Faster, Mudblood! Kill! Kill!

Faster, Mudblood! Kill! Kill!

Chapter 7: Long Night of the Living Dead

"They only love you when you're seventeen, when you're twenty-one, you're no fun..."

Deejay's spinning Chicks On Speed. Outside it's cold, but inside it's boy-on-boy, girl-on-girl, and any other combination in the world, not to mention a lone American, dragged in by his Chelseagirlfriend, who looks to be lost in the sea of smeared lipstick, of glitter and hot skin. Come morning, he'll have a dazzling hangover and will find that he finally has something to write home about; stories about more than just the changing of the guard and WestminsterAbbey. Chicks On Speed still spinning and you're right there with them, just a smidge of the go-go to keep you fuelled for the night.

What you remember most: your first taste of nightlife; not night life like this, where money flows and drinks are served strong, but less public revelries that occurred on the fringes of the city, in abandoned warehouses, condemned fire-traps that could only be breached by steep scaffolding. You were always the first to climb, your grip light but strong, and the others never understood how you could look down from that height and not give in to vertigo, why the starry sky dipped and smeared for them but not for you.

Later, two pounds gets you dancing and all the watery beer you can swallow, but you were never the dancing sort, preferring to watch such spectacle from the sidelines. It felt good to be there; to stand still, for once, while everyone else orbited around you, their lithe, under-nourished arms raised in clumsy gyration. On occasion, a slim boy named Vincent would slip you a bottle of something called easy lay; not knowing better, you'd drink it down greedily. It simmered through your system like sun and magic, moved you in time with the music--for a while.

Now you're back in the shadows, your face carefully shaded, a halo of smoke at your back. People know not who you are, but what: a man in charge. Now and then, one will approach you; you still have what everyone wants...a drug, a drink, a back-room tryst with an underage kid. DJ spins, and life is sort of like this now--an ongoing circle, a needle collecting dust in a well-worn groove.

It's nice; just manage to hold your ground and everything turns of its own accord.

***

Harry sat at his desk with an unlit cigarette clamped between his teeth; he didn't care much for the taste of smoke (though the nicotine itself provided a pleasant rush, heady and mind-numbing), but found that keeping one in his mouth or fiddling one between his first and middle finger was a great aid in sorting out scattered thoughts. And at present, his thoughts were more than just scattered, they were downright paralysed.

When Harry had first seen Draco Malfoy standing out in the back alley with Varda, he'd scarcely recognized him; in fact, the only reason he hadn't had an outburst of sorts was due to his own uncertainty. It looked like Malfoy, sure enough--the starving in the streets of Calcuttaversion of Malfoy, anyway--but the demeanour was all wrong. This Malfoy was slouched and diminished, and, though taller than Harry himself, seemed far too small to match up with the image of that strutting bully that dominated Harry's own Swiss-cheese memory. When he'd spoken out loud, asked to use the phone, his voice had none of that low, snarling quality that Harry recalled, sounding instead like the high-strung tremolo of a Vienna choir boy; at both the sound and sight of him, Harry was struck with the image of a forlorn Dickens orphan, toddling forth with his empty soup bowl outstretched and squeaking, "please sir, may I have some more?"

It was deeply annoying, to be greeted with a sight that inspired so many wayward reactions, and even more so to find himself uncertain as to whether or not this person was in fact Malfoy at all. He'd only finally verified it when Malfoy, at mention of the word "father", had turned an odd shade of mauve, as if both experiencing the pale of fear and flush of anger at once. In that moment, the Draco Malfoy that Harry remembered finally emerged in a mosaic of tiny, idiosyncratic details: the nearly-perpetual sneer, the arrogant manner in which he brushed his unclean hair from his forehead as if half-bored by all the goings-on around him, self-important as a bloody-fucking-Windsor even while dressed in tattered grey garb. Harry dimly recalled seeing all these gestures every day when he was back at Hogwarts, and now, three years later, they were completely unsurprising; more irritating than before, even, because this time they stood as reminders of everything Harry thought he had forgotten.

Funnily enough, Harry could remember his Dursley years with perfect clarity, albeit with a curious sense of detachment, as if looking at a picture album rather than his actual life. Aunt Petunia had always loved old records, those by the sort of tired songstresses who did long stints in Vegas for the majority of their careers, and had played Barbra Streisand's "The Way We Were" over and over again while cleaning house (which usually meant standing watch while Harry did most of the actual cleaning), often moving aside to watch in silence when Aunt Petunia forgot he was there and began to sing along into the fluffy end of a feather duster, floating dreamily around the front parlour.

