, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Draco stared at the closed door and swallowed. Now that he had a workable plan, the only thing that was left was to actually do it. He stared intently at the small spot on the map that marked Shacklebolt's apparition point.

It would be done within the week.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry had tried being patient. He had tried staying quiet about all the exchanged looks going on around him. He hadn't said a word about all the people Apparating in and out of his house at all hours of the day and night. He'd been completely silent on the issue of everyone whispering about events that he was being left out of.

But the time for patience was over. Harry was appalled at the thought of being left behind on even one more mission. He had to do something; anything would be fine as long as it got him out of Grimmauld Place. Screw the agreement. He'd waited long enough, and there was no way he was going to wait until he turned seventeen to be allowed to help with the war.

He was the one who was supposed to kill Voldemort. No one else. It was him. And he'd do it, too, whether they wanted him to or not.

Currently, it seemed like they really, really didn't want him to.

"I've already told you, Harry," Tonks said, shrugging. "We don't take anyone underage on missions. It's a rule. Sorry, but there it is."

The fact that Tonks did look genuinely remorseful did absolutely nothing to soothe Harry's frayed nerves. "I've gotta do something, Tonks," he said, desperately. "Otherwise, I'm gonna go crazy."

She frowned and put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Harry, I really am. But there's just nothing we can do about it now. Once you turn seventeen, though, you'll be able to help us out."

That last comment had obviously been meant to be a relief to Harry, something that he could look forward to. It didn't work at all, though, and the look on Harry's face must have shown that because she frowned and fidgeted.

"I'm just sitting around here doing nothing. I'd rather be going on a mission!" Harry yelled, exasperated. "How am I going to kill Voldemort," Harry paused and made a face when Tonks winced, "if I'm not even allowed out of the house?"

"Look, Harry, I really wish I could help you, but I just can't. You know that," Tonks said, nodding in Harry's direction. He frowned at her and she fidgeted even more.

Finally Harry slouched a little and sighed, letting his gaze soften. He knew Tonks had no control over what was going on in the Order, but he also knew that he wasn't going to get any answers out of anyone else.

"Can you at least tell me some of what's been going on?" Harry asked, lowering his head a little. He looked up at her and smiled a little, hoping he looked pathetic, noble, and trustworthy. "I'd really like to know."

Tonks shifted her weight from one side to the other quickly. She bit her upper lip and chewed on it for a second before letting it go. "I'm sorry, Harry, really I am." Harry growled and glared at her. "Just wait a little longer and I swear, you'll be allowed on any mission you want!" Harry opened his mouth to respond, but she gasped and slapped her forehead. "I completely forgot! I've got to go, Harry, I'm supposed to go give testimony at a trial today." She rolled her eyes and grinned. "Wish me luck."

She apparated away before Harry could say another word. "Good luck," he muttered under his breath, kicking his foot against the ground. Being left behind all the time made him feel like a whiny, petulant child. He hated it.

"That didn't go very well, did it?" Hermione asked, walking into the living room.

Harry looked up at her and shrugged. "'Bout as well as I expected, I suppose. Where'd you come from?"

Hermione grinned and sat down on the couch, patting the space beside her. "I just got here. I was helping my mum with some chores."

Harry rolled his eyes and sat down next to Hermione, leaning back against the cushion and letting his legs stretch out in front of him. "Tonks is the only one I can ever talk to. I'm waiting for Professor Moody to get back, but I can never find him. Even Professor Lupin is never around." Harry's shoulders sagged, and he slouched even further.

"Professor Lupin?" Hermione repeated, looking at Harry. "He's still undercover with the werewolves."

Harry sat up straighter. "What?" he asked, blinking.

Hermione nodded. "The Order wanted him specifically to do it. Apparently there was an argument over it because of what happened at the end of last year, but it looks like the Order thought it would be better for him to continue than give it up."

"They did?" Harry asked, voice showing condemnation.

"Of course. He's the only one that can infiltrate them, and it's important that he sticks with it. Of course, McGonagall is hoping he'll be out before next year starts so he can be the DADA professor. He was the best one Hogwarts has had in years, which makes him a perfect choice since the students really need a good DADA professor." Hermione paused and looked away from Harry. "Especially now," she added, almost as an afterthought.

Harry bit his lower lip and looked down at the floor. "Yeah," he said. "I suppose they've got a new Potions professor then?"

Hermione shook her head. "Nope. Professor Slughorn agreed to do it for one more year, until McGonagall could find someone more suitable for the position."

Harry looked at Hermione and raised an eyebrow. "How do you know all of this, anyway?"

She turned slightly pink and shrugged. "Well, you know... word gets around."

"Hermione..." Harry said in a warning tone, staring at her.

Hermione clasped her hands in front of her and looked down at them. "I--"

"Well, what is it?"

Harry turned at the sound of the low, harsh voice, noticing Hermione's relieved look as he did so. He frowned, making a mental note to ask her about this later. Then he was staring at Mad-Eye Moody standing in the doorway, and all other thoughts flew out of his mind.

"Professor Moody!" Harry exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "You're here!"

Moody's regular eye was focused on Harry, but his other eye was rolling around as usual. Harry tried not to look at it for too long, since every other time he had stared at it the constant dizzying, swirling motion had made him queasy.

Moody walked forward unevenly, weight lurching from side to side as he did. "Yeah, I'm here. And I've gotten complaints that you're bothering the members of the Order."

"Bothering?" Harry said, sounding shocked and a little pissed off. "I'm not bothering-"

"They say you wanted to see me. Well, what is it? I've got ten minutes." Moody raised his eyes to the ceiling and seemed to be talking to himself for a second. "Make that nine," he said, lowering his eyes back to peer at Harry.

"I want to go on Order missions," Harry said, abandoning all pretext of small talk and observing social niceties. Moody probably wouldn't even appreciate it anyway.

"No," Moody replied, turning around. He started walking away, wooden leg thumping against the ground rhythmically.

"Wait a minute," Harry said, striding forward. He maneuvered around Moody and stood in front of him, blocking his exit. "You haven't even heard me out yet."

Moody looked at Harry, who had gotten taller since the last time they had spoken and was now almost on eye-level with him. "I don't need to hear you out," Moody said gruffly. "You're not of age yet. Now get out my way."

"No," Harry said, firmly. He saw Hermione getting up and walking over to them out of the corner of his eye, but his attention was focused on Moody. "I want to go on Order missions, and I think I've earned the right to go."

Both of Moody's eyes bore into Harry, and he shivered under the scrutiny. "No, Potter," he said in a monotone. "You haven't earned the right to go." Moody's voice took on a hint of emotion as he went on. "You can't earn the right to go. No one earns the right to fight Death Eaters. That's something you still haven't figured out yet. You won't have figured it out even when you're of age, I'll wager, but it doesn't matter because the law says you're old enough to decide for yourself just how stupid you want to act."

"I've fought Death Eaters already," Harry said, face turning red. "Loads of them!"

"Loads of them," Moody repeated, muttering.

Harry snarled. "Yes, loads of them. And Voldemort, too. I'm the only one that's fought him more than once and lived, in case you forgot."

"Harry," Hermione said, placing a hand on his arm. He looked at her quickly; he had completely forgotten she was there. The look on her face made him scowl at her and turn back to Moody.

"Not the only one," Moody returned.

"No, but he's dead, isn't he?" Harry said, vehemently. "And now I am the only one, and you'd do well to take my help instead of treating me like I'm some kind of child."

"Harry!" Hermione said in a high-pitched voice.

"You are a child," Moody said. "Even after you're seventeen, you'll still be a child as long as you've got an attitude like that."

Harry opened his mouth to retort but Hermione clamped her hand over his lips. He glared at her and was extremely irritated to find that she wasn't even looking at him. Her gaze was fixed on Moody, and there was a long, drawn-out silence while Moody and Harry were locked in an unintentional staring contest. Eventually, Moody shifted his gaze to look at Hermione and Harry felt a supreme rush of satisfaction go through him.

"What?" Moody grumped, frowning and peering at Hermione.

"Professor, I think what Harry's trying to say is that we'd really like to help the Order with something. Harry, Ron, and I are here all the time, but we're never able to contribute to the war effort. Maybe there's something we could do from here?" Hermione finished with a questioning lilt to her voice, attempting to soothe the tempers of both men in the room. Harry wanted to say that wasn't what he wanted, that he wanted to go out and actually do something, but her hand was still over his mouth and anything he tried saying came out muffled and impossible to understand. He was tempted to bite her hand, but the thought made him feel guilty so he settled for pouting instead.

Moody was silent for a minute, presumably contemplating what to say. Harry waited for his response impatiently, tapping his foot against the floor mutely. Hermione noticed and gave him a severe look, which Harry returned with no problem or compunction. Hermione rolled her eyes and returned to looking at Moody. After a moment, Harry followed suit.

"McGonagall said there were some books that needed to be looked through that weren't in the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library. She thought they might be here." Moody's words seemed to be forced out of his mouth, almost as if he was unwilling to give up even that scrap of information. Harry was completely disgusted with the lack of willingness that the Order had to help him defeat Voldemort. You'd think they didn't want him to kill the stupid sod after all.

Hermione, on the other hand, beamed right after Moody finished speaking. "Yes, right, of course. We can do that," she said, nodding. She elbowed Harry, and he jerked his head down and back up again in response.

Moody nodded. "I'll send someone over with the list of books and the information she's looking for."

"Thank you," Hermione said, pulling Harry to the side so that the doorway was free of obstacles. "We'll get right on that."

Moody limped past them, muttering under his breath as he walked out the door and down the hall. Hermione waited until they couldn't hear his footsteps anymore to remove her hand from Harry's face.

"Gee, thanks, Hermione," Harry said, licking his lips reflexively.

"Oh, shut up," she replied, glaring at him. "If you had any idea how to talk to someone, you might have gotten your way, you know."

Harry leaned against the wall and stuck his hands in his pockets. "There's no way," he replied, shaking his head. "They all think I'm still a kid."

Hermione sighed and leaned against the wall next to Harry. "But Harry," she said, poking his nose and smiling a bit, "to them, you are still a kid."

Harry blew air out the side of his mouth and closed his eyes. He let his head fall back against the wall and tried to relax. "I just can't stand being so useless all the time."

"You're not useless, Harry," she said, leaning her head against his shoulder. "But you've got to be more patient. Once you're seventeen, they can't stop you from leaving anymore."

"They can't stop me from leaving now," Harry said, watching the weird play of lights on the inside of his eyelids.

"No," Hermione agreed, "they can't. But you won't be of much use to anyone in trouble with the Ministry for using magic illegally, now will you?"

Harry chuckled, already feeling much more at ease than he had moments ago. "No, I suppose you're right."

"Of course I'm right." Hermione grinned cheekily. "Didn't you hear? I'm always right."

Harry opened his eyes to roll them and laughed. It felt good to laugh out loud, so he continued for a while. The sound echoed off the walls of the living room, down the corridor, eventually reaching the portrait of Mrs. Black. Harry heard her shouting about disrespectful kids and their tendencies to cause disruption, which only made him laugh even louder.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Draco was lying in wait. He had always wanted to lie in wait, but now that he was actually doing it, he discovered it wasn't all it was cracked up to be. His back and knees were stiff and aching from kneeling for so long, and his eyes were beginning to water. The bushes he was hiding in were scratching the back of his neck and head, which made him feel uncomfortably itchy all the way down his spine. He didn't want to risk moving, though, for fear of giving away his location. Even shifting a little was out of the question. His hand tightened on his wand. All he had to do was attack and attack swiftly.

Birds were chirping to each other, singing happily, and he thought if he heard one more second of that sound he would immediately get up and strangle the stupid birds, mission be damned. The thought made him chuckle, but he silenced the sound abruptly and cursed himself for letting even a small sound escape. He couldn't afford any mistakes.

Waiting for Shacklebolt to apparate in was one of the most grueling experiences of his life, and he wasn't about to screw it all up. He knew instinctively that this was the easy part, but his mind refused to let him think about what would come next. Every time he tried he found himself suddenly listing the ingredients for a Pepper-Up potion in his head or silently recounting the events of the thirty-eighth goblin war in chronological order. So he stopped trying to think, and instead focused on waiting.

His hands felt raw and swollen. One was holding his wand, fingers clutched around it. The other was dangling loosely at his side, fingers slightly curved and twitching. He tightened his free hand until his fingers pressed against his palm, then relaxed it. He glanced down at the slowly fading red marks and grit his teeth. Draco resumed his original position, staring at the apparation point with agitation and impatience. He held his wand even tighter in his hand, feeling the stiff wooden length of it remain unaffected by his agitation.

How much longer could he possibly be? The man was almost never late, and Draco had to have been crouching there for at least an hour already. Of course, he specifically came this early for the purpose of having a lot of extra time between his arrival and Shacklebolt's. Still, the knowledge that it was his own planning that had led him to this was more annoying than comforting.

Then there was a pop, a soft thud, and a quiet cough in quick succession. Draco aimed through the hole in the bushes and whispered, "Stupefy."

A jet of red light hurled from the end of his wand and hit his target directly in the chest. Shacklebolt began to fall to the ground, body crumpling, completely unconscious. There was a much louder thud and then nothing but the obnoxious birds who had been chirping before.

Draco stood up, stepping carefully out of the bushes. He brushed off his robe, letting all the bits of grass and twigs that had gathered fall to the ground. Then he walked over to stand in front of Shacklebolt. The man was lying on the ground, limbs bent quite naturally, almost as if he had fallen asleep that way. Just inches away from Shacklebolt's right hand was a wand made of slightly lighter wood than Draco's own.

Once he realized the only possible reason for Shacklebolt's wand to be out was if he had drawn it, Draco took a moment to pout. He had spent so much time hiding and preparing, and somehow Shacklebolt had been prepared for an attack anyway. Well, it didn't really matter. He was stupefied now, and there was no way he was going to escape.

All of Draco's research and work had led up to this moment. He inhaled deeply, letting the fresh air clear his mind. He blew out his breath and rotated his shoulders. This was it. He had to do it now. This was the only way to save his parents. If he didn't kill Shacklebolt, the Dark Lord wouldn't hesitate to go through with his threat. So there really was no option about it. He had to do it.

Draco looked around, checking the area for people. It was empty, of course. Shacklebolt had found the perfect apparation spot. It was the backyard of an abandoned house whose property stretched for a considerable distance in every direction. No one would ever pass by, and even if someone did, the huge overgrown hedges surrounding the area would completely block anyone's view.

He turned back to Shacklebolt, who was still lying on the ground. All he had to do now was kill him.

Draco swallowed and stood completely still. He began breathing a little faster and clenched his wand a little tighter. He stared at Shacklebolt and raised his wand. He knew he could cast the Unforgivable Curses. It had been necessary to cast the Imperius Curse several times during his sixth year at Hogwarts, and he had done so without fail each time. He had even cast the Cruciatus Curse before, practicing on bugs and small animals under the watchful eyes of his parents. Even the Killing Curse was not a new spell to him; it was something he had learned to cast in preparation for being a Death Eater. He had never tried it on an actual person before, but he assumed the principle was the same regardless of what the recipient of the curse was.

So. He only needed to think about how much he wanted Shacklebolt dead, and then say the magic words, so to speak. It was going to be simple. It was going to be so simple that he really didn't even need to worry about it. Of course, he was already worrying, but now he was really only arguing with himself over semantics. If he was going to worry about something, he would worry about it regardless of how simple it might be.

Draco snarled and shook his head. What was he doing, standing here over Shacklebolt's unconscious body? If he didn't hurry up, someone would find him. Even if the location was remote, chances were likely that someone from Shacklebolt's work would realize he was late. They might send people out to look for him. If Draco was going to do it, he needed to do it now, before there was a greater chance of him getting caught in the act.