Memmmories...light the corners of my mind. Misty, water-coloured memmmmories...of the way we were.

Barbra and Petunia had it all wrong. Memories weren't misty and water-coloured; they were hard and blinding, more like permanent graffiti, and to look at one was to be momentarily silenced, struck dumb. The only thing to do was to squint at it bit by bit, one pixel of detail at a time.

Which was why Harry could focus only one nagging thing: why was Malfoy dressed in prison wear? Harry dismissed the urge to ask him how a dilettante Death Eater had managed to be incarcerated at the tender age of twenty-one; the fewer questions he asked, the fewer he was likely to receive in return, he reasoned. But about that he was wrong.

"What do you mean, 'I'm not a wizard anymore'?" Malfoy asked, his eyes at once going from narrowed suspicion to wide-open disbelief.

Harry paused, slowly rolling the cigarette between his callused fingers--calluses that had been raised by years of quill-scribbling and wand-waving, once upon a time. From Malfoy he had expected scoffing, a stinging dig along the lines of That's right, Potter. Always knew you weren't up to snuff as a wizard...so tell me something I don't know. Instead, he appeared vaguely panicked, his hands outstretched and clutching for some sort of purchase along the slick edge of the metal desk.

"How can perfect Potter not be a wizard?" Malfoy's voice shot higher as he spoke, seeming to tremble on the edge of dementia. "He's the wizard's wizard...." he began to laugh in forceful, wheezing fits, though it seemed he was attempting to cover a staggered bout of choking.

"Collect yourself, Malfoy," Harry said. He brought the cigarette to his mouth and snapped open his zippo. After lighting it and taking a single, leisurely drag, he passed it over to Malfoy, who stared at its burning tip and seemed to sober slightly, finally bringing it to his lips and pulling in a lungful of smoke. He exhaled a blue cloud and coughed twice, flatly, then lowered himself into a chair, his shoulders slumping. Harry warned himself not to be touched by Malfoy's concern...it had nothing to do with him, and instead had to do with the fact that Malfoy was entirely alone, apparently in desperate need of a shower and a phone call to Mumsy.

"I suppose you want to know how this happened," Malfoy said, outstretching his arms and staring at the dingy cuffs of his prison-issue shirt.

"Not really." Harry tipped the cowboy hat he was wearing until it cut the sight of Malfoy's face off at the eyes. Seeing a sad, woebegone Malfoy did little to garner his sympathy. So Malfoy seemed to have a huge, possibly-unsolvable problem...so what? Harry knew full well that it was killing Malfoy to be vulnerable and needy in front him, but he also had a hunch that Malfoy would play the heartstrings card if it meant that he could gain favour by acting out a three-tissue tearjerker. The memory of Malfoy walking around for months with a bandaged arm had suddenly popped into Harry's memory full blown; Malfoy had been a fine actor when the occasion had called for it.

And Harry might have cared--he really might have--if it had been anyone else. And if he hadn't so strongly sensed that Malfoy's problems were caused by his own actions alone. Harry doubted Malfoy was wearing Azkaban clothing to make a fashion statement, after all, so was left to assume that whatever he'd done, Malfoy was a guilty man. Azkaban was no place for innocents.

But there was Hagrid...and Sirius...

"Did you do it?" Harry asked it without planning to. Then he frowned and lit a cigarette for himself, willing to bite back the bitter taste for once.

"No." Malfoy shook his head dimly, flicking ash to the floor and brushing it aside with his shoe. "I didn't do it like they said I did, anyway."

Harry didn't bother to ask what "it" was. He only leaned back and exhaled in the direction of the ceiling. "How'd you get out?" With this question he almost let out a laugh. The conversation was starting to resemble an interrogation scene from a low-budget crime drama, when both cop and suspect sit in an uncomfortably bare room and go through the motions of discussing something that matters, but in the end say nothing because neither trust one another enough to disclose the truth. But he doubted Malfoy would appreciate the irony in such a comparison; as far as he knew, Malfoy had never even seen a crime drama.

"They let me out."

Harry pushed up his hat so Malfoy could see the doubt in his eyes. "Really now?"