He raised his wand and pointed it at Shacklebolt. He opened his mouth to speak, waited a moment, then pressed his lips together. He frowned. What was wrong with him? His parents were depending on him to do this. If he didn't kill Shacklebolt, he'd be killing his parents instead. There wasn't even a choice. He had to do it. He had to.

Draco held his wand pointed directly at Shacklebolt. The man was just lying there, for bloody sake. He wasn't even doing anything that made him a threat. It would be so easy to kill him. All he had to do was say the words and he'd be able to leave, guaranteeing his parents lives in the process.

As he stood there, his hand that held his wand began to shake. He grasped his wand with both hands, clutching at it and levering it directly at Shacklebolt. There was nothing else he could do now. He had to kill him.

"A-Avada Ke..." Draco whispered, intending to just get it over with. But the words got caught in his mouth and he swallowed. He licked his lips, parting them just a little and breathing heavily. "Avada Ke-keda..." Draco trailed off again, clearing his throat nervously.

This was getting him nowhere. What he needed to do was just spit it out, all in one go. Draco inhaled and tried to speak, but he found his voice just wouldn't come again.

Draco glared at Shacklebolt over the tip of his wand. "Bloody hell," he muttered, shuffling his feet. "I've got to do this. I've got to." He mouthed the words to himself, over and over again, like a prayer or a mantra.

He had no idea why he was hesitating. This man meant nothing to him; Draco hadn't even known who he was until the Dark Lord had told him. He was being given a choice between the lives of his parents and the life of a complete stranger. The longer he waited, the more and more it felt like he was choosing the stranger.

"No," Draco said, shaking his head firmly. Yet even as he said that, his wand dropped a little lower.

There was no one trying to talk him out of it this time. There was no reason for him to still be standing over Shacklebolt, waiting to kill him. By all accounts, he should be back in the Dark Lord's hideout, meeting with Snape and waiting for admittance to see the Dark Lord. Instead, he was still standing outside, in plain sight, not even trying to hide.

Shacklebolt was stupefied, for bloody sake. There hadn't even been a fight. Why was he still standing there, staring at the man he should have already killed?

A heavy weight settled in Draco's gut. He knew the reason why this was happening, even if he wasn't ready to admit it. Dumbledore had said it, hadn't he? 'You are not a killer.' Although even thinking it made Draco feel sick and disgusted with himself, he knew it was the truth.

He wasn't a killer. The very idea of ending someone's life made him uneasy. He could level his wand at Shacklebolt and try to say the Killing Curse for as long as he wanted to, but he just would never be able to do anything other than stutter and mumble incoherently.

Draco backed up a step, eyes widening. He really wasn't going to do it. This wasn't a joke. He was choosing to walk away, to fail the Dark Lord a second time. The consequences of doing so rang out in his head. His father's and mother's lives were at stake, and he was willingly throwing them away.

Or was he? Another thought struck Draco then, one that he hadn't really considered before. It was possible that the Dark Lord wouldn't kill them. It seemed like an unlikely option, like a false hope. After all, the Dark Lord loved to torture and kill people, both muggles and his own followers alike. It wasn't often that he opted to let someone live when he had the opportunity to kill him or her.

Then again, the first time Draco had failed, the Dark Lord hadn't killed his family. He had given Draco another mission instead. The only punishment he had received was being locked in a room for a while, and all in all, Draco had counted himself fairly lucky.

Who was to say the Dark Lord wouldn't do the exact same thing again this time? Maybe the Dark Lord threatening to kill his family was exactly like the last time the Dark Lord had threatened to kill his family. It could be just an empty promise, a move that had been made to compel him to act. The Dark Lord was an excellent Legilimens, after all. Even with Draco's skill at Occlumency, he was quite sure that the Dark Lord was able to get more information out of him than he would have willingly given. Perhaps the Dark Lord had seen Draco's reluctance to kill people and had only used his parents' lives as bait because he thought Draco would actually be able to get over his hesitation.

Apparently, though, that plan hadn't worked. Even with the knowledge that the Dark Lord was threatening to kill his parents, Draco still hadn't gone through with his mission. The Dark Lord's ploy had failed; Draco wasn't going to kill Shacklebolt.

Draco stepped back from the man lying on the ground and thought for a moment. He couldn't go back to the Dark Lord's hideout, that was a given. Even if he was fairly sure that his parents were safe enough there, for now at least, the same could not be said for his own well-being. If he returned after failing a second time, the Dark Lord would torture him for his failure. There was no doubt in his mind.

He had to leave, and quickly. Draco eyed Shacklebolt and decided to leave him. Eventually someone would come looking for him, and it would only draw more suspicion if he wasn't where he was supposed to be. He was quite certain Shacklebolt hadn't seen him at all, though, so he knew he was safe. For the moment.

Draco heard voices. He glanced over his shoulder quickly but was unable to see anyone. It was probably some muggles walking by, but it was always better to be cautious. If anyone caught him standing here while Shacklebolt was laying unconscious next to him, chances were they were unlikely to see things from his perspective.

He needed to apparate somewhere. Not just anywhere would do, he was too recognizable. He needed someplace he could hide out for a while. Suddenly, he remembered an old shack he had discovered one summer while playing in the area around the Manor. It was well-hidden deep within a bunch of tress that would have been called a forest if it had covered a larger area. Still, it was hard to see from just walking by it if you didn't know it was there, and it was impossible to remember exactly where it was. He had spent enough time there that he had memorized the location, and he closed his eyes, imagining it in his head. The picture formed clearly and he disappeared, vanishing with a loud pop.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The library at Grimmauld Place was crammed full of books. Not only the bookshelves lining the walls, but also the tables placed at odd spacing and angles around the room were used to hold all of the books. Some of the floor had been taken over by the thick volumes, and even a few of the chairs had fallen prey to them. In fact, it appeared as though every flat surface had at least one book on it, whether it was a thin text on how to get rid of pesky gnomes or a heavy manuscript on the rituals and complexities of certain less-than-friendly spells the Black family was known for.

Hermione was in heaven. Harry knew it from the moment they entered. The list of data they needed to collect was clutched in her hand like the answers to the Arithmancy NEWT would be, and she seemed reluctant to do anything other than stand and stare in wonder at the mess that was spread out before her. Her cheeks flushed and she inhaled deeply, the scent of musky books filling her nose and making her sigh contentedly.

Harry, on the other hand, was not in heaven. Far from it, actually. The room was musty and clouded with dust on everything in sight. Breathing clogged up his sinuses, and Harry felt a sneeze coming before he could stop it. He excused himself and felt amused by the look on Hermione's face, as though he had ruined a special moment for her.

"Well, let's get on with it, then," Harry said, striding forward to the nearest desk. He pulled out a seat and tossed the books that were piled on it into a heap on the nearby floor.

Hermione squeaked in alarm. "Harry, what do you think you're doing?" she asked, practically running over to where he was. She gathered the books from the floor and began ordering them in a neat pile on top of the table.

"We need to sit down somewhere, don't we?" he asked, rolling his eyes at her antics.

"Honestly," she said, exasperated. "Just once, I'd like to see a little bit of appreciation and care when you handle books."

Harry smirked, the expression one he didn't use very often. It felt odd on his mouth, as if it didn't belong there. It felt like it belonged to someone else. Harry pushed the odd thought away, focusing on Hermione's pout and her protective gestures over the books that were now arranged neatly on the tabletop. "I do care about books, Hermione, really I do," he said in the most insincere voice he could use. She glowered at him. "It's just that we've got a lot of work to do, and I'm sure that the..." Harry glanced down at the first title he saw. "...A Concise History of Pureblood Social Rituals isn't going to be of much use to us."

"Harry," Hermione said, using her warning voice to show Harry that she meant business.

"It doesn't look very concise, does it?" Harry asked, prodding at the binding of the three-inch thick book. "I mean, you'd think with a title like concise, it would be more-"

"Harry," Hermione repeated, speaking slowly and clearly, enunciating each syllable with practiced calm. "If you are not going to help, then kindly leave."

Harry smiled and nudged her shoulder. "Hermione, I'm just teasing you."

"Hm," Hermione sniffed. "Yes, I know. But we really do have a lot of books to go through, Harry, so why don't we get started?"

Harry sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. "All right, then." He walked over to peer at the list that Hermione had finally looked at. His eyes scanned down the list quickly, noting the length of it more than the content. "What should I do?" he asked, figuring he may as well leave the mechanics of it up to Hermione. She did have a knack for this sort of thing, after all.

Hermione failed to disappoint him, as usual. "I think we should start by order of importance," she said, speaking so softly Harry thought she was talking to herself. She pulled out a chair and sat down in it. "There's a lot here that can wait until later, but right now..." Hermione trailed off and reached into her pocket. She pulled out a quill and began making small marks on the piece of parchment. After a minute, she carefully looked over what she had just written down and then handed it to Harry. Harry took it from her, holding it carefully so as not to smudge the ink. "Those are probably the most important, so they're the ones we should start looking at."

Harry read each of the names of the books that she had checked off. There were about fifteen of them with a small mark placed right besides the title, and Harry found he agreed with Hermione's judgment call.

"Looks good," Harry said, nodding.

"I can't be certain, of course, but hopefully the information in those books will be more relevant than in the others. Not that the others don't have good information in them," she continued quickly, waving a hand in front of her, "just that they probably will be harder to go through."

Harry shrugged. "Whichever way you want to do it is fine by me," he said. "But first we've got to find these books, right?"

Hermione exhaled slowly. "Right," she said, eyes roving around the room.

Harry followed her gaze. The mess of the room seemed that much worse now, as if in the past few minutes it had increased exponentially. That was impossible, of course, but trying to find fifteen books out of the thousands that were in no order at all would be close to impossible.

"Er, Hermione?" Harry asked, turning to face her.

"Hm?" she replied, still distracted by the sheer numbers of books in the room.

"Any ideas for how we should sort through all of this?" His voice was light, joking, but he knew she would understand the seriousness of their problem. If the information was really that important, if it really was a priority that McGonagall knew whatever the hell she wanted them to find out from those books, then the fact that it would take a miracle to find them made him nervous.

"Of course, Harry," she said, rolling her eyes. "You didn't really think that we'd have to go through all of this by ourselves, did you?"

Harry laughed. "Oh, no, of course not," he said, lying easily. He cleared his throat. "So what are we going to do?"

"There's a spell," Hermione began, "that allows you to alphabetize books by title."

"Brilliant," Harry said, relief flooding through him.

"Hm. Yes, well how did you think the Hogwarts Library was ordered anyway?" she asked.

Harry shrugged. "I don't know," he said, blowing a piece of hair out of his eyes. "I never really thought about it."

"It's quite tricky, though," she continued, reaching into her pocket and pulling out another piece of paper. "We'll need to sort the books into piles of one hundred, to start."

"That, I can do." Harry stretched his arms out in front of him and cracked his knuckles.

Hermione shuddered. "I hate it when you do that. You know that, right?"

Harry grinned. "Let's get started."

~*~*~*~*~*~

The shack was just as he remembered it. Stuck in the middle of nowhere, huge trees surrounding it on all sides, and made out of some sort of wood. It was obvious that muggles had used it at some point, since there were all kinds of weird devices that had been left inside. There were four rooms total--one bedroom, one bathroom, one living room, and one kitchen that also functioned as a dining room. Each room had only the minimalist amount of furniture in it. The living room had only a couch, armchair, table, and fireplace. The bedroom had one bed and a dresser, and the other two rooms were equipped with just what they needed to be useful. There were no decorations on the walls, although the floors were covered with a dark blue rug.

Draco looked around and sighed. This was what had become of his life. He was stuck in a bloody shack in the middle of a bloody forest hiding from the Dark Lord. Things were really going well, he thought, rolling his eyes. Maybe next he could throw himself at the mercy of the Order.

He snorted at the thought. The concept was so ridiculous he started laughing, clapping his hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. Once he calmed down a bit, he slid off his shoes and took off his robe, leaving both next to the couch in the living room.

After giving the shack a cursory once-over, Draco went back into the kitchen to see what there was in the cupboard. It seemed that whoever had last visited had left a few things behind, most of which was completely useless to him. Draco took out a silver, cylindrical container and stared at it, wondering what it was and how he was supposed to open it. He replaced it and began rummaging through the other things, most of which resembled the first thing he had found. There were a few other things, though, some in boxes and a few in bags. Draco opened one bag and held it up to his nose, taking a cautious whiff of whatever was inside. It smelled horrible, and he quickly held it away, wrinkling his nose in distaste. He closed the bag and shoved it back inside the cupboard, then closed the cupboard door with a bang.

Really. There should be something edible in a kitchen. After looking around for another ten or so minutes, Draco realized with a slow-building horror that there was nothing in the kitchen he could actually eat. Another realization followed immediately after.

Draco hadn't brought anything with him on his mission. His wand and the clothing he wore were the only items he currently possessed. It had seemed like a good idea to not bring unnecessary things with him, but now he found himself without food, money, or even a place to go. This shack was safe enough for now, Draco supposed, but eventually he would need to eat something. In fact, he could hardly be expected to go all the rest of the day without taking care of his basic needs, could he? It was just before nine in the morning and he hadn't eaten breakfast.

Thinking about food only made his stomach growl. Draco muttered unkind things under his breath and stomped out of the kitchen. He was extremely aware of the fact that all of his money was in Gringott's. While he could go there to retrieve some, chances were likely that the Dark Lord was already sending people after him. He'd rather lose a little weight the old-fashioned way than get killed trying to take out a few galleons from the bank.

Draco threw himself across the couch and relaxed into the cushions. They were hard and scratchy, yes, but it was all he had at the moment. He needed to relax and think things through. He needed to devise a strategy, to come up with a plan that would get him out of this mess.

First of all, he needed to get help from someone. Someone he could trust that would understand his position and take his side. Snape came immediately to his mind, but after mulling it over Draco rejected the idea of calling on his old professor for help. Although Snape had said that he had made some sort of promise with his mother, Draco had a suspicion that Snape's loyalty was with the Dark Lord first and foremost. Even worse, Snape might not be loyal to either side, intending to play them off of each other until one side won, after which he'd claim that he had been working for the winning side all along. Either way, Snape was not the person he could trust with his whereabouts right now.

That left him in a tough position. There was no one that he was close to that he could be absolutely sure wouldn't rat him out to the Dark Lord. Yes, there were plenty of options for people he could tell--but not one of them was trustworthy enough. Which of his friends from Slytherin would he tell? Vince, Greg, Pansy, Blaise? None of them had been chosen by the Dark Lord for a mission before, as far as he knew, and he doubted that any of them would understand why he hadn't done it. He himself didn't fully understand, so how could he expect someone else to?

He sighed. This was borderline impossible. How would he ever be able to find someone that knew him well enough to be willing to help him that he was certain wasn't loyal to the Dark Lord? It was a tough decision; there wasn't much he could do to be sure. But he couldn't just pick willy-nilly, either.

Draco flipped himself over so that he was facing the ceiling. He just had to think. He put a hand over his face and kept it there for a minute before letting it fall back down to his side. For all he knew, the Dark Lord hadn't even cared that he had failed. Maybe Draco was totally overreacting, freaking out over nothing. That just didn't seem likely, though.

He stared up at the ceiling, trying to think of other options. He would need to find someone to talk to that was level-headed. That was the most important--it had to be a person who wouldn't flip out and blow things way out of proportion. It had to be someone who was able to think clearly and logically in any given situation. He needed someone who had taken control of bad situations before and been able to handle the pressure and find a solution. Also, and maybe even more important then the first criteria on reconsideration, it needed to be a person who wouldn't immediately judge him, one way or the other. He needed a person who could put aside his or her biases in the face of a more important situation. It would be nice if the person had connections, if he or she was able to get him the things he needed with little to no fuss. It would be really nice if that person was able to get him somewhere to stay that had some type of protection up, but he wasn't really holding out for that.

Draco sat up and leaned back against the couch. His back seemed to meld into the cushion, and he hastily got up. He began pacing around the room, mind completely blank. Back and forth he went, walking straight towards the fireplace and then back towards the front door, passing the couch and table as he did so. He repeated the motion several times until finally inspiration struck.

McGonagall. The thought seemed almost as ridiculous as his original nonsensical idea to contact the Order. In a way, it was. McGonagall and the Order were both on the same side, probably working together. For all he knew, McGonagall was a member of the Order. There was a good chance she was, come to think of it.

Somehow that didn't stop him from pondering the idea further. McGonagall had everything he was looking for--a logical head, resources at her disposal, sympathy for victims of the Dark Lord. Draco shook his head at the thought of placing himself in the final category. It was unfortunate. He had never intended things to work out this way, but they had. It was too late to go back now; he would have to stick it out.

At any rate, McGonagall was his best and only option. If he wanted someplace safe to go, asking her for help was the logical thing to do.

Draco stood up, somewhat satisfied that he had made a decision, even though said decision could turn out awful in hundreds of different ways. McGonagall could agree to help him and then capture him. She could hand him over to the Order, who would interrogate him for days on end--weeks, even. They wouldn't believe him when he said he knew nothing. They'd continue their relentless interrogation until he ended up completely insane from the horror of it all. Then they'd pack him up and send him to St. Mungo's where he'd share a room with a man who had too many missing teeth and not enough deodorant.

Oh, the horror of it all.

Draco shook his head, snorting. The chances of things ending up that way were extremely slim.

After all, it was much more likely they'd send him to Azkaban.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry was currently reading about how a few of the goblin rebellions that occurred in the late 1600s took place in some of the lesser populated, more remote locations in England. Apparently, this was important information because it was possible that one of the goblins may have stolen and then hidden a priceless possession of Rowena Ravenclaw's. If he could figure out where exactly he might have hidden it, they might be able to find a clue about what had happened to it from there.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. This was becoming much more tedious than he originally thought it would be, which seemed impossible since he originally thought he would fall asleep while poring over all of these old books. They just seemed to go on and on and on about things that he would normally have paid no attention to. It would have been different if he had even the slightest interest in what he was reading about, but as it was he could barely stay awake through one whole chapter. He had no idea how he would be able to finish going through the list Hermione had given him.

Harry sighed again. Hermione looked up at him and then back down to her book. Harry really detested the knowledge that everyone but him was going out and actively fighting against Voldemort and the Death Eaters, while he himself was sitting in a moldy old library reading about goblin rebellions.

There was nothing at all interesting about goblin rebellions, Harry decided. They were all boring and so similar to each other that it made no sense to distinguish them. It would have been easier to say that there had been one goblin rebellion lasting hundreds of years then that there were hundreds of goblin rebellions lasting a few weeks each. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. It would be better to label them by numbers than by dates, he mused. Goblin rebellion one, goblin rebellion two... it would probably be a lot easier to remember that way, too. He sighed and started counting the lines on the ceiling.

He got to forty-three before Hermione cleared her throat. He sat up straight and looked at her. She was staring at him with a raised eyebrow.

"What?" Harry asked, frowning.

"You've sighed three times in the past four minutes," Hermione commented.

"I have not," Harry said, immediately defensive.

Hermione sighed, then shook her head. "See? Now you've got me doing it."

Harry shrugged. "Sorry," he said since he couldn't think of any other appropriate response.

"Look, Harry, if you don't want to do this, you really don't have to," Hermione said.

Harry groaned. "I need to do something, Hermione! I can't be stuck around here all day with nothing to do anymore!"

She nodded. "Okay, but you don't see Ron in here with me all the time, do you?"

"No," Harry said, smiling. "He's busy slacking off and eating my food."

"Harry, I'm being serious," she said, exhaling loudly.

"So am I," Harry replied, looking at her directly. "I need to do something, and this is the only thing that's available to me, so this is it."

"Harry," Hermione said, shaking her head. "You don't understand."

"What?" Harry asked, slightly annoyed at her tone. "What don't I understand?"

"If you're not really focusing, you could miss something," she said, taking a moment to tie back her hair in a bun. There was a pause in the conversation as she closed her eyes and twirled a brown hair tie around her bushy locks. She opened her eyes and blinked twice before continuing. "None of these books have a section labeled 'Horcruxes and Where To Find Them.' The only way we'll ever know is if we read between the lines."

"I know," Harry said, tilting his head to the side and briefly closing his eyes.

"No, Harry, you don't," she said. Harry opened his eyes and glared at her. "I'm sorry, but you don't," she repeated in a stronger tone. She reached over and grabbed the book that lay in front of him, bringing it close enough to read the title before replacing it right in front of him. "So you might know the location of a goblin rebellion," she began. "But it might mention something about... oh, I don't know, Ogfuld the Opulent." Harry snickered and Hermione shot him a look. "Stop laughing, this is important. So maybe, four books from now, you read something about Osrin the Opulent. You connect the two names together, realize that both are from the same family, and trace a path between the location that Ogfuld was mentioned at and where Osrin was mentioned at. And lo and behold, somewhere on that line is a location that we might need."

Harry shook his head. "All right, fine, I get it. But you do realize that no one's going to be able to read these books that thoroughly." At Hermione's superior look, Harry rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on, Hermione. They're boring."

"You might think they're boring," she said, "but I happen to think there's a lot to learn from the past."

Harry stood up and stretched. "Listen, I'm going to take a break."

"Harry..." Hermione shook her head and sighed.

Harry shot her a frustrated look. "You know I'm not the kind of person that can do this for hours and hours on end, Hermione. I'm better at other things. This research stuff is killing me."

"But you'll be back?" she asked as if she was unsure of the answer.

"Yes, I'll be back," he said, reassuring her. "I just need to take a breather."

She nodded. "All right then. I'll be waiting here."

Harry nodded and turned to go. "I'll be back in ten minutes," he said, tossing the words over his shoulder.

"Bring me back something to drink. Iced tea, if you have it, please." Hermione's voice was soft but demanding and Harry smiled to himself.

"Sure, Hermione," he said. He opened the elaborately carved door and walked into the hallway, using both hands to grasp the handle and seal the entranceway shut behind him.

Harry walked down the hallway, passing several unused rooms as he went. There was plenty of extra space at Grimmauld Place, almost too much. They had plenty of spare bedrooms as well as bathrooms and extra rooms that they never used. After the huge amount of cleaning they had done before fifth year, Harry was surprised at the amount of dust that had collected, even in the rooms that hadn't been used. He had thought those rooms, at least, would be clean. Not that it mattered, since he wasn't expecting any company, but it would have been nice to walk down a hall and not see dust on the handles of every door that he passed.

There was a lot of extra space in the Black family ancestral home, Harry realized with no small amount of resignation. He was used to the close living quarters of the Gryffindor dorms, where all five boys slept in one room. It had been comfortable there--safe, cozy, and blissful. Harry had never thought that he would willingly leave all of that, but he had. Instead of keeping the closeness that he had grown both accustomed and attached to, he had chosen to live all alone in a veritable King's Cross Station. He should start charging people a sickle for every time they apparated in unannounced. He'd have at least a hundred galleons by the end of the week.

Harry grimaced and shook his head. What was he thinking? Who cared how much space he had in Grimmauld Place? It was his home now, and he would be happy about it. He had left both Hogwarts and the Dursleys, so he really had no choice in the matter.

Harry had wound up in the kitchen, remembering Hermione's request for an iced tea. He picked a glass out of the cupboard and opened the refrigerator. Luckily, there was a half-full pitcher of iced tea just waiting for him on the middle shelf, and Harry snagged it just in case someone apparated behind him and demanded iced tea. He began pouring Hermione's glass and then got a second glass and poured himself a drink as well. He put a few ice cubes in each drink and replaced the pitcher, then walked to the nearest chair and plopped down on it. He placed Hermione's drink within reaching distance, but he kept his own very close to him, idly turning the glass this way and that, watching the light play and reflect off of the surface of the liquid and the cup.

He heard footsteps coming down the hall and wondered whether or not he should go and see who it was. The decision ended up not being his to make, though, when he saw a person's shadow spread across the room from the light in the doorframe.

"Hey, mate," Ron said, and Harry relaxed even before the redhead managed to finish his sentence. "What's up?"

Harry shrugged. "Not much. You?"

Ron walked over and sat down across from Harry, grabbing Hermione's drink in the process. He took a sip and smacked his lips when he finished. "Pretty good," he commented, looking appraisingly at the iced tea. He looked up at Harry and grinned. "I figured I'd drop by and see how you were doing."

"I'm good," Harry replied. "You're drinking Hermione's iced tea, though," he added.

Ron immediately set the glass back down on the table and turned a dull shade of red. "That so? Sorry about that. Didn't realize."

"No problem, finish it," Harry said. "I'll pour another for her when I go back."

"Ah," Ron said, nodding. "You two in the library again?"

"Yeah," Harry answered. He sipped his own drink, enjoying the feel of the liquid running silky smooth down his throat and the trickling sensation of the last bit trailing after the rest. "There's not much else to do, is there?"

"Nope," Ron said, shaking his head.

They sat in silence for a short while, both drinking iced tea and relaxing. Harry slouched in his chair, leaned his head forward, and rested his chin on his chest. He let his eyes fall shut and concentrated on breathing. Each breath seemed to go on forever, the air going into his body, which lifted in response to it, and then the air leaving his body, which fell back down to its starting position.

"Hey, Harry?"

Ron's voice cut through Harry's dreary haze, and he blinked a few times and lifted his head. "Yeah?" he asked, voice slightly croaky.

"What happened between you and Ginny?"

The question snapped Harry completely out of his calm thoughts, and he sat up abruptly. "What do you mean?" he asked, eyeing Ron nervously.

Ron cleared his throat. "Just that... well, Ginny's been kind of upset recently, and I thought it might be because of you." Ron looked at Harry directly, no incrimination or suspicion in his eyes. "It's not because of you, is it?"

Harry sighed. "I don't know, Ron," he said, shrugging. "I guess... yeah. It must be me."

Ron leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. "Well, what happened?"

Harry looked at Ron cautiously. It was hard to tell with him, but Harry thought his best friend might be okay knowing that Harry and Ginny weren't Meant To Be. Harry hoped it would be okay to tell him, since he was about to one way or the other.

"Ginny and I just didn't work out," Harry said, speaking slowly. He chose his words carefully, trying to think ahead before he spoke. "I don't feel the same way about her as she does about me, and I don't think it's fair to lead her on by dating her."

Ron nodded, grimacing. "Yeah, I figured as much." He was silent for a minute, and Harry chose not to say anything for fear that he would ruin whatever process Ron was going through that was making it easier for him to accept this. "You don't think you could give it another try, though?"

Harry winced at the hopeful note in Ron's voice. "No, Ron," he said. "I really don't think I'll be able to do that."

Ron nodded. "Yeah, okay."

"And anyway," Harry continued, still not entirely convinced that Ron understood what he was saying, "you wouldn't want me to keep on dating her if I didn't really like her, right?"

"Right," Ron agreed. "But... you sure you don't really like her, Harry?"

"I'm sure." Harry's voice was firm. "I don't like her, Ron. Not like she likes me."

Ron shrugged. "I guess it can't be helped, then."

"So," Harry said, searching for a topic change. "What's going on with you and Hermione?"

Ron blinked, clearly surprised at the sudden switch from Harry's love life to his own. "What do you mean?" he asked, completely unprepared for the sudden role reversal.

"Well, you haven't asked her out yet," Harry said, staring at Ron. His best friend was turning a rather amusing shade of red; it was fun to watch.

"No," Ron said, almost stammering. "I haven't."

"When are you going to?" Harry asked, delight etched into his features at the pure discomfort Ron was going through. He loved putting Ron on the spot like this, especially when it involved Hermione.

"When?" Ron squeaked. He cleared his throat and spoke in a much lower tone, "When?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Fine. Are you going to ask her out?"

"Didn't we talk about this before?" Ron asked, looking at Harry suspiciously.

"Yeah, we did," Harry replied. "And you avoided answering me then, too."

"I didn't avoid answering you," Ron replied. "I just was busy with other things."

"Yeah, well, now you're not busy with anything else, so talk to me. When are you going to do it?"

Ron turned even redder and clutched at the table edge for support. "Oh, I don't know, Harry," he said. "Does it even matter? She'll reject me for sure."

"What?" Harry said, making a disbelieving face. "There's no way. Go and talk to her, Ron. That's the only way you'll know for sure."

"What?" Ron blinked, gaping at Harry. "Now?"

"Yes, now," Harry replied, rolling his eyes. "Here, hold on a minute." He got up and retrieved another glass from the cupboard, pouring iced tea and then a couple of ice cubes into the cup. Harry walked over to Ron and plopped it down in front of him. "Now go into the library and give this to her. Then tell her you want to take her out somewhere or something."

"Harry, I can't do that," Ron said, shaking his head. "She'll flip out. She'll hate me forever. There's no way." Ron sighed and looked down at the tablecloth.

Harry bit his lower lip and waited a moment before speaking. "Look, Ron, you're never going to know unless you try. For all you know, she's been waiting for you to ask her out for years." Ron snorted and Harry glared at him. "No, I mean it. All you have to do is ask her."

"That's not as easy as it sounds," Ron said, swallowing.

"You did it with Lavender," Harry pointed out, compelled to bring up the one instance that he knew Ron had managed to get the girl he had been after.

"It was different with Lavender," Ron said.

"I know," Harry said because he did know. Ron's relationship with Lavender meant nothing to him, while his relationship with Hermione meant everything. Harry assumed that it was easier to ask someone out that you didn't really care about than to go for someone that meant a lot to you. Of course, if it took that much effort and willpower to finally be with the person you really cared about, it was almost as if getting to be with that person was your reward for going through so much strife. If that was the case, Harry knew Ron and Hermione would have a very happy relationship together.

"Harry, you don't know. You've never done it," Ron complained, moaning.

"I have done it. I asked Ginny out, didn't I?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

Ron glared at him. "Sort of. If by asking out, you mean kissing in front of the entire Common Room. And anyway, that's totally different."

"How is that different?" Harry asked. "If anything, yours will be easier because you won't have a crowd."

"No," Ron said, shaking his head. "You didn't really care about Ginny. You just said so."

Harry was quiet for a moment, contemplating that. "And you really care about Hermione," he finished, looking closely at Ron to see his reaction.

Ron blushed a little more, pushing his face just that much closer to becoming the same shade as his hair. "Yeah," he said, quietly. "I do."

Harry pushed the glass of iced tea closer to Ron. "Then that only makes it more important that you go and talk to her now, before you waste any more time."

Ron hesitated for a moment. He looked up at Harry, who smiled encouragingly, then down at the glass of iced tea. He repeated this process several times, until finally Harry squeezed his shoulder. Ron swallowed and stood up, grabbing Hermione's cup of iced tea along with his own.

"I guess I'll be going then," Ron said, swallowing nervously.

Harry nodded. "Go on. I'll be here when you need me."

Ron nodded back at Harry and turned towards the door. He walked out of the room slowly, almost marching. About nine seconds after he left the room, he stuck his head back around the doorframe. Harry was watching, already prepared for this.

"Thanks, Harry. You're a real mate," Ron said, grinning.

Harry grinned back. "It's what I'm here for. Now go on. Your ice cubes are melting."

Ron's head disappeared around the corner once more. Harry heard his footsteps grow steadily quieter until they were completely silent. He leaned back in his chair and sipped his iced tea, clearing his mind of all worries. They'd be fine. Hermione wasn't stupid, so they would both be fine.

A loud pop sounded in the kitchen, and Harry saw Hestia Jones reaching for the refrigerator. She opened it and took out the empty pitcher of iced tea, pouting slightly.