"They took my wand and implanted a charm...something to keep me away from the real world. They told me I could come back in seven years, when my sentence was up." Malfoy shrugged in mild defeat, and Harry was briefly confused by his use of the phrase the real world. Then he realized that, for Malfoy, there was no distinction between the wizarding world and the Muggle world...there was only the real world--his world. Anything outside that world was trivial and not worth much thought.

"That's pretty clever," Harry said.

Malfoy's gaze narrowed, just slightly. "How so?"

"Well, you're a pure-blooded wizard, Malfoy, and an heir to a great fortune, at that. A value to society, in other words. If they keep you in Azkaban around the Dementors for seven years, you'll likely end up a gurgling numbskull, at worst, or wind up with weakened magical power, at best. Even while exiled from the so-called real world, you can at least be assured that your magic is nicely hibernated and waiting for you when you re-enter in seven years time. But by booting you out to the Muggles, you experience punishment of a different sort...the punishment of alienation." As he spoke, Harry noticed how he tripped over the words, how thick-tongued they felt in his mouth; clearly, he'd been reserved as of late, keeping to himself rather than conversing with others.

Almost as if I've been quietly subtracting myself from my life here in the past weeks, as if a part of me knew this was coming...knew that my past was just outside waiting, out back in an empty alley.

A mixture of emotions passed over Malfoy's features, obscured by the plume of smoke that spiralled from the tip of his cigarette. "Alienation?" he asked, his tone stony, reminiscent of the haughtiness he had always reserved for his particular form of barbs and aggravation. "Sounds like you know something of that, Potter."

Harry shrugged. "Maybe, but I'm not the one desperate for a cleansing spell, am I?"

"Meaning what?" Malfoy bolted forward, grinding his cigarette out on the tiled floor.

"Meaning I've learned to cope with alienation."

"Naturally you can cope," Malfoy snarled. "Muggles are built to be dull and hardy and adaptable--and the bloody Muggle world practically spawned you, remember? You'd never even heard of magic or wizards until you set foot into Diagon Alley with that lumbering troll, Hagrid."

"Of course I'd heard of magic and wizards. I did read books as a child, you realise." Even as he spoke, his tone ever-so-cool, Harry felt a long-forgotten rage surfacing from...somewhere. Part of him felt compelled to rush to the defence of his friends against Malfoy's cruel tongue; though another, more rational part of him was stunned to realise that he could scarcely conjure up their faces in his memory, their silhouettes blurry as if encased in water, wavering behind a train window as they sped away, leaving him on the platform. What good did it do to feel rage now, when he'd gone years without even thinking of Hagrid or anyone else? It was too late to care now, and any regret for the last three years would be an empty, useless offer.

"Who cares about books?" Malfoy said, sounding disgusted. "And do you realise that talking to you is hopeless? When exactly did you get this way, Potter?"

"When exactly did you start expecting hope from the likes of me?" Harry shot back, confounded by the extent of Malfoy's nerve.

"For fuck's sake, quit answering all my questions with questions!" Malfoy fisted his hands, his impassive features twisting in frustration. "Why can't you just..." he trailed off, the angry colour of his face evening out, his mouth pinched in uneasy resentment.

Harry stared. Malfoy's eyes were wildly searching out Harry's own, and Harry could see in them that Malfoy was horrified at having to resort to this...at having to actually humble himself before the one person he had always hated. And oddly, this was the one thing that Harry could sympathise with. Just as Harry would have found himself appalled and degraded at having to beg for Malfoy's help, so Malfoy must have felt. "I'm sorry," Harry offered, sincere this time. "But for years you resented me for who I was. And now you come to me for help precisely because of what I was...pardon me if I'm not jumping at the chance to carry out any dramatic heroics again."

"But..." Malfoy halted.

"But that's not me anymore, anyway. I don't have that saving-people...thing. All I can do is offer you the same things I offered you when you first showed up: a cot to sleep on, a shower to clean yourself up in, and free drinks, if you want. I'd offer these basic comforts to any stranger on the street, so I should just as well offer them to you."

"Such generosity." Malfoy managed a glare while at the same time rolling his eyes, and Harry was faintly amused to hear any statement on generosity leave the lips of one who had been--and still was, he suspected--so legendary for his distinct lack of any such virtue.

"The dressing room is just outside my office--first door to your left, the one with a purple star on it. You can use the shower at the rear of the dressing room, and there're towels in an adjacent cupboard."

Malfoy half-rose, then wavered. "What do I do when I'm finished?"

"Make yourself comfortable, if you want. I'll come around in twenty minutes or so."

"Then what?"

"Then..." Harry sighed, knuckling at his smoke-stung eyes. "...then we'll have to see what we see, I guess."

"Right then," Malfoy said, doubt tingeing his voice.

"Go on."

"I am." And he did, striding purposefully to the office door, his shoulders squared off in defiance until the door itself angled open and allowed an unwelcome, bass-heavy riff of club music to blast inward, causing Malfoy to visably jolt, his fingers plucking loose from the doorknob so that the door itself slammed shut with a metallic clang.

"Christ," Malfoy swore, brushing his hair back in a single, furious movement before yanking the door open and finally exiting.

Watching him go, Harry was left feeling vaguely unhappy. When he had first realised that Malfoy was in fact Malfoy, he had at once resented his presence for what it carried: distinct proof of his own past, and a testament that his shredded memory was in fact truth...which meant he could no longer go on ignoring either. Now, though, Harry found himself resenting Malfoy for a very different reason: for providing insight into what was undeniable, that Harry didn't much care for the person he himself had evolved into these past three years. He hadn't given it much thought before, perhaps, but now he was vaguely uneasy. A dull nausea had taken hold in his gut, and he swept his cowboy hat back in order to run his fingers over the scar on his forehead. The familiarity of the gesture was painful despite the fact that he hadn't purposefully touched himself on this spot in a very long time, as if the nerve-endings were being groggily roused from an extended slumber.

"Easy to leave a part of ourselves behind..." he muttered. Where had he heard that? It had been a sort of warning, hadn't it? Yes. He straightened up in his chair, continuing to rub his forehead as his thoughts took on a clearer shape.

He remembered speaking with Nearly Headless Nick--not a hallucination, not a dream, but the real thing. What had Sir Nicholas warned him of? It had seemed so imprecise at the time, mostly because it seemed that Sir Nick was not able or not permitted to clarify his warning in full. But to meet Sir Nick at the beginning of the month, and Draco Malfoy at the end...well, in tandem, the two events seemed too strange to be coincidence. Had Nick been warning Harry about Malfoy? Was Malfoy a danger? Harry had certainly thought so at age twelve, when he and Ron had been convinced that Malfoy was the Heir of Slytherin.

Funny how we always saw Malfoy as the bogeyman laying in wait... despite the fact that he couldn't be arsed to pull off a truly evil stunt without flubbing it up somehow.

There had been that unsuccessful attempt to present himself as a Dementor, for example. And the month-after-month charade of wearing bandages around his arm to convince the school that he'd been maimed for life by a rampaging Hippogriff. Not to mention that Harry could very dimly remember Malfoy having cheerfully aided a particularly gruesome Professor.

Snape, maybe? No, Snape never wore fluffy pink cardigans.

Despite the lack of clear details, Harry knew that Malfoy certainly had a flair for causing trouble...and for flaying egos, nasty little bigot that he was. So when pressed on the question of danger, Harry wasn't sure what to think. His impression of villains had changed long ago; he'd been so wrong about them in the past, after all. The dreaded Sirius Black had turned out to be his Godfather, an innocuous fat rat had turned up as the real culprit, and, in fourth year, Harry's favourite new Professor was revealed as the nutter who'd been trying to do him in from the outset. Indeed, much of Harry's formative years had been defined against whichever villain he'd been fighting, and in those first few years he'd never doubted himself, had never doubted the necessity of the battle. That doubt had come later.

Still turning questions over in his mind, Harry left his office and made for the dressing room. He opened the door and shouted "Malfoy!" at the same time, expecting that he would have to raise his voice over the sound of running water. Instead, he was greeted with nothing more than his own echo. The dressing room was silent and dark, with no sign that Malfoy had been there at all.

Maybe he went back to the streets.

Harry dismissed the possibility at once; Malfoy hadn't even had a jacket on him, and the evening had brought in a cold front. He wasn't quite the hardy, out-of-doors type, after all.