Harry grinned.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Draco's eagle owl was perched on the edge of the armchair, looking at him pointedly. He had called for his owl earlier in the day, hoping beyond hope that somehow she would be able to find him. Luckily enough, the Malfoy owls were all specially trained to respond at any time, from anywhere. His father had told him about a spell that they had used, but Draco hadn't paid any attention. All he knew was that when he called his owl, she was supposed to come.

She had flown in about an hour ago, much to Draco's relief. During that hour, he had paced around the living room, mentally composing his owl to McGonagall. It would have to be something so endearing and pathetic that she had no choice but to believe him. It would have to also be true, of course, since Draco knew that if he lied now and she discovered it later, he'd be thrown out without a second thought. No, what he needed now was to tell the truth in a way that made him sound like a victim, like someone that was sitting down, waiting hopefully for something remarkable to happen that would save him from this disaster.

Now, he was staring at a blank piece of parchment, wondering what to write. He glanced out the window absentmindedly. The sun had set, but Draco had no idea what time it was. He imagined he could do a time spell, but he was cautious of doing magic in case he alerted anyone to his presence in the shack. It was better to be on the safe side, especially when there was a chance that the Death Eaters were looking for him.

The blank parchment seemed to call him, begging for attention. Draco looked back at it and picked up the quill that was lying next to it. He had to write something. Anything would be fine, but he had to start off his plea for help somehow.

To Headmistress McGonagall,

Well, it was a start. Draco bit his lower lip and frowned. There had to be something he could say, some type of opening line that wouldn't make him seem like he was trying to trick her.

This is not a trap.

... Okay, so it was kind of a bad opening. Draco shook his head and blew a strand of hair away from his face. It said what he needed it to say, and that was really all that mattered. She would either believe him or not, but with an opening like that she couldn't very well just put it down and walk away. Hopefully it would be compelling enough to continue reading.

He needed to say something else first, before he started going into his circumstances. Something that would allow her to understand that he really was serious, that he really wasn't going to capture her if she agreed to help him.

I hope you'll believe me, or at least that you'll continue reading.

All right, that was pretty good. It seemed sincere, and it told her that he knew she had no reason to trust him. Come to think of it...

I know you've got no reason to trust me, but I'd like you to try.

That might be stretching it a bit. He didn't really want her to trust him; he needed her to trust him. But there was no way he was going to write that down, and anyway he had already stretched out the beginning for long enough. He needed to start telling her what had happened.

Earlier today I was supposed to kill Shacklebolt.

Okay, at least that was clear. He should just write down what had happened in order now, to get it out of the way.

The Dark Lord is holding my parents hostage and threatened to kill them if I didn't do it. However, I still couldn't complete the mission. I believe the Dark Lord doesn't intend to follow through on his threat, but I think that I could be in danger.

Draco took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He counted to twenty slowly and then opened them again. His eyes skimmed over what he had written so far. It seemed a little melodramatic, but then again it was all true, so he supposed it was all right.

Now he needed to figure out what he could say to convince her to help him. He thought for a moment, twirling his quill between his fingers, then placed it on the parchment and began writing again.

I'm hiding out in a location that doesn't meet my needs. There is no food or money here, and I'm afraid

Draco scratched out "afraid" until he was certain no one would be able to see what he had written.

worried that if I leave the Death Eaters will find me and take me to the Dark Lord.

Now it was time for his request. He had to be able to say what was necessary without sounding too demanding or pitiful. It needed to resonate with her innate desire to help people in need. Draco thought for a moment.

I know you have resources, and I'm willing to bet you have somewhere safe to go in case of trouble. I'm in trouble now, and I would be extremely grateful for your help.

There, he had written it. He re-read it and decided it didn't sound too bad. She would still need convincing, though, and he began writing what he hoped would be a persuasive argument in his favor.

I realize that I have no reason to expect you to help me. I also realize that you're very busy with your new position. However, you're the only person I can go to that is able to provide me with what I require. I'm hoping that you will understand this and agree to my request.

Draco thought for a moment and decided that he should probably set up some time to meet, preferably within the next day. He was really getting hungry, after all, and he didn't think he could wait much longer before getting too paranoid and trying to find someplace else to stay. The meeting place should be somewhere populated, so that both sides would be guaranteed some level of safety, but not so populated that a crowd of Death Eaters could sneak up on him. He though of and rejected Diagon Alley, given the recent decaying state of the once-thriving location. He needed somewhere safe and public, and then Hogsmeade came to mind.

If you do decide to help me, I will be waiting on High Street in Hogsmeade, past Dervish & Banges, tomorrow at six p.m.

He had a moment where he considered ending it there, but then he realized that would sound too much like a trap.

This really isn't a trap. I need your help.

Draco looked at the pathetic words and frowned. Was he really that desperate? Yes, the answer flashed in his head almost immediately. Yes, he was.

Please come.

Well, now the desperation had reached the lowest point it possibly could.

Sincerely,

He was. He really was sincere. He hoped she would recognize that and respond accordingly.

Draco Malfoy

Draco sighed and signed his name with a flourish, finally finishing the owl. He rolled it up and tied with a bit of string, then got up and walked over to where his owl was waiting.

"Take this to Headmistress McGonagall," he said, tying the parchment to her leg. She waited until he had finished and then took off, wings flapping powerfully, lifting her up into the air. Draco opened the door for her and she flew swiftly past him, causing his hair to twist and twirl around. He watched her go for a moment and then closed the door, shutting out the world and the dangers it held.

He walked back into the living room and laid down on the couch once more. The only thing left to do was wait.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Reading all day was much more exhausting than he had anticipated, and although he was getting accustomed to it, he still found himself becoming tired faster and faster every day. His stomach grumbled, informing him that it was well past the time he should have eaten. Harry rubbed his eyes and left his books open on the table. He got up, stretching, and yawned.

The seat across from him was empty, reminding him that Hermione had already left. She normally came right after breakfast, stayed the whole day through, and left for dinner with her family. They took a break for lunch or just to relax, but recently she had been leaving earlier than she used to.

It didn't take a lot of deductive reasoning to figure out why. Ron had finally asked her out, she had finally said yes, and now Harry was left alone more than he had been before. Not that he minded, really, because he didn't. He was happy that his friends had gotten together after years of covert glancing and tiptoeing around the subject. But staying in the library longer than even Hermione did was like living in a distorted alternate reality of some kind. It just made no sense to him. He never would have though he'd be researching something for longer than Hermione.

Harry shook his head and left the library. He headed towards the kitchen, intent on making something to eat. On the way there, however, he heard voices coming from the living room. He stopped walking and stood still for a moment, trying to make out what they were saying. When he couldn't, he sidled over to the wall and tried to listen from the doorway.

Harry grit his teeth. He still couldn't make out what was being said. Something was going on. He wasn't sure what it was, but he knew it was something important. So he went upstairs and grabbed a pair of Extendable Ears, hoping that no one had thought to place an Imperturbable Charm on the door.

By the time he got back downstairs, Harry was extremely anxious to listen to what was being said behind the door. He maneuvered the Extendable Ear until it was under the door, then he hurried to the stairs and sat down on the bottom step. He placed the Ear to his own hurriedly, mind whirling with excitement at the thought of finally knowing some of what was going on with the Order.

"--possibly be serious!" Harry winced at the loud voice but immediately recognized it as Tonks. "We have to help him!"

"No." Moody's gruff voice sounded next. "We don't."

"Let's just think about this." Harry was surprised at hearing Headmistress McGonagall's voice. He hadn't expected her to be in there. "It seems to me that he wouldn't have tried to contact me without an excellent reason."

"Oh, he has an excellent reason," a man that Harry couldn't identify said. "He's trying to attack Hogwarts again!"

"Sturgis is right," another man said in a wheezy voice. "We can't assume he's actually changed his ways."

"Why not?" Tonks said loudly. "Why can't we take him at his word?"

"He organized the last attack on Hogwarts," Moody said. "He could do it again if he wanted to."

"We don't know that he wants to," Tonks cried. "He could actually be in a lot of danger."

"Or he could be trying to trick us," Sturgis said. "He's a Malfoy, after all."

Harry's breath caught in his throat. They were talking about Draco Malfoy. They had to be. He was the one who had arranged the last assault on Hogwarts, and they wouldn't even discuss the veracity of Lucius or Narcissa asking for help.

Harry didn't understand. Why did Malfoy need help? What was he doing that warranted such attention from the Order? He leaned forward, holding the Extendable Ear tightly.

"I can't believe this!" Tonks said. "The reason you don't want to help him is because he's a Malfoy?"

"It's a good enough reason," Sturgis continued.

"It is not! That's like saying you wouldn't help my mum because she's a Black," Tonks stated.

"Your mum never attacked Hogwarts," Sturgis replied.

"Either way, it's not right to not even check it out," the wheezy voice interrupted.

"What are you talking about, Elphias?" Sturgis asked.

There was a long pause. "We can't just leave the kid alone, if he really is in danger," Elphias said.

"We don't know he's in danger," Moody said. "It could be a trap."

"Kingsley, what do you think?" Headmistress McGonagall asked. "You were the one he attacked, after all."

Harry narrowed his eyes. Malfoy had attacked Shacklebolt? When? Why hadn't anyone told him?

"He had me stupefied," Shacklebolt said. "He could have killed me if he wanted to. He didn't. I think we should give him the benefit of the doubt."

"Yes," Tonks said. "Exactly. He didn't kill Kingsley, did he?"

"But that owl could be just a ploy, to get us to go there," Sturgis said.

"He didn't know that Minerva would come to us," Elphias said.

"That's preposterous. It's a logical assumption to make," Sturgis replied.

"Even if he thought that, what does it matter?" Tonks asked. "He's hiding out from You-Know-Who. We should help him."

Malfoy was hiding out from Voldemort? Harry's interest had just gone up exponentially. Apparently, a lot more had been going on in his old rival's life than he had known about. Harry had expected Voldemort would try to get Malfoy to do something, since it seemed that Malfoy's parents were being kept captive in order to get Malfoy to act how Voldemort wanted. Harry still remembered the entire conversation he had overheard clearly. He knew Malfoy wasn't as evil as he liked to pretend to be, but he also knew that Voldemort held a lot of power over the blonde's actions.

Harry could understand that something had gone wrong. Malfoy had always screwed things up in Hogwarts; it wasn't surprising that he had messed up Voldemort's orders as well.

"He had the chance to kill me and he didn't," Shacklebolt said, quietly. "I think that we should at least see why."

"Agreed," Headmistress McGonagall said. "We'll have to--"

She was cut off by a loud clunking sound and then the door was flung open. Harry hastily attempted to pull the Extendable Ear back towards himself, but Moody stepped on the end of it.

"Potter," Moody growled. "What are you doing?"

"Erm...," Harry said, stalling. "Sitting?"

Both of Moody's eyes were focused on his face. "Potter, you--"

"Wait a moment." Headmistress McGonagall stepped through the door, turning until she could see Harry. "Mr. Potter, could you come in here for a moment?"

Harry stayed sitting for a second. Then he practically jumped up and followed Headmistress McGonagall into the room. Everyone inside was staring at him as he entered.

Tonks smiled brightly. "Hi, Harry."

Harry nodded at her. "Hey, Tonks."

"Mr. Potter, if you'll take a seat," Headmistress McGonagall said, gesturing towards the empty loveseat. Harry sat down on it and clasped his hands on top of his lap. The rest of the Order members who were there stayed where they were--Elphias was sitting on the couch next to Shacklebolt, Tonks was standing next to the armchair, and Sturgis was leaning against the nearest wall. Moody closed the door and stood next to it, letting his eye swivel about and randomly stop at odd intervals. Headmistress McGonagall had just sat down in the armchair. She cleared her throat and looked around. "As I was saying, we'll have to meet with him to see whether or not this information is accurate."

"Why's he here?" Sturgis asked. Harry glared at him. Sturgis completely ignored him and instead focused on McGonagall. "There's no reason for him to be here. I thought we agreed that--"

Moody snorted and coughed, cutting off Sturgis' comment. "We might have some use for him yet."

Harry resisted the urge to make a sarcastic comment. Instead, he waited and sat quietly. It wasn't his strong suit, but the conversation seemed to be going his way so he felt compelled to let it carry on.

"Mr. Potter," Headmistress McGonagall said, and Harry's attention was drawn back to her. "You were the only witness the night that Headmaster Dumbledore was murdered." She said it so matter-of-factly that Harry could only nod. "What you've told us so far has focused primarily on Snape's involvement, but what can you tell us about Mr. Malfoy?"

Harry thought back to that night, easily recalling it. "Well, he was the one who was supposed to kill Headmaster Dumbledore, but he couldn't do it."

Right there, in his head, was the image of Draco Malfoy holding his wand at Headmaster Dumbledore. His hand had been shaky, his eyes had been wide, and he had spoken about things that he would never have wanted Harry to overhear. He had bragged about everything he had done during the year, and even admitted to casting the Unforgivables. Of course, Harry himself had cast the Cruciatus Curse before, so it wouldn't be very fair of him to throw stones.

"Mr. Potter?" Headmistress McGonagall's voice came to him, snapping him from his thoughts.

Harry looked at her and blinked. "Sorry, I was just... thinking."

She nodded and motioned with her hands. "Carry on, then. What was your impression of Mr. Malfoy from that night?"

"Malfoy?" Harry asked, exhaling. "He was... scared. He was really afraid that Voldemort would kill his family."

"You'd think so," Tonks said, quietly. "They're his family."

Harry blinked. He had never really looked at it like that before, but he supposed Tonks was right. Narcissa and Lucius were Draco's mum and da, respectively. It was strange, thinking of them as parents who cared for their son and not as Death Eaters who wanted his corpse as a display piece for their home.

"Yeah," Harry said, slowly. "They are." He paused for a moment, then shook his head and cleared his throat. "Anyway, he wasn't going to kill Dumbledore."

"How can you be sure?" Elphias asked, peering at Harry.

Harry shrugged. "I just know it. He wouldn't have done it."

"This is rubbish," Sturgis said, throwing his hands up in the air. "A complete waste of time."

Harry glared at him. "Actually, Dumbledore thought Malfoy wouldn't kill him, too." The room seemed to grow even quieter, and Harry felt a few extra eyes looking at him. "It's true," he said, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. "Dumbledore even offered Malfoy and his family protection if he agreed to join our side."

"What?" Moody hissed.

His outburst was followed by an uproar. Everyone was talking at once, in various tones and at varying stages of excitement. Harry tried to make sense of what was going on, to keep track of who was saying what, but it all got mixed up so quickly that he couldn't make any of it out. He leaned back on the loveseat's cushions, bouncing once or twice off of the plushy material.

Eventually, Harry realized that Headmistress McGonagall was trying to call everyone to order. She was completely unable to calm them down, though, and Harry thought about standing up and shouting for quiet.

"Quiet, the lot of you!" Moody's voice was much louder than everyone else's, and Harry's ears rung at the sudden silence that descended over the room.

"But that's just not possible," Elphias said, wheezing through his disbelief. "Dumbledore would never make an offer like that without asking the rest of the Order first."

"He did," Harry said, feeling extremely defensive. "He offered Malfoy a safe place to go, basically. He said that he would protect Malfoy and his parents, if they wanted it."

"No," Sturgis said, shaking his head. "He couldn't have."

"He did," Harry insisted.

"He offered to protect Lucius Malfoy?" Tonks asked, disbelief ringing clear in her tone.

Harry nodded. "Yes." He hesitated. "Of course, I think the offer was more for Malfoy's benefit than his parents."

"Why?" Headmistress McGonagall asked, looking at Harry intently.

"It seemed like--well, to me at least, it seemed like Dumbledore knew that Lucius wasn't going to accept any offer of help. He said that Lucius was probably glad he was stuck in Azkaban, since otherwise Voldemort would be looking for him. But I guess he still thought Lucius wouldn't take his help." Harry shrugged. "I don't know, but I think Dumbledore was more concerned with Malfoy anyway."

"Do you remember what he said?" she asked, still staring closely at him.