Prowling back through the neon glow of the club, Harry spotted him at once, his physical presence unmistakable in its striking combination of utter filthiness and innate arrogance, but strangely radiant in the dim light because he was so pale. Though it wasn't yet seven o'clockquite a few patrons were already drinking at the bar, and Malfoy sat amongst them, dipping his hand into the bartender's garnish caddy as if in line at an all-you-can-eat buffet. A detritus of curled orange rind was littered across the counter before him, and he was raising a pawful of maraschino cherries to his mouth. Between bites, he managed to converse with the man who sat next to him--an older regular who was wearing a sporty Versace pullover and large, tinted sunglasses.

"These are quite funny things, aren't they?" Malfoy said, pulling a cherry stem from his teeth. "Taste a bit like Fizzing Whizbees, but without the fizzing part."

"Hullo Lars," Harry said, approaching the man in Versace, while at the same time shooting Malfoy a warning glace.

"Wherever did you find this one, H.?" Lars asked, looking at Malfoy over the top of his sunglasses. "Very grungy, but in an ironic, subversive sort of way. I like him."

"Hey, thanks," Malfoy said, his teeth a watery pink when he grinned.

"Come with me," Harry said to Malfoy, his tone no-nonsense. "Sorry," he offered to Lars, who was gazing appreciatively at Malfoy's backside as he rose from the barstool. "New hire...we're just training him."

Lars nodded. "I recommend a firm hand for that one. Two firm hands, if you can spare them."

"Will do," Harry answered absently.

He eventually managed to pull Malfoy out of the club's respective earshot, though that wasn't hard to do, given the volume of the music. "What are you doing?" he demanded. "You can't talk about Fizzing Whizbees in front of the clientele--or in front of anyone, for that matter. And you can't help yourself to whatever you like, either," he added, pointing at the last few remaining cherries in Malfoy's hand.

"You sound like my grumpy old Nanny," Malfoy complained, still chewing. "Who cares what I talk about in front of some old Muggle anyway? He's the ignorant one, not me."

"Yeah, so says the bloke who it seems couldn't find his way to a pay phone today."

Malfoy shrugged and muttered something that sounded like "stupid talk-box".

"Why didn't you have your shower?" Harry looked Malfoy over; to think that any creature would stand to stay so repulsive for a minute longer was hard to comprehend. Beneath the grime, grease, and scrubby facial hair, Harry suspected that Malfoy still possessed those same pointed features that were so suited to pouting, snarling, and smirking. "Ferret-face", they'd dubbed him--though admittedly only after he'd started calling Hermione 'the buck-toothed beaver', Ron "the Weasel", and Harry "scar head". Harry took his eyes from Malfoy's face, a bit sorry to actually remember such an uninspiring exchange of wishy-washy insults.

Malfoy shifted around before speaking, as if sensing a reprimand. "Couldn't figure it out. Turned the tap and only cold water came out."

"You don't know how to use a shower," Harry stated, closing his eyes in exasperation.

"Not that kind--I mean, look...at home there were always house-elves to draw our baths, and back at school all you had to do to get hot water was tap the piggy snout of the fat gargoyle that perched at the edge of the tub."

Harry braced himself against the edge of the bar, trying to quell his mounting irritation. He had always suspected Malfoy was spoiled, but he didn't know it went to such an extent; nevertheless, he suddenly felt quite as if he were the owner of a very young, ill-behaved, un-housebroken pet. It wasn't a very humane thought, and it came un-invited, but once there the comparison stayed, sending panic straight to his throat, seizing all words. How could he have thought that Malfoy would be content to camp out in the dressing room, quiet as an innocuous, blond dish-rag? It was much more his style to tear about and piss on the furniture. And that was just it: Harry couldn't allow Malfoy to run loose, not when his very presence guaranteed any number of disruptions.

"There's no way this will work," he said flatly. The panic had loosened its hold enough to let him finally speak, but it still remained, like a dizzy spot in his mind that agitated his thoughts as soon as they began to form. The result was something like an electrical short: Is this the past? Do I want the past back?

"What? No! I mean..." Malfoy clutched at his own sleeves, twisting them. "Don't make me leave...I can figure the shower out. I just didn't try very hard. Just...for fuck's sake, Potter, let me give it another go."

"It's not just the shower," Harry said, shaking his head. "You're completely unfit for this place."

"Don't you think I know that? Of course I'm not fit for this place...have you looked at this place?" Malfoy seethed, his voice threatening to rise above the sound system.