"Not exactly, no," Harry replied. "But Dumbledore basically wanted Malfoy to not go back to Voldemort."

"Well, that makes sense," Tonks said, nodding. "Dumbledore didn't want anyone following You-Know-Who."

"The fact that it was one of his students who was in danger probably had something to do with it," Shacklebolt said, speaking softly but clearly.

"It's ridiculous," Sturgis said, frowning. "I can understand wanting to protect his students, but Malfoy had let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. Surely Dumbledore knew that he wanted to serve You-Know-Who."

"He didn't want to," Harry said. The thought that he had never expected to defend Draco Malfoy in any way crossed his mind, but he dismissed it quickly. This was more important than holding onto an old grudge. "I've told you this already. Malfoy thought Voldemort was going to kill his family. He was being forced into doing what Voldemort wanted."

"Rubbish," Sturgis said, shaking his head. "The Malfoy family has always had one allegiance. I wouldn't expect it to change overnight."

Harry glared at him, fighting to control his temper. "Are you even listening to what I'm saying?" he asked, forcing the words through his teeth. "Malfoy was lowering his wand. He was about to accept Dumbledore's offer. The only reason he didn't was because the other Death Eaters came before he could."

"You can't know that for certain," Elphias said. "I'm not denying that the Malfoy boy might have accepted Dumbledore's offer. But he never actually said he would, and Dumbledore never informed any Order member about this."

"No," Harry said, shaking his head. He felt extremely agitated, and he leant forward until he was perched on the edge of the loveseat. "You don't know that. You weren't there. You don't get it."

"The only noteworthy thing Malfoy has ever done resulted in Dumbledore's death," Sturgis said. "Even if it was unintentional, he still did it. He's directly responsible for the way things turned out that night."

Harry stood up, fists clenched at his sides. "So what?" he said loudly. "We've all done things we're ashamed of, things we'd rather take back. Maybe Malfoy really regrets letting the Death Eaters in."

"Why do you care, anyway, Harry?" Tonks asked, tilting her head and looking at him quizzically. "You're never cared one or way or the other about him before."

Harry opened his mouth to say something and found he had nothing to say. There was no answer to her question, really. He cared because he had to. He cared because he was Harry Potter, and if he didn't care, who would? Besides, the longer he thought about it, the more he realized that Malfoy hadn't had any other options. Harry might have acted the exact same way if their positions had been switched.

"Listen," Harry said, still standing rigidly. "I know Malfoy's a prat. He's an obnoxious, selfish, whiny brat who I can't even stand to be around. But even so, Voldemort's after him. I really believe that Malfoy wanted to agree to Dumbledore's offer. You guys are the Order of the Phoenix. You're supposed to support Dumbledore's decisions and fight against Voldemort."

"That doesn't mean we have to put ourselves at risk by helping someone we know we can't trust," Sturgis said.

"No," Harry said. "It doesn't. But if you decide not to help Malfoy and he's really in trouble, then where does that leave the Order? Suddenly it's okay to pick who needs help and who can be left alone to make do for themselves? If I could leave, I'd check it out myself. But I can't. So it's up to you all."

Headmistress McGonagall nodded. "All right, Mr. Potter. Thank you for talking with us."

Harry took that as the dismissal it was and walked to the door. He wanted to say something else before he left, but he had no clue what would make things better and what would only make everything worse. So he opened the door, walked into the hallway, and began closing the door behind him.

"I still don't like it," Moody said.

Harry grit his teeth, shut his eyes, and closed the door. The corridor was echoingly quiet, so all that he heard was Moody's statement repeated over and over again in his mind.

The statement repeated during his walk back to the library and while he was trying to read through another boring chapter in another boring book. He had gotten half-way through the chapter before he remembered why he had left the library in the first place, and then he cursed and stood up. He left the library once more, went to the kitchen, and fixed himself something to eat. The entire time Moody's words clamored for attention in his head, but he ignored them.

It didn't matter whether or not Moody "liked it." Somehow, the only thing that mattered was that Malfoy was on the run from the Death Eaters, that he needed help so desperately that he had contacted the Order. And Harry, despite all of his efforts, could not figure out why in the world that was.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It had been a long and stressful night. Draco had waited for a response from McGonagall. And waited. And waited. In fact, he had waited for so long that he had almost fallen asleep standing up twice. He wouldn't be deterred, though. He was going to stand and wait for as long as it took her to reply.

He couldn't even try to get a good night's sleep in his current state, anyway. He was tired, sure, but he was also so hungry he doubted he'd be able to get to sleep at all. The only thing he could do was alternate between pacing back and forth in the small living room and lie on the couch, sulking. He did both, frequently, repeatedly, until finally he saw the silhouette of an owl coming towards the shack through the window.

Draco got up from his current sulking position and walked over to the door. He waited until he was sure his owl would be right outside and opened the door. She glided in, ruffling her feathers at him as she passed. She landed on the armrest of the armchair and hooted, sticking out her leg.

There was a parchment attached, and Draco hurried over to her. He untied the parchment and started to unroll it when she nipped at his fingers. He glared at her, and she opened her beak and stared meaningfully at him. Draco rolled his eyes and got up, heading towards the kitchen. He opened the useless cupboard, took out one of the many cylinders, and walked back into the living room.

"Here," he said, putting the cylinder down in front of her. "Have at it, then."

His owl began to peck ineffectually at the container, attempting to wrap her beak around it and break it open somehow. When that didn't work, she began to claw at it with her talons. The cylinder fell over and rolled off of the armchair and onto the floor from her actions. His owl followed, gliding down to the floor and landing next to the offending object. She swiftly began attacking it again.

Draco watched his owl's antics for a minute. He raised his eyebrow and turned back to the reply owl he had received. He opened it, skimming it and then reading it through once thoroughly.

To Mr. Malfoy,

I have read over your owl. I admit I was surprised when I received it. However, the information you wrote in it appears to be genuine. Therefore, I will be meeting with you at the place and time you specified.

I am willing to ignore past experiences in this instance. If you intend to deceive me, however, you should be aware that I will never offer you my help again.

Sincerely,

Headmistress McGonagall

Draco read it over once more. He had expected it to be longer, but he supposed this would do. She was willing to meet with him, after all, and that was what he had asked for. He was glad for that, at least.

Although the entire owl seemed rather like a warning than the offer of help he had expected. The last part in particular seemed to be just full of dire outcomes for him if he didn't follow through with his story. There was nothing to worry about, of course, since his story was reality. It was the truth, and he knew it was, and McGonagall and her stupid warnings were not going to scare him.

"Ouch," Draco muttered, glaring down towards his shoes. His owl was standing there, glaring balefully back at him. The rabies-infected vermin had bitten his ankle. She opened her beak wide, still glaring at him.

Draco sighed. "I've got nothing to eat, you bloody stupid bird. What makes you think I've got extra food laying around that I'm saving for you?"

His owl shut her beak with a snap and continued to glare at him. Draco moved his feet away from her, accidentally kicking the cylinder in the process. It rolled out in the middle of the floor, silently mocking the both of them.

Draco bit back a sigh. He would not become one of those melancholy people who walked around dressed in black, talking about how horrible their life was, and showing everyone around just how tragic they were by sighing all the time. No, he would make the best of the situation.

So Draco laid down on the couch and proceeded to sulk. The sulking continued unabated for a good fifteen minutes before his owl hooted at him. He rolled his eyes and looked over at her.

"What is it this time?" he asked, sighing. He scowled, remembering he had just said he wouldn't do that anymore.

His owl nudged the cylinder towards him and looked at him hopefully. Draco looked at his owl, then at the cylinder, then at his owl, then back at the cylinder.

"Stupid bloody bird," he said, and he walked over and began inspecting the cylinder once more.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Harry?"

Hermione's voice cut through the silence with more force than Harry would have expected. He looked up, startled.

"Yeah?"

Hermione was twisting a strand of hair around one finger, and the movement was so uncharacteristic of her that Harry snickered.

Hermione frowned. "What?" she asked.

Harry smiled a little. "Nothing, don't worry about it," he said. "I'm just not used to seeing you do that." He gestured towards her hand.

Hermione blushed and dropped her hand. "Oh," she replied.

"So, what were you going to ask me?" Harry said, reminding her that she was the one who had initiated this conversation.

"Right," Hermione said. The blush slowly faded away from her cheeks, and she carefully marked her page before closing the book she was currently reading through and placing it on the table. Harry mimicked her actions, realizing that this conversation was probably something that needed his full attention.

"What is it?" he asked again. "Are you all right? Did something happen with Ron?"

Hermione smiled and shook her head. "Oh, no. It's nothing like that," she replied. "Ron and I are fine." Her smiled faded a small amount. "It's just you've been acting odd today, Harry."

Harry blinked at her. "Have I?" It was the only response that came to him.

She nodded. "Just a little."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, leaning back in his chair to relax a little more. "How have I been acting?"

Hermione shrugged and folded her hands on top of the table. "Oh, I'm not really sure," she said, quietly. "You haven't talked as much as you usually do. Or at all, actually."

"I haven't?" Harry repeated, surprised. It seemed to him that his mind was going at warp speed. He hadn't even been aware that he'd been silent up until now.

"No," Hermione said. "You haven't." She paused briefly, seeming to collect her thoughts and put them in some sort of order. "You've been constantly looking at the door, as well."

Harry blinked. "I have?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, Harry, you have."

"Oh," Harry said. He had no idea what else to say.

"I understand that you might be a little bit preoccupied. That's fine." She hesitated. "I was wondering if maybe you wanted to talk about it?"

Harry blinked. "About what?"

"Oh, Harry," she said, giving him a compassionate look. "About your break-up with Ginny."

"Huh?" Harry looked at her, wondering what she could be talking about.

"Well," Hermione continued, obviously unsure of what she should say. "You must be feeling down about it. Even if you don't really like her anymore, you were going out for a few months." After a long pause, during which Harry couldn't think of a single thing to say, Hermione sighed. "I know you're not comfortable talking about things like this, but I really think it would help if you did."

Harry shook his head, trying to come up with something to say. Finally, he settled for the truth. "Honestly, Hermione, I haven't even thought about it."

This time it was Hermione who looked confused. "You haven't?" she repeated.

Harry shook his head. "No, I really haven't."

"Not even once?"

He shrugged. "Not recently. Sorry."

"Oh," she said, glancing down at the table. "Well then. That's good." Harry sat there, feeling extremely uncomfortable with this conversation. "So what's been bothering you, then?"

Harry bit his lower lip. "Nothing's been bothering me," he replied.

"Harry." Hermione was using the tone of voice she got when she knew he was trying to hide something. "Tell me."

Harry sighed. "It's really not that important. We should be focusing on doing research."

"Wow," Hermione said, laughing lightly. "You'd rather do research than talk about this. It must be something you really don't want to tell me."

Harry shook his head. "It's not that," he said. He debated lying for a minute, but then decided it was better to be honest. Hermione might be able to give him the piece of mind that had eluded him since yesterday. "It's just that I'm not sure what to say."

"Just start talking," she said. "You'll say it eventually."

"Well," he began, suddenly realizing he might get a stern talking-to for not telling her earlier. "Malfoy owled McGonagall yesterday."

Hermione's eyebrows rose. "Really?"

Harry nodded. "Seems like Voldemort gave him orders to kill Shacklebolt."

"No," Hermione gasped, sitting straight up in her seat. "Is Shacklebolt okay? Is he hurt? What happened to him? I didn't hear anything."

Harry shook his head quickly. "No, everything's fine, Shacklebolt isn't injured at all."

Hermione pursed her lips together. "So what happened? Why is he all right?"

Harry swallowed. "Well, you know how I told you that Malfoy couldn't kill Dumbledore? How Dumbledore had said that he wasn't a killer?" Hermione nodded. "Okay, well, turns out he was right. Malfoy couldn't do it."

"But that's great news," Hermione said, confusion evident on her face. "Why are you upset?"

"I'm not upset," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "And it is good that Malfoy couldn't do it. But Voldemort threatened to kill his parents if he didn't, and now he's on the run from the Death Eaters."

Hermione gasped once more, clearly shocked by this news. "So Lucius and Narcissa are dead?" she asked in a quiet voice.

Harry shook his head. "I don't know. I didn't hear the whole conversation."

Hermione shook her head. "Wait a minute, Harry. Can you just tell me what happened in order, please?"

Harry took a deep breath and recounted the events of the previous night to her. He answered her questions as they came and tried to clarify things as much as possible. Once he was done, he leaned forward, put his elbows on the table, and rested his head in his hands. Hermione was still sitting across from him, processing everything he had just told her.

"So you believe that he's telling the truth?" she asked, looking up at Harry.

Harry was about to answer that he wasn't sure when he stopped suddenly. Was Malfoy telling the truth? Had events really happened the way he said they had, at least from the little Harry had overheard?

"I think so," he said. "I really think so."

"So you trust him, then?"

Again, Harry hesitated. But this answer was clear to him. "No, of course not," he replied. "But that doesn't mean he's lying about this."

Hermione nodded. "I agree," she said. "He's too proud to ask for help unless he really needed it. He could be making it all up, but given how he acted and what he said on the Tower, the chances of that are unlikely."

Harry exhaled slowly. He felt enormously relieved. He had been worried that Hermione would simply disregard his concern and focus on the fact that it was Malfoy. It had been unfounded, and slightly unfair to her, to assume that. Even so, he had, and he was immensely glad to know that he had been wrong.

"Harry?" Hermione asked, and he focused on her face. "I understand why you're concerned, but I don't understand why you're concerned."

Harry blinked. "Er..."

She sighed. "I'm sorry, that was confusing. What I mean is, why do you care? After all, you've never gotten along with Malfoy in the past. None of us have. So why are you so worried?"

Why did he care? Tonks had asked him that the day before, and he still didn't have a good answer. He had been thinking about it, though, trying to come up with something better than avoiding the topic completely. He thought he might have come up with a good answer. It was a little embarrassing, though, actually saying it out loud as opposed to just thinking it. Telling Hermione, though, wouldn't be so bad. It's not like she wouldn't eventually figure it out on her own, anyway.

"I'm not worried about him, exactly," Harry said, still hedging the question. "It's more that I understand where he's coming from."

"What do you mean?" Hermione was looking at him with curiosity shining in her eyes.

"Well, I just mean that..." Harry trailed off, biting his lower lip. "Look, Voldemort threatened to kill his parents if Malfoy didn't do whatever Voldemort wanted him to, right?"

"Yeah," Hermione agreed, nodding.

"Okay," Harry said. He began to speak quietly, almost as if he was admitting a dark secret. In a way, he was. "I'm just saying that, if I was in Malfoy's position, I might not have done the same."

Hermione shook her head. "I don't follow you," she said. "You wouldn't have gone along with V-Voldemort's orders?"

Harry shook his head. "No," he said quietly. "I would have."

"But... Malfoy did agree to do whatever V-Voldemort wanted him to," Hermione said, shaking her head. "So you would have done the same thing as him, is that what you meant?"

Harry shook his head once more, the motion making him slightly dizzy. "No," he said. "I meant that, if Voldemort had my parents hostage, I might do whatever he wanted me to do." Hermione was silent, pondering the statement. Harry swallowed and decided to make it abundantly clear. "I wouldn't have left Shacklebolt alive."

"Oh," Hermione said. It was said quietly and with no reproach, but Harry was still afraid to look at her. Instead, he settled for moving his gaze rapidly from random object to random object around the room. He had never really realized jus how many random objects there were in this room. "Harry," she said, and a hand reached out and clasped over his arm.

Harry looked at Hermione and swallowed. "They're his parents, Hermione," he said, speaking very softly.

"I know," she replied, still holding onto his arm.

"I never thought about it before, but they are." Harry's voice was still soft. He didn't want to talk any louder than he already was. It seemed out of place somehow.

"I understand, Harry," she said, giving his arm one final squeeze before letting it go. She clasped her hands in front of her once more. "Believe me, I do."

Harry nodded. "Even though I don't like him, I can't wish that kind of choice on anyone. And I have to respect what he did." Harry paused and said thoughtfully, "He stuck to his morals knowing that it could cost him his parents." He snorted. "Draco Malfoy, a morally upstanding guy? Who would have thought?"

Hermione laughed. "It does seem a bit bizarre," she agreed. She swallowed and asked quickly, "What happened to his parents? Have they been killed?"

Harry's throat tightened. "I don't know," he replied, hoarsely.

"Oh." Hermione nodded a little. "So what's happening now?" she asked, voice still edged with concern. "Is the Order going to meet with Malfoy?"

"I don't know," Harry repeated, worry laced in his voice like poison in a glass.

"I guess we'll just have to wait and see," she replied, smiling a little. She looked directly at Harry as she said it, and her smile faded away from her face the longer she sat there, waiting for a response.

Eventually, her face was blank, they were both getting hungry, and Harry still hadn't said a word.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Draco was lying in wait. Again. The first time hadn't worked out so well for him, what with the failing his mission, defying the Dark Lord, and putting his parents into potential danger bit. He was sure his second time would produce much better results. After all, they couldn't very well be worse, could they?

Upon consideration, Draco decided that wasn't true. Things could be a lot worse for him. He could be dead, for instance. That would be pretty bad.

The sound of footsteps snapped Draco out of his irrelevant thoughts. He pulled his hood down over his head even further, hoping that all of his hair was covered. If it wasn't, he would be basically instantly recognizable to anyone who glanced his way. He stood closer to the side of the building, waiting to see who was walking by.

It was an elderly man who was wheezing and gasping for breath. He was walking hunched over, one hand on his back, the other grasping at the air in front of him. Draco watched as the man took a few more feeble steps past his hiding spot. He exhaled quietly, relief sweeping through him. He wished the man would get a move on, of course, because it was already after six and McGonagall should be along at any moment.

Then the man stopped walking and got a look of sheer panic on his face. Draco felt his heart clench and looked in the direction the man was facing, expecting to see a horde of Death Eaters swarming Hogsmeade. There was nothing. He turned back to the man and found him falling to the ground, clutching at his heart.

Draco watched as the old man landed on his stomach. He expected the man to roll over or try to stand up, but there was nothing. He wasn't moving at all.

Draco rolled his eyes. This was just what he needed. McGonagall would come by and see a defenseless old man lying in the middle of the road. She would assume that he had done it and attack him without even listening to his explanation. He wouldn't even be able to draw his wand before she had him hexed and stupefied.

No, this wasn't going to work. The old man had to go. Draco took a cautious step away from the side of Dervish & Banges, stopping as if he expected someone to jump out at him, which he did. When nothing happened, he checked around the side of the building to make sure the road was clear. There were a few people down the street, but no one close enough to be a problem for him.

Draco strode hastily over to the old man until he stood over him. He felt an odd sense of deja-vu and shook his head. After studying the man for a second, Draco toed him firmly in the side.

"Hey," he said, practically hissing with urgency. "Hey. Old guy. Get up."

The old man didn't move and Draco's shoulders sagged. Bloody hell, did he have to do everything himself?

Draco knelt down next to the man and poked at his arm. "Hey," he said, a little louder. "Can you hear me?" he asked, enunciating each syllable precisely, just in case the man was deaf or stupid.

A wand shoved at his chest and everything went dark.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry was walking with Hermione back towards the library when he heard a weird noise from the living room. He glanced at Hermione, who shook her head and spread her arms.

"Come on," Harry said, already backtracking. Hermione and he entered the living room and stopped walking at the same time.

Moody was standing in the middle of the living room. His wand was out and pointed directly at Draco Malfoy, who hung suspended in the air and was quite obviously stupefied. Elphias Doge was standing a little behind them, and Tonks was shifting nervously foot to foot on the other side.

"I hope we didn't--Harry," Tonks said, voice raising an octave at Harry's name.

Harry blinked. "It's Malfoy," he said.

Moody grunted. "Yeah, it is," he said, starting to walk past Harry.

"Wait, wait," Harry said, not moving out of the way. "What happened? How come he's here?"

Elphias chuckled lightly. "That's my doing, I'm afraid."

"You'd think You-Know-Who would give his Death Eaters some proper training," Moody said, shaking his head. "Better for us, though."

"What's he doing here?" Harry repeated, looking between Moody and Malfoy repeatedly. "You can't just--you can't just bring him here like this."

Moody snorted. "I already did."

Harry blinked. Hermione put a hand on his arm and drew him out of the way, giving room for Moody to pass by. Harry watched Malfoy's body float by him like a doll's, completely lifeless, entirely pliable and loose. It unnerved him seeing the usually arrogant and proud Slytherin reduced to such a state. He wanted to look away, but found that he couldn't. So instead he focused on Malfoy's features and noticed they hadn't changed much from the last time Harry had seen him. His skin was still paler than usual, his eyes still had dark circles under them, and his normally immaculate hair looked almost... dirty.

Harry swallowed. "You can't just bring him here like this." Moody continued past him without commenting. "This is my house!" Harry shouted, clenching his hands into fists. He ran out into the corridor and watched as Moody walked away. "Why did you bring him here?"

Moody kept on walking until he got to the stairs. As he moved up the stairs, he said, "You're the one who convinced McGonagall to take him someplace safe."

"But I..." Harry trailed off and walked back into the living room. He stared at Hermione, Tonks, and Elphias for a moment. Then he walked back into the hallway and watched as Moody floated Malfoy up the staircase. Harry turned around and walked into the living room again.

"Harry?" Hermione asked. "Are you all right?"

Harry blinked. "I... No." He looked at her and frowned. "I'm not all right. Who does he think he is, bringing Malfoy here? Honestly, what if that git tries something? You know he can't be trusted. And what are they going to do? Lock him in a room? They'd better, since I don't want him around bothering me constantly."

Hermione patted his arm gently. "It'll be all right, Harry. I'm sure it's only a temporary arrangement."

"It had better be," Harry said, scowling.

Tonks walked over and grinned at Harry. "You're being silly, you know that?"

Harry scowled at her. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Tonks rolled her eyes. "Well, where else did you think he was going to go?"

Harry found he had no reply. He really hadn't given any thought to the matter at all. He had assumed that McGonagall had someplace where she could keep Malfoy that would keep him safe and also far away from Harry. He just hadn't thought that it would be Grimmauld Place.

"Isn't it a security risk, having him here?" Harry asked, turning to Tonks and Elphias. "He could just be here to spy on us."

"You said he could be trusted," Elphias replied, wheezing even now. "You made it clear that you thought he really was willing to go against You-Know-Who."

Harry growled. "Yeah, maybe I said that, but I didn't mean like this!"

Tonks shrugged. "You know what they say. What's done is done, Harry. No point in trying to change things now."

"McGonagall should be here shortly," Elphias said, interrupting the conversation. "I have to go to Malfoy's room."

"Malfoy's room," Harry said, incredulously.

Elphias nodded. "He's going to be staying in it. What else should we call it?"

"Oh, I'd better run too," Tonks stated. "I've still got some paperwork to hand in at the Ministry. Later!" She disapparated with a wink and a pop, leaving Harry staring blankly at the space where she had been standing in.

Elphias nodded to Hermione and then to Harry. "I'll see you both later, then," he said as he walked out of the living room.

Harry stared at Hermione for one agonizing minute. Hermione stared back at him, a small smile forming on her lips. He scowled.

"Well, at least we'll find out what happened directly from the source," Hermione said.

Harry made a face. "As if Malfoy would ever tell us anything."

"You never know," she said. "It is your house he's staying at." Harry sighed. Hermione rolled her eyes. "It's not the end of the world, Harry. I'm going to head back to library, are you coming?"

"I'll be there in a minute," Harry said, shaking his head. She nodded and left the living room. Harry stood there for a minute, intent on waiting until Moody and Elphias had left so that he could interrogate Malfoy himself.

A loud popping sound came from behind him, and Harry swiveled around to find Headmistress McGonagall dusting herself off.

"Headmistress!" Harry said, the title still feeling a bit foreign on his tongue.

"Mr. Potter," McGonagall replied. Her eyes narrowed as she looked him over. "You look a little panicked. What's the matter?"

"It's Malfoy!" Harry said, pointing out the door. "He's in my house!"

"Oh." McGonagall relaxed and let out a sigh. "Is that all?"

Harry blinked. "Yes, that's all. Now would you kindly do something about it, please?"

"That's why I'm here, Mr. Potter. I'm quite busy at the moment, in case you've forgotten. I don't have the time to be visiting for fun." Her voice was stern and unrelenting. Harry remembered it well from all the times he had gotten into trouble over the years.

"I know, but why is Malfoy here?" Harry asked, hoping she would take pity and answer him.

"I don't have time for this now," she said, walking past him. "You'll find out soon enough." She was out of the door and halfway up the stairs before she called out, "Mr. Potter!"

Harry darted out of the living room and stood at the bottom landing of the stairs. "Yes?" he asked, gasping just a little.

"Please make sure you don't speak to Mr. Malfoy while he is staying here. I'm not entirely sure we can trust him." McGonagall nodded to herself and continued going up the stairs.

Harry scowled. He turned and headed back towards the library, mind focused on one thing only: getting Malfoy out of his house.

~*~*~*~*~*~

A blurry light filled his vision and a wand was being removed from his chest. Draco blinked, completely disoriented. He had a vague impression of being horizontal, which was odd since the last thing he remembered he had been kneeling--he sat straight up, immediately acquiring both his memory of being attacked and a gigantic headache. He raised a hand and pressed it against his forehead, rubbing his fingers over the ache that had started spreading all throughout his head.

"Oh, sorry about that," a voice said. Draco whipped his head around to look at whoever was speaking. There were a few people in the room, but the first person he recognized was the speaker. "I thought your head hadn't hit the ground that hard."

"You!" Draco yelled, pointing with his free hand at the man who was standing on the other side of the room. "You're that stupid old man!"

"Name's Elphias Doge, actually," he said, titling his head forward. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"You tricked me," Draco accused, scowling. "If it wasn't for you, I would have been able to keep my appointment. Now I'm stuck here with you! I hope you're planning on taking responsibility for this." The last was said in a firm tone that held no room for arguments, regardless of how convincing they were.

"Actually, Mr. Malfoy, I believe we can still keep our appointment."

Draco's head pivoted until his eyes met McGonagall's. He stared at her for a moment, mind utterly blank. Then, after several seconds of silence, perfect understanding of both what had happened and the reasoning behind it came to him.

"All right," Draco said, nodding. His headache was beginning to fade, so the motion didn't hurt as much as he thought it would. "You got me here, on your own terms. I'm assuming I'm unarmed?" McGonagall was silent, but Draco pressed on. "Of course I'm unarmed. Why would you let me keep my wand? So now what?" Draco looked around the room, surprised that there were only two people there. "What do you want from me?"

"As I recall, you were the one who came to me for help, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall said, eyebrow raising.

"Well, yes," Draco replied. He gestured around the room helplessly. "But you've taken me to God-knows-where like this, so surely you don't intend to follow through with helping me?"

McGonagall pinned Draco with a piercing look. "Whether or not I help you depends on how sincere I think you are."

"Fair enough," Draco said. "I'm sincere. Happy now?"

"By contacting me, were you thinking that you'd gotten the Order to help you out as well?"

The question seemed quite random to Draco. After all, he had wanted to stay as far away from the Order as possible. He knew the Order wouldn't trust or help him; he had hoped his old Transfigurations professor would.

"No," he said, stating what was already quite clear in his mind. "Of course I wasn't thinking that. When has the Order ever helped me?"

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Yet you thought that contacting me would be appropriate?"

"Well, it's not like I had much choice," Draco said, scowling. "If I had the option, I would have gone to someone else."

"Why didn't you?" she asked, peering closely at him.

Draco shrugged. "I didn't have the option."

McGonagall sighed. "Well," she said, glancing at Elphias, "I'm sure you realize that I would be a fool if I agreed to trust you right away."

Draco nodded. "I expected as much," he said honestly.

"Good. Then you won't mind if I--" She was cut off by a quick rapping on the door. "Excuse me one moment," she said, moving away from Draco and towards the door.

"By all means," Draco replied. Even though he knew it was only a polite exchange, he got a small rush of power at the statement, as if McGonagall would not have gotten up if he had not allowed it. This was, of course, ridiculous and he knew it. Still, he smiled a little at the thought that McGonagall was asking his permission to do something, no matter how small it may be.

McGonagall opened the door and walked through it, closing it firmly behind her. Draco was left alone in the room with Elphias, who apparently felt the need to stare blankly at him. Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"What?" he asked, grumpily.

Elphias shook his head. "Nothing."

Draco sneered and said, "I bet you were just dying to stupefy me back there. Probably volunteered for the job."

Elphias chuckled. "Not exactly."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Really?" Elphias shrugged. "So, how come you did it then? Is Headmistress McGonagall just that persuasive?"

Elphias smiled at him. "No," he replied, shaking his head.

Draco waited for him to say more. Once he realized that the old man was going to keep quiet, he scowled. "You--"

The door reopened and both Draco and Elphias watched as McGonagall walked through. She had an odd look on her face, Draco decided. It was as if she wasn't quite sure whether to be happy or upset.

It wasn't really his business either way, he decided. If she had gotten some bad news, it didn't affect him at all. It might make her less prone to help him out if she was in a bad mood, but overall he thought that her bad mood might end up acting favorably for him. She might be keener to see things his way.

His thoughts were interrupted when McGonagall walked over to stand in front of him again. She cleared her throat and leveled him a look that he had no way to interpret. Then she inhaled deeply.

"Mr. Malfoy," she said. Her voice was monotone but soft, and Draco immediately flinched at the sound of it.

"What?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you." A look mingled with pity and something else he couldn't quite decipher was on her face for the briefest instant before being replaced by the blank look she had worn throughout the course of their conversation.

"What is it?" Draco asked, throat tightening. The fact that he didn't know what kind of event could trigger this reaction from his old Transfigurations professor made him nervous.

"Your parents have been found dead."

Draco stared at McGonagall. "Sorry?"

"Your parents," she repeated, swallowing. "It seems that they've been killed by You-Know-Who."

Draco's face remained blank. "I don't understand," he said, blinking.

McGonagall grimaced. "Your parents--"

"I heard what you said. I don't understand what you mean." Draco's voice rose, the pitch and volume increasing with every passing second.

"They were found by a passing group of wizards and witches." McGonagall still used that same flat tone, and Draco found himself cringing.

"But they're not dead." Draco shook his head back and forth, trying to get rid of the horrible thought. McGonagall was silent, but the look she gave him spoke louder than any words could have. "They're not!"

"Mr. Malfoy," she said, shaking her head. "I'm sorry."

"The Dark Lord wouldn't have killed them," he said, voice wavering slightly. "He might have tortured them a little, but he wouldn't kill them."

"Mr. Malfoy--"

"It doesn't make any sense," he continued, speaking over McGonagall's attempt at a soothing tone. "It doesn't. He didn't kill them the first time I failed, why would he kill them now?"

"I'm sorry." It was said like she meant it.

Draco didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the irony. "You're sorry?" he repeated, incredulous. "You? Sorry that my parents are dead?"

McGonagall looked at him critically. "No," she finally said. Draco laughed, but there wasn't any humor in it at all. "I'm not sorry two Death Eaters are dead," she continued, speaking loudly. "But I am sorry your parents are."

"They're the same people," he said, almost shouting. "You can't just go back and forth like that. McGonagall stayed silent. "You can't do that," Draco repeated, scowling.

"Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall said, still speaking in a soothing voice. "I understand that you're extremely upset right now. If you'd like, we can continue this meeting at a later time."

Draco took only a moment to pause before he nodded. "Fine," he said in a dismissive tone.