"We're off," Harry said, prodding Malfoy back towards his office. Once there, he threw open a cupboard and tossed a second-hand wool jacket at him, then removed his own leather coat and heaved it over his shoulders, noticing for the first time that he was very cold. Gooseflesh had risen on his forearms in huge, rash-like clusters and he clumsily attempted to smooth them away with the flats of both palms. "I can't have you staying here, mucking up the works," he said slowly, now crossing his arms together in a firm X across his chest, trying to will himself steady.

"Where are we going, then?" Malfoy asked, buttoning up, oblivious to the struggle that was taking place in Harry's thoughts, to the new and fresh ache he'd brought with him.

"My place."

***

Draco Malfoy, Sailor of the World. No, Draco Malfoy, Captain of Good Fortune. Better still, Draco Malfoy, Terror of the Seven Seas.

So he is: Draco Malfoy, Terror of the Seven Seas, heading windward in the family yacht, the Atropos, his father at his side because he is still only nine, and doesn't have the strength nor the dexterity to adjust the rigging on his own. The Malfoys have more than enough galleons to purchase an entire armada of magically-powered sailboats that would allow them plenty of time to leisure about the sunny, polished deck, but also possess enough pride to insist on doing certain things the hard way. Sailing, a long-treasured Malfoy tradition, is one of these things.

Draco loves sailing; it's one of the few occasions on which he has his very busy father all to himself, as his mother Narcissa lacks what his father calls sea legs. He listens closely to his father's instructions, delivered in a clear, no-nonsense manner; here's how to straighten the mainsheet. This is how you tie off the bowline. Lucius expects Draco to pay attention, to get things right the first time, not because he doesn't believe in practice making perfect, but because he knows the same thing Draco knows: that there is sailing in their blood. It's a trait as clear and distinct as the white-blond hair that they share. To sail is to take control of a hulking creature, to dictate the wind and chart your own course. To be master of your own destiny. Such is the Malfoy way.

Draco learns to knot the bowline in a single day's time, his fingers bloodied and raw by the time the sun sets. He stands nearby as his father steers, a ready acolyte, but wonders why his father never tires of gripping the wheel, of counting off nautical distances in his head, or why, for that matter, he never offers to let Draco hold the wheel--not even to place Draco's hands on it while overlapping them with his own, an assured example of how the wheel is mastered.

Standing at the bow, alone, Draco wishes his father would let go... just this once. He wants to know what it's like to drift...to just let the wind sweep through and make lungs of the sails, the breath of uncertainty carving a path before them.

Then the sun sets, turning the water into the bottom of a dark bowl; no stars swim within it tonight. Draco curls his hands at his side and leans forward, his toes gripping the edge of the bow's lifeline, his body lightly supported by the criss-cross cables. He imagines himself as a figurehead on the prow--not in the shape of a small nine year old boy, but as a silver dragon, maybe, something grand and mythic, with razored claws and whisper-thin wings. He bares his teeth, eyes narrowed, and pushes forth, determined to plunder the inky black.

***

It was sort of fun, making Potter's life miserable. Or it would have been, if Draco's survival weren't more or less riding on Potter's patience with him. Potter was dead silent during the walk to his flat, apparently engaged in a mental argument with himself. Wisely, Draco had so far said nothing. If the situation was reversed and Potter had come to him for help, he knew exactly what he would have done...he would have sent him packing, post haste. Might have even set the hounds loose on him, just for good measure. The fact that Potter was buggering up his own busy schedule to help out an old enemy said plenty about his ever-laughable sense of morals and chivalry. On the other hand, this was clearly not the Potter that Draco had known at school; his sense of duty seemed far less defined, and his eagerness to do "good" was practically undetectable. His eyes shifted moodily when he spoke, but were otherwise unreadable. Draco had no idea where he stood with Potter, and for that reason alone he knew he had better play it safe. Relying on Potter's good-will...god, it was awful.

His resentment escalated as he struggled to keep up with Potter, who was walking briskly despite Draco's own obvious fatigue. The scent of warm, satisfying meals wafted out from each café that they passed, and was distracting enough to slow him down even further.

"Ease up there, Potter. I've been on my feet all day," he panted, trying to tug Potter's sleeve but just missing. Potter did slow a bit, but said nothing, his features well-concealed beneath the brim of the cowboy hat. Draco wondered how he managed to see at all, considering that he wasn't wearing his legendary owlish spectacles.