McGonagall walked out of the room, Elphias following her. Draco heard the door close and a lock click into place and found he didn't really care all that much. In fact, he found that he didn't really care all that much about anything at the moment. He let himself fall backwards until he landed on the bed.

The ceiling was extremely plain, as most ceilings were. There weren't even any cracks or lines that could draw his attention. Only a plain white surface stared back at him. Draco shut his eyes tightly and waited until spots of light and dark seemed to dance and turn behind his eyelids. He watched them briefly, following the sporadic motions with disinterest.

This was it, then. He wouldn't be able to deny it anymore. He had killed his parents. He might not have actually pointed his wand at them, but he definitely provoked the Dark Lord into killing them. If he had returned, his parents might still be alive. But now there was no hope of that.

Dead. His parents were dead. How could that have even happened? He had seen his mother only a few days ago. Sure, she had been miserable. Locked up in the Dark Lord's hideout with nothing but the occasional visit from Amycus to bring food, who wouldn't be? He hadn't much enjoyed his stay in the Dark Lord's hideout either. But at least she had been miserable and alive. Now she was dead.

His mind reeled from the thought. How could she be dead? There was no way. It just didn't make any sense at all. His mother who had sent him sweets in Hogwarts, dead? Just like that? No, it wasn't right. She should still be alive, waiting in the Manor for him to get home from Hogwarts so she could ask him all about his year and just what he had done to antagonize Harry Potter that year.

Even if she was dead, which was unbelievable enough, he couldn't wrap his mind around how it had happened. There should have been some ceremony to it, some type of ritual that would have honored her for the outstanding person she was. Instead, there was only a vague sense of discomfort and betrayal that lived alongside of the knowledge that she was, in fact, dead. That no matter how much he tried to bring her back, he wouldn't be able to because she simply didn't live in this world anymore. She was on another plane of existence now, living some sort of afterlife that he had occasionally heard about but had never really taken the time to ponder. Or maybe she was just gone--wiped away completely, only still existing in peoples' memories.

Draco swallowed. He didn't want to think about that. But not thinking about it only made it clearer that it wasn't just his mother that Draco had lost. His father had been killed, too. His father, the man Draco had looked up to for years, the person Draco had wanted to be for longer than he had known how to spell his own name, dead as well. That thought was a bit easier to acknowledge, and it made him sick knowing that he was so easily able to picture his father dead.

Then again, it wasn't that surprising that Lucius had been killed. Draco had been expecting his father to die in the war, and he had, just not in the way Draco had ever imagined it happening. When he had thought about it in the past, Draco had imagined long progressions of people following his father into a battle of epic proportions. His father would be at the head of it all, ready to lead the way for the Dark Lord's followers to take control over the wizarding world. After a terrible, glorious battle where his father would kill hundreds of mudblood lovers, Lucius would finally be caught off-guard. He would die like a hero, and afterwards people would forever think of him as one of the Dark Lord's fiercest, greatest supporters. He would be a hero. Statues of him would begin to show up around the wizarding world, and people everywhere would whisper his name in tones of awed respect.

That had only been one possible way for Lucius to die. There had been countless others; some that Draco had lingered over, imaging every detail; others that he was ashamed he had ever thought of. Draco liked that way the best, though--the image of his father as a dying hero was mythic.

Yet it had been only that--a mythical image that Draco had never really thought would happen. Now here he was, locked in some room in someplace he had never been before. His parents had been killed by the Dark Lord because he hadn't followed through with his duty. He had failed, as usual, and now he was completely alone. No one on the Dark Lord's side would help him now, not even Professor Snape.

The Dark Lord. Draco seethed at the mere thought of his name. Yes, Draco had failed in his mission. He hadn't killed Shacklebolt when he had been ordered to, and he had known that there was a chance that the Dark Lord would kill his parents if he didn't succeed. But who gave the Dark Lord the power to do things like that? It seemed like the Dark Lord just did whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, and for reasons that made no sense at all to Draco. His parents had been loyal supporters of the Dark Lord for years. Years. But apparently all of that didn't matter when compared with the importance of the Dark Lord following through on his threats.

Draco scowled. Nothing gave the Dark Lord the right to do whatever he pleased to people who were pledged to serve him. The people who were loyal to the Dark Lord took a lot of crap because of it. Many of them had been in Azkaban several times, and everyone knew the dementors were absolute hell to be around. Besides that, if the wizarding world had even the slightest impression that someone was loyal to the Dark Lord, that person was ostracized and held in contempt by everyone else. Many people who were loyal to the Dark Lord had led difficult lives to begin with, and everyone knew that practicing the Dark Arts took a toll on both your body and mind. Any logical, rational person would think that if the Dark Lord's followers went through all of this to support him, the Dark Lord would be showering them with praise and thanks. Instead, people were forced to beg and plead with the Dark Lord for their lives whenever they did something wrong. Even doing that didn't guarantee their safety. It was just as likely that the Dark Lord would punish them in order to ensure their success the next time they had a mission to accomplish.

It was absolutely ridiculous. Draco's parents had been some of the most loyal supporters that the Dark Lord had ever had, and they had been killed because their son had messed up.

He was furious. The Dark Lord's system of doing things was so messed up that he didn't even know how to begin to fix it. It seemed that the Dark Lord only wanted to torture people, regardless of whether or not they followed him, believed in his ideals, or were pureblood.

Well, fuck that. Draco knew that the Dark Lord had a lot of power on his side. A lot of people who were willing to help him fight for the ideal of pureblood supremacy. Draco believed in that ideal; he believed in it with every conviction he had. He was certain it was the only right way for the world to be run--with the purebloods overseeing things while the mudbloods and muggles did the menial labor that was necessary for a society to be prosperous and function effectively.

Still, even with all of those beliefs, Draco disagreed with the Dark Lord. Simply put, he was going about it the wrong way. If the Dark Lord was going to torture all of his followers and kill them without any reason, people would view him as a psychopath. No one would ever be able to understand the ideals that he stood for.

That was what was wrong with everything. The Dark Lord stood for ideals that he didn't actually act on. What use was there in pureblood supremacy if all of the purebloods had been slaughtered because their children had failed on some unimportant mission?

There was only one thing for it, Draco mused as he laid on his back inspecting the ceiling. The Dark Lord had to be killed.

It was a thought that shocked him, and he gasped at the ludicrous idea. Killing the Dark Lord? Who would ever try to do something as foolish as that? Of course, the Order had tried it many times over and would continue to try until they were successful or dead. Either option was just as likely now. At first, Draco was sure that the Order would be killed in a very short period of time, but they had lasted for years and were still recruiting new members.

Then there was Harry Potter. Draco grimaced at the mere mention of the name of his old rival, but he did let his thoughts drift back over the years they had spent fighting each other. Potter was a talented wizard--that was obvious to everyone. He had faced the Dark Lord multiple times and still lived, which was something no one else could say. In fact, Potter was probably the Order's strongest ally in the war against the Dark Lord.

If a fight ever came down to the Dark Lord and Potter, Draco wasn't sure who would win. It struck him as odd that, after all these years, just now he was finally thinking that perhaps Potter had a chance to win. But the thought in itself wasn't odd. Potter was excellent in Defense Against the Dark Arts. He knew how to cast and aim curse and hexes and had done so in battles when all Draco had done was run away.

If anyone had a good chance at defeating the Dark Lord once and for all, at finally making sure he never returned and stayed dead, it was Potter.

Draco inhaled quickly and held his breath for a moment, letting his mind clear up a bit. Was he really contemplating this? Did he really want to help Potter kill the Dark Lord? It was startling enough that he knew without a doubt that he wasn't going to help the Dark Lord anymore. The lunatic had killed his parents. There were no excuses for it. Another leader would have punished the person who failed, but the Dark Lord was someone who didn't care for the normal rules and codes of conduct for behavior. All he cared about was making sure he got what he wanted and killing anyone that irritated him. That wasn't the type of behavior that suited well with Draco.

And even if he had been able to get over that issue, one fact remained. The Dark Lord had killed his parents. Draco would get his revenge. He might not be able to point his wand and say the Killing Curse, but he could help enable someone else to do it. The only person he would consider helping was Potter, who had the best chances by far to actually do it. He had the opportunity in the past and would probably have it again, the skills and power necessary to kill such a powerful dark wizard, and the willingness to do it. Potter wanted to kill the Dark Lord. He wanted to protect the people around him and the muggles he loved so much, yes. But it was even more than that. In the end, Potter wanted to take revenge for his parents' deaths.

Draco suddenly found that he and Potter had a lot more in common than he had ever thought they would have before.

He stood up and strode over to the door, his body already acting on what his mind had only just decided. Draco pounded on it, hoping that someone would hear it and open the door to see what he wanted.

It took only a second before Draco heard a small click that indicated the lock was being released. The door opened only just enough for one unidentifiable eye to look in.

"Yes?" The voice was familiar, but Draco couldn't make out who it was just by the eye and voice alone.

"I'd like to speak with Headmistress McGonagall now," Draco said, speaking clearly and smoothly.

The door closed, the lock clicked, and Draco sat back down on the bed. He stared at the wall across from him until the door opened and McGonagall entered the room.

"Headmistress," Draco said, standing.

"Mr. Malfoy, I heard you wished to speak with me," she replied.

Draco nodded. "I was wondering if you could contact the Order for me."

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "But Mr. Malfoy, I was quite sure that you said you had no intention of speaking with the Order."

"That was before," Draco said, shrugging. "I changed my mind."

"All right," McGonagall said. Draco was surprised she didn't question him further about this, but he kept quiet until she spoke again. "What would you like me to tell them?"

Draco swallowed. "Let them know that I want to help them kill the Dark Lord."

McGonagall's eyebrows rose until they were almost at her hairline. "Are you sure?"

Draco paused at the question. He hadn't expected McGonagall to doubt his motives. Of course, for all she knew, this could all be a ploy to get her to trust him. He scowled and looked at the floor. It was just his luck that now that he really needed someone to believe him, that person was someone who would probably never believe him no matter what he said.

"Look," Draco said slowly. "I realize that you aren't going to believe me no matter what I say. But the Dark Lord killed my parents. I... I can't just follow him after that."

"So why help the Order?" McGonagall countered, lips pressing together in a thin line. "Why not just go somewhere and hide out until the end of the war?"

Draco laughed mirthlessly. "I tried that already, didn't I? I don't have any money or resources or even a safe place to go."

"You could get money," she said, studying him. "You have a vault at Gringott's, don't you?"

Draco shrugged. "I don't have access to it. My parents had the keys and now..." He shrugged again. "I don't know where the keys are, at any rate."

"There must be some money at the Manor," she continued, still studying him. "You could always go there, grab some supplies, and hide somewhere for a while."

Draco shook his head. "There's no way," he replied. "The Manor's watched by both sides. If I tried to get in, both sides would try to attack me. I'd be stupefied and captured by someone before I was at the gate."

"How about borrowing money from your friends?" McGonagall looked at him over the top of her glasses. "Surely they're be willing to help you."

Draco shrugged. "Maybe," he said. "But I'm not sure which of them are loyal to the Dark Lord and which would be willing to help me without handing me over, so I can't contact any of them."

"So there's no way you think you could hide out for the duration of the war?" she asked.

"No," Draco said, shaking his head. "Believe me, if I could I would."

"Why?" McGonagall's gaze seemed to pierce through him, and he grit his teeth before responding.

"I don't like killing people," Draco said, scowling. "It seems this war requires a lot of that."

McGonagall nodded. "All right," she replied. "But then why not go back to You-Know-Who?"

Draco sneered. "The Dark Lord? After what he did? No way."

"So you don't support You-Know-Who anymore?" McGonagall asked in a slightly disbelieving voice.

"No, of course not," Draco said, shaking his head.

"And you want to help the Order?" The incredulous tone remained in her voice and Draco rolled his eyes at it.

"Yes," he replied. "I want to help the Order kill the Dark Lord."

"How would you go about doing that?" she asked. "What could you do that would help them?"

Draco considered this for a moment. "Well, I'd rather not fight if I don't have to. I'd rather do something else."

"Like what?" she asked.

"Like..." Draco thought for a moment. "Anything else, really. I could go on missions to gather information, that sort of thing."

McGonagall's eyebrows rose. "You do realize that the Order is not going to let you leave wherever they decide to keep you?"

Draco sighed. "I had hoped not, but yes, I sort of figured."

"After all, there's no way for us to be certain of your motives." McGonagall watched him carefully, waiting for any reaction that she thought would prove he was lying. "You could be trying to gather information for You-Know-Who."

"I could be," Draco agreed.

McGonagall looked surprised. "You're not going to deny it?"

"Why should I?" Draco asked. "It's not like you'd believe me if I went on and on about how it's not true."

She nodded. "I suppose so."

Silence descended over them, and Draco found that McGonagall looked extremely thoughtful. She rotated between studying the ground, the wall, and him. Every time her eyes fell on Draco, he met them straight on. He might not be able to convince her that he was sincere, but he could at least try.

Finally, she said, "All right, Mr. Malfoy. I believe that you mean what you're saying, even though chances are likely that you're just an excellent liar." Draco nodded and didn't interrupt. "There's some research that I need done that you can do from this house."

"Research?" Draco asked.

"Yes," she replied.

"What kind of research?" He was curious as to just what types of things the Order would be looking for.

"You'll find out soon enough. In the meantime, I'll get someone to give you a tour of where you'll be staying." McGonagall made for the door, and Draco stood up and followed her.

"I'll be staying here?" he asked, slightly surprised.

"Yes," she said. "Everything you need to do the research is here. I'm sure you won't have a problem with it."

McGonagall opened the door and walked out. Draco followed her, prepared to learn exactly where it was that he would be staying until he could get the Order to believe him.

After only one step outside, Draco said, "This is the Black family estate."

"It is," McGonagall said, nodding a little. "However, the rights to it have been passed down to Mr. Potter."

"Potter?" Draco asked, scowling. "Is he here?" He might want to help Potter kill the Dark Lord, but that didn't mean that he also wanted to talk to Potter or have anything else to do with him for that matter.

McGonagall stopped and turned to him. "Is that a problem?"

Draco snapped his mouth shut. "No," he muttered. "No problem."

"Good." She continued walking in front of him, and he followed, resigned to his fate.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry was sitting on a couch in the living room, idly sipping an iced tea. He was taking a break from the massive amount of research that still had to be done. He had no idea how Headmistress McGonagall expected Hermione and him alone to be able to finish it all. Even after sorting through the books that they needed and the ones they didn't in the library, there was still a hefty amount of books that McGonagall had asked them to look through. Even with Ron helping about once a week, there still just wasn't enough time to get through everything.

There would be, if they weren't working under a deadline. But there was always a deadline when dealing with things for the Order, and that deadline was yesterday. Things needed to be done even before they had been assigned, which was why the Order members tended to run about frantically. Still, the importance of their work was enough that they didn't feel the need to complain about it. Most of the time, anyway.

Harry just wished they had someone else to help with the work. If they did, it would be so much easier to go through it. Working with Hermione was great, but they couldn't even talk much because of the sheer amount of books they needed to read. Taking breaks was the only way he could keep his concentration up, and he was continuously surprised at how long she could stay in the library for before she needed a breather.

He heard McGonagall's voice coming from down the hall. Harry sighed. She was probably giving yet another assignment out. It seemed all she and Moody were doing these days was giving the Order members more and more work to do. Yet Harry still wanted to sign up. He shook his head in amused disbelief that he would willingly sign up to be ordered around like that.

Then again, it would be so much better to go out and help in the field than to sit around in the library reading all the time. Harry sighed wistfully. He just had to turn seventeen.

Couldn't the time go by any faster?

Then Headmistress McGonagall walked in, saying over her shoulder, "This is the living room, where the floo is, although you won't be using it." She looked at Harry and nodded. "Mr. Potter."

"Hello, Headmistress," Harry said. "I was just taking a..." Harry trailed off, staring behind her.