"Smell that? Greek food--grape leaves and kassari," Draco said. Potter gave him a strange look. "I've sailed around most of the islands, you know...Skiathos had a number of amazing, high-quality wizarding resorts. Pity it's been over-run with Muggle tourism. Nothing beats the Rivierafor a long holiday though...beautiful water, brilliant nightlife." Draco had no idea what he was doing, talking such ridiculousness, but it seemed the only way to keep himself from asking Potter a million questions at once, or, worse yet, from falling to his knees and begging Potter for help in finding his mother, or his possibly- traitorous fiancée, or anyone who could get him back to his home, his money, his life.

"I'm not buying you any Greek food, if that's what you're asking," Potter said, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets.

"It's not," Draco mumbled, thoughis stomach gurgled audibly.

"This is where I live," Potter said, slowing down. They'd stopped in front of an old, brick-front building that had a falafel take-out and wine shop on the ground floor. Draco shifted slightly as he looked the place over; he'd never known anyone who lived above a shop before--well, aside from the shop proprietors in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade, who typically lived in roomy flats just above. As it turned out, Potter's flat was on the third storey and could only be reached by a cramped, winding flight of stairs. Rather than taking up the entire floor, the flat appeared to be lodged into the back fourth of it, and the inside, while clean and tidy, was so sparse and small that it at first reminded Draco of the prison cell he'd left just that morning.

"Um...quite nice," Draco said, lingering by the door as Potter wandered around, snapping on lamps. The front room appeared to be a kitchen, dining room, and parlour all in one, and if it seemed small now, Draco could only imagine that with real furniture the space would disappear entirely. Potter seemed to possess not much more than a very small sofa, a tea table, and a mismatched pair of chairs. There were several crates of paperback books lined up along one wall, and a television abandoned to a rear corner. That was it.

"I can't stay, but I'll at least show you to the shower," Potter said, indicating that Draco should follow him down a short hallway and into the bathroom--which ended up being roughly half the size of a Malfoy Manor linen cupboard. Potter demonstrated how to adjust both faucets until the water reached proper temperature, then pointed out various plastic bottles along the shelf. "Shampoo, conditioner, shower gel--best used in that order, in case you're not familiar. Razors and foam are in the medicine chest above the sink," he said, pointing. "I'll put a change of clothes outside the bathroom door, but then I have to leave." Potter removed his hat and scrubbed at his wayward hair, his expression distracted.

"Is there anything of yours I shouldn't touch?" Draco asked, sitting on the toilet so that he could untie his shoes. Potter looked a bit surprised that he had the manners to ask such a thing, but Draco supposed he had that coming, given his own long track-record of acting first and asking later.

"No, make yourself at home." Potter shrugged, then added, as an afterthought, "there's plenty of food, if you want." He left with only a warning not to answer the door or telephone, and said he expected to be back at around four in the morning. Once outfitting Draco with plenty of fresh towels, he shut the bathroom door and left him alone to get clean.

The shower was cramped, but the water hot and plentiful; Draco spent over half an hour shampooing and scrubbing, then, once reasonably towelled dry, stooped in front of the crooked mirror to shave. He was lucky, he supposed, that his father had always preferred straight-razor shaving to shaving spells; the funny plastic-like razor he found in the medicine chest wasn't as sharp as he would have liked, but it got the job done.

After examining the contents of Potter's medicine cabinet (nothing much of interest there: something foul-tasting called Listerine, tooth-flossing strings, spray-can deodorant, some odd tubes of ointment) Draco swathed a towel about his waist and exited the bathroom. Potter had left clothing folded on a chair out in the hallway, just as he said he would, and Draco scooped it up before entering the bedroom, where he searched along the wall for several minutes before finding a switch that turned on the overhead lights.

For the second time that evening Draco was stricken by the mystery of how someone with enough money for enviable shoes and a handsome leather coat could have so little else in the way of belongings. The bedroom housed no more than a medium-sized bed and a scratched-up bureau. The walls were bare but for a full length mirror. Draco paused before it for a moment, his breath shallow, then finally dropped his towel and pulled himself upright.

It was a few minutes before he had the courage to fully focus his eyes, and when he finally did wasn't altogether surprised to see that the naked body in the mirror looked not much like the one he remembered. He had never possessed a bulky physique like Goyle or Crabbe or Flint, but the figure in the mirror was almost rail thin; the groves between each of his ribs were cast in shadow and his limbs seemed to be drawn in angles, all of his former lean musculature wilted away in what amounted to a fairly brief period of time. Draco absently wondered what he would have looked like after seven years of imprisonment.