Draco Malfoy was standing there, sneer plastered on his face like always. "Potter," he said, drawling. "Fancy meeting you here."

Harry blinked, checking to make sure he was seeing correctly. When he was certain, he scowled. "Malfoy," he said, practically growling. "What are you doing here?"

Malfoy opened his mouth to respond but Headmistress McGonagall cut him off. "He'll be helping you and Miss Granger research the information I asked you for."

"What?"

Harry and Malfoy glared at each other, both irritated that they had spoken at the exact same time in the exact same tone of voice.

"I'm sure this won't be a problem," McGonagall continued, acting as if neither had ever spoken.

"You never said I'd be working with him," Malfoy said, shooting another glare at Harry.

"You said living in his house wouldn't be a problem," she responded.

"I didn't--" Draco stopped shortly, scowling. "I didn't mean it like that. How was I supposed to know he was actually living here?"

"This is his property. Where else would he be?" McGonagall managed to make the question sound quite condescending, and Harry inwardly cheered.

"With his muggle relatives?" Draco replied, also managing to make his statement sound condescending.

"It's none of your business where I live, Malfoy," Harry responded, immediately annoyed that Malfoy thought he could just walk into Harry's house and make all sorts of judgments and assumptions about things he knew nothing about.

"It bloody well is if I'm living here as well," Malfoy replied, sneering.

"Headmistress," Harry said, turning to look at her. "Why can't he go live someplace else?"

"You were the one who convinced me to help him, Mr. Potter." Harry saw Malfoy's eyebrows shoot up, and he instantly wished he could melt into the floor or curse Malfoy into oblivion. Better yet, memory charm him so that the git wouldn't remember the last half a minute.

"Well, yes, but..." Harry kicked his foot against the floor agitatedly. "I didn't mean for it to be like this."

"I had assumed you would be grateful for the extra help," McGonagall continued. "I'm sure you could use an extra hand in looking through the materials I asked you to."

"Hermione and I are fine by ourselves," Harry said, although he had just been thinking that exact thing before McGonagall walked in.

"Really. Well, it doesn't much matter now. Come along, Mr. Malfoy." McGonagall turned around and began to walk out of the room. "There are still some rooms that you need to be familiar with."

Draco glared at Harry and then followed McGonagall. Harry watched them both leave, thinking he'd rather like it if he never saw Malfoy again.

Sure, Harry had felt bad for Malfoy. The news that his parents really had been killed had swept through the Order quickly. When Tonks had gone to the library to tell Hermione and him about it, Harry had only been able to sit there for another three minutes before he had to take a break. He had thought that sitting in the living room would clear his head, but all it had done was agitate him even further.

Harry sipped his iced tea and closed his eyes. He sat back down on the couch, leaning against it heavily. He would deal with Malfoy later. Right now, all he wanted to do was relax.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Draco walked into the library as soon as McGonagall left, deciding to get an early start in. He had been surprised when McGonagall had said that he would be researching the location of specific items. She described the items for him, spending a lot of time on the ones she knew and could describe fairly accurately. There were others that could be a number of things, and she had told him what he would need to look for in those cases as well. Draco had asked what the point was of tracking down items like these, which appeared to be random in some cases, but McGonagall had told him that it wasn't any of his concern.

So Draco had been rather intrigued to get started researching, just to see if he could discover on his own what made those items so important. Of course, once he entered the library, he stopped before he could take another step in.

Granger was sitting at the center table, books surrounding her. She didn't look up, so Draco concluded that she either hadn't heard him enter or thought he was Potter. She was leaning back slightly in her chair, book open in her hands. There were notes scattered across the table, and there was another book in front of the opposite seat that was lying open on the table.

Draco sneered. He hated Granger. Really, he did. She was always getting better grades than he was, which his father had pointed out to no end. Besides that, she tended to be extremely haughty about it. She was always hanging around Potter and Weasley, who were two of the most obnoxious wizards he had ever had the misfortune of meeting.

Of course, Potter had gotten McGonagall to help Draco out, so maybe he wasn't a complete waste of space and oxygen.

That didn't make Granger any less annoying, though. Draco scowled at the thought of having to spend time with her, of actually assisting her research through whatever crap McGonagall had set aside for them.

Well, he would just have to deal with it. Draco had been given an opportunity to help the Order, which would eventually mean the Dark Lord's death. So he would grit his teeth and bear the nausea that resulted from having to deal with Granger and Potter all day, every day.

...Well, he would make a valiant attempt, at the very least.

Draco walked over and stood next to the table, looking down at Granger. After almost a minute, the bushy-haired girl sighed and said, "What is it, Harry? I'm really quite busy."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "I need to know which books to start looking through."

Granger startled and looked up quickly at the sound of his voice. "Malfoy," she said, gasping. Her eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?"

"Calm down, Granger," Draco said. "McGonagall wants me to research with you and Potter. So which books still need to be looked through?"

"Headmistress McGonagall asked you to research with us?" Granger asked, pursing her lips together.

Draco nodded, seeming to spend the next few seconds composing himself. "Yes," he said with a nod. "That is what I said."

Granger frowned. "She didn't speak with me about this."

"Well, you don't think you're all that important, do you?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. "I'm sure there are plenty of people that McGonagall hasn't explained herself to."

"It's not that I want her to explain herself," Granger said, frowning. "It's just that Harry, Ron, and I have been working on this for a while now, and if there's going to be a change in the way we do things, I should know about it."

"I'll be sure to tell McGonagall that you think she should get your opinion for every decision she makes," Draco said, sneering. "In the meantime, which books haven't you looked through yet?"

"Malfoy," Granger said, frowning. "If we're going to be working together you're going to have to act like a normal, decent human being for a change."

"Yes, and I'd like it if you never uttered another word again, so let's do each other favor and cut this conversation short. I can't stand talking to you any more than you can to me," Draco said, gesturing with one hand as if swatting away a bothersome fly.

"Malfoy," Granger said, shaking her head. "You are unbelievable."

Draco scowled. "I know this is difficult," he said, rolling his eyes to show just what he thought of that idea. "But all you need to do is tell me which pile of books to look through."

Granger scowled back at him and crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't think you understand." She sighed and let her arms fall to her sides. She closed her eyes and seemed to attempt to calm down. "The pile over there," she said, pointing. "That's the one you can look through."

Draco nodded and walked over to the rather large stack of books that was leaning precariously against the wall of the library. He eyed it critically. "Are you sure you haven't looked through any of these?"

"No, we haven't gotten there yet," Granger said. "Do you know what to look for?"

Draco nodded. "McGonagall told me about the completely random objects you guys are looking for," he said. "Waste of time, if you ask me."

"Really?" Granger asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh yes," Draco said in a confident tone. "Your time would be better spent looking up ways to defeat the Dark Lord. Who knew the Order was actually a group of extremely selective antique collectors?"

Granger laughed and then stopped abruptly. Draco turned to face her and frowned. "Sorry," she said, waving a hand. "Don't mind me."

Draco sneered. "I won't." He turned round and muttered under his breath. "Mudblood."

"Malfoy," Granger said. She spoke very slowly and calmly, as if she was keeping a tight hold on her temper but it could break free at any time. "If we are going to work on the same project together, you can never say that word in my presence after today."

Draco faced her once more and arched an eyebrow. "After today?" he repeated, incredulously. "What happened to, never again or suffer the wrath of my mudblood ways?"

Granger grit her teeth and stared at him. "I am trying to be accommodating. I realize you're an uneducated twit who only knows how to put other people down, and that you do it to make yourself feel better."

"What?" Draco asked, gasping. He was completely unprepared for Granger to say something like that.

"Well," she continued, ignoring Draco's outburst, "I'm going to assume that you are also intelligent enough to realize that if we spend all of our time arguing in here, we're never going to get any work done. I'm also going to assume that you realize that if we don't get any work done, the Order will be suspicious. And who would they be more likely to place the blame on?" Granger looked at him blankly. Draco clenched his teeth together, biting back a retort. "Exactly," she stated, nodding. "They wouldn't suspect me since I've been here for a while and nothing of the sort has happened. But if things started not showing up, if our results started lacking, then they would be much more likely to suspect you. After all, you're the newest one on this project."

"And I'm a Malfoy," Draco added, sneering.

Granger shrugged. "That's how they'll look at it," she said. "It might not be fair, but then neither is you interfering with my work by hurling slurs at me every chance you get. So here's a thought. Let's both focus on doing our job and not provoking each other. We'll both benefit from getting the work done. You'll be able to stay here, and I'll be able to work without hearing your obnoxious comments all the time."

Draco crossed his arms over his chest. "What are you trying to do, Granger? I know I've got nowhere else to go, all right? Is that what you want to hear? That I've got nothing?"

Granger shook her head. "No, Malfoy. All I want to hear is silence."

Draco scowled at her and stomped over to his stack of books. He brought the first ten over to an empty desk that was far enough away from Granger that he didn't think he'd be bothered by her. The way the room was set up made it impossible to have a desk that didn't have a view of hers, but he sat at the one that was close enough to his stack of books that he could easily get up and get them any time he wanted to, but also far enough away from Granger that he didn't think he'd have a problem in dealing with her.

What she had said was true enough. He had to toe the line carefully here. He didn't want to act like a goody-goody, pretending to be nice and pro-Dumbledore. On the other hand, he also wasn't prepared to act like a git if it meant that he had nowhere else to go.

So Draco sat down at the table and drew a parchment and quill over to him. He began reading, becoming so absorbed that he didn't even notice when Granger got up and left. Later, when he looked up to give his eyes a rest and saw her empty seat, he felt slightly disappointed. He had gotten Granger's permission to call her a mudblood, yet he hadn't done it. He scowled at no one and returned to his reading, making another note on the already half-full parchment.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry was in the kitchen, cooking dinner. Sometimes he felt like all he ever did was cook and fight Death Eaters. He smiled at the absurd thought.

"What are you smiling about?"

Harry glanced over his shoulder at Hermione. "Nothing," he said, still smiling. "Just thinking. You leaving now?"

Hermione nodded. "Yeah, I made plans with Ron for tonight." She smiled. "We're going out to eat."

"That's great," Harry said, sighing longingly. "One day I, too, will be able to leave this kitchen and eat food that was not bought only because it was on sale at the supermarket."

Hermione laughed. "Yes, well, one day your dream will come true."

"Well, I'll see you later," Harry said, turning back to his pan that once again held chicken in it.

"Listen, Harry," Hermione said, speaking a little nervously. "Before I go, I just wanted to let you know that Malfoy is in the library."

"He is?" Harry said, not sounding surprised at all.

Hermione blinked. "Did you know about this already?"

Harry shrugged. "Kind of, yeah," he replied. "I ran into him and McGonagall. She told me he was going to help us out, but I didn't realize it would be starting today."

Hermione frowned. "So that's why you never came back after your break," she said.

"Yeah," Harry replied, shrugging. "I just... didn't want to see him, I guess."

"But Harry," Hermione said, still frowning. "You're going to have to see him eventually. He's working in the same room as us now."

Harry nodded a little. "Well, yeah."

"Harry," Hermione said, watching him closely. "You shouldn't start a fight with him. You know he's had it rough the past few days. His entire life has been switched around, I can't imagine it's easy for him."

Harry cocked an eyebrow. "What brought this on all of a sudden?" he asked, puzzled. "Malfoy's never been anything other than a spoilt prat to you. To all of us," Harry added, gesturing with his cooking-gloved hand.

"He wasn't all that bad today, actually," she replied, shrugging.

"What?" Harry said, dumbstruck. "What do you mean, 'he wasn't all that bad today'?"

"Just what I meant. Honestly, Harry." Hermione sighed and shook her head at him.

"How was he not that bad?" Harry asked, shaking his head in disbelief. "How could Malfoy not be that bad?"

Hermione paused for a moment and began twining a strand of hair around her finger. "I guess he was just... busy working." She let her hand fall and the strand of hair dropped back into place. "He didn't bother me at all." There was a short pause, then she continued, "Well, at first he was annoying, but after we fought he just sat at a table and did his work." She shrugged. "It wasn't bad at all." Hermione checked her watch and her eyes widened. "I've really got to go, Harry," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," Harry said, watching her as she pulled her traveling cloak tighter about her.

"Remember what I've told you," she called out right before she Disapparated.

Harry went back to his cooking and remained silent. He tried thinking about a new, not completely horrible Draco Malfoy and found that he had no idea what to make of it. If what Hermione had told him was true, and why would she lie, then Harry was stuck in something of an awkward position. He couldn't very well continue to fight with Malfoy if the git was trying to behave himself. At the same time, though, he couldn't imagine sitting in a room peacefully with Malfoy.

He laughed out loud at the thought. Him and Malfoy, sitting in a room together without trying to hex each other? It was ridiculous. They would start fighting before five minutes had passed, and then everything would go downhill from there.

A sudden notion came to him, and he paused in his cooking at the mere thought of it. He felt like he almost wanted to be friendly with Malfoy, that he would like sitting in a room and not fighting with him. But what else could they do? Holding a civil conversation was so far beyond them that the idea was rejected before it was even fully formed. No, there had to be something that they would be able to do that wouldn't involve fighting, but it definitely wouldn't involve speaking to each other like average people could do, either.

After all, they had a history together. Harry knew that he was unable to act towards Malfoy the way he could towards his friends. It simply couldn't happen. Yet the impulse to try was there, kicking at him every time he thought he couldn't do it. It was absurd, that he thought he would be able to become friends with Malfoy, but...

Harry's mind froze. Become friends with Malfoy? When had that ever been part of the equation? He had started off thinking that they might be able to talk to each other like adults, and now he was ranting and raving about being fiends with Malfoy. It was completely mad.

The door opened and Harry turned towards it, expecting to see someone from the Order coming in. Instead, Draco Malfoy stood there, eyes wide and mouth slightly open.

Malfoy regained his composure quickly, sliding his smirk into place with practiced ease. "Potter. I didn't realize you were in here. I'll come back later."

Malfoy turned to leave, and Harry said, "Wait, Malfoy."

The blonde turned back towards him, smirk still in place. "What is it, Potter?"

Harry looked at Malfoy, silently taking in his haggard appearance. The circles under his eyes were still there, his skin still looked paler than normal, and even when he was awake, aware, and smirking he had a rather blank look on his face. Harry had thought that seeing Malfoy awake and strutting around would be better than seeing him hanging limp and lifeless in the air, but seeing him awake and obviously struggling to keep up appearances made something in Harry's gut clench. He might not like Malfoy, but he knew the prat wasn't as bad as he pretended to be. The evidence was just as much from his actions on the tower as from Harry's own instincts whenever they fought. Malfoy wasn't an evil bastard.

Of course, he wasn't a shining pillar of light and goodness either. He was a git that liked to manipulate and taunt people, and that was the whole problem. You could never know where you stood with him, Harry mused.

Malfoy's smirk widened. "Are you just going to stand there and stare at me all day long, Potter?" His eyes glinted, whether from ridicule or amusement Harry wasn't sure. "Because I do have other things to do, you know."

Harry scowled. "No, Malfoy, you git. I was just going to say that I was making dinner, and if you wanted you could have some." Harry bit down on his tongue hard before he could say anything else, cursing himself for even telling Malfoy that much. Then again, if Harry wanted to try to improve his relationship with Malfoy, this was as good a place to start from as any.

Malfoy blinked. "Sorry?"

Harry sighed. "I said I'm cooking dinner. Do you want some?"

Malfoy blinked again, smirk slowly disappearing off of his face. "Um, why?"

Harry blinked. "Because you're hungry, and I'm making extra, and I'm guessing you couldn't cook if your life depended on it." Malfoy swallowed. Harry noticed he seemed on edge, and the idea seemed strange. "Look, if you don't want to, that's fine," Harry said, shrugging. "It won't put me out if you don't eat tonight."

Draco sneered. "I think I can manage without your help, Potter."