Old. I would have been an old man. Ancient before my time.

Much as he didn't like what he saw now, it was nothing that a few good meals, some exercise and fresh air wouldn't cure. He felt oddly soothed by that thought, but found that he couldn't look in the mirror any longer. He had once loved mirrors quite a lot...mirrors had loved him, too, often cooing and brightening up at his approach, the glass tinged with a scarlet hint of blush; but he now found he couldn't look into one without glimpsing his father over his shoulder, his mouth slung open in anger and dismay, pulling in that final, astonished breath. Quite a downer, it was.

Draco sighed as he turned away from the mirror. He was in need of a distraction from all these...thoughts. Unfortunately, Potter's flat didn't have much in the way of distractions. After pulling on the long-sleeved tee-shirt and loose trousers that had been left out for him (a bit too short at the wrists and ankles, but otherwise warm and clean), he busied about looking for something to do, but found nothing. The telly didn't pick up any programmes, and all of Potter's books were dark mysteries about Muggles with guns, which might have been interesting if he'd been in the mood for a good read, but he wasn't. He decided to eat instead, helping himself to bread and cheese, plus a half-eaten tin of beans that he found shoved in the far corner of an enormous white box that chugged out cold air. A fridgamator, he thought triumphantly. He was careful to choose food that didn't require cooking, as he was fairly certain that the Muggle stoves would be just as difficult to operate as telephones. Once fed, he discovered he was no longer bored but simply exhausted...which left him with another dilemma: where was he to sleep?

Potter's bed was big enough for two people--two people who were comfortably spooning back to front. Draco doubted there was a bed in the world roomy enough to provide a satisfactory distance between two people who loathed one another. Since it was Potter's place, and since the bed hadn't been offered, Draco reluctantly settled with a blanket and the floor. He arranged the sofa cushions into a makeshift bed and found that, in all, it was actually just a bit more comfy than the itchy cot he'd been given in Azkaban. But only just.

Draco stared at the ceiling far above his head and wondered, just before drifting off, how exactly Potter had ended up in a place like this. Maybe it was easy for him to live with this sort of thing, having grown up with Muggles and all, but Draco didn't understand why someone would turn down magic in favour of a two room flat and runny tinned beans that left a foul taste in one's mouth. It was almost offensive. Especially considering that Potter had been the spoilt darling of the Wizarding world for years and years--up until Voldemort's resurrection, anyway. After that, people were mostly too frenzied to think about Harry Potter; Voldemort's being back seemed to cancel out both the glory and the gossip associated with The Boy Who Lived, and the public had been more concerned about what troubles the new war would bring. And despite having eventually admitted to Voldemort's return, the Ministry had gone on waffling on the facts. Those reports are unconfirmed became Fudge's most popular turn of phrase post-1996.

Unconfirmed my tight arse.

Draco, being the privileged son of Lucius Malfoy, had known the truth: the Dark Lord was back in full, plotting away at some undisclosed location. Undisclosed even to the Death Eaters, as Voldemort had risen with some serious doubts about his legion of loyal followers; there was even word that those who had escaped Azkaban for him had ended up failing him somehow. Having not been privy to those sordid details, Draco could only guess that Voldemort had left the Death Eaters on call while heading off to search for more trustworthy minions.

Would Voldemort put up with tinned beans? Or would he crush the filthy tin and demand to be fed plump grapes by the delicate hand of a Harem girl? Latter, I think. And once fat on grapes, he'd most likely crush the Harem girl's hand. Poor doomed wench.

And with that half-formed thought, Draco yawned and rolled over, then closed his eyes and slept.

Several hours later, in the midst of a thick, hallucinatory dream involving barrel-racing Dementors on horseback, Draco was rudely awoken by a hoof in the eye--or so he blearily thought at first.

"Owwww....what th' fuck?" he mumbled, throwing up his arm to blot out the lamplight that suddenly flooded the room.

"Jesus Christ, Malfoy. Why are you laying right in front of the door?" came Potter's voice. Squinting, Draco saw Potter leaning against the sofa, pulling his shoes off; his hat was upside down on the floor, looking slightly squashed.

"Didn't much matter where I kipped for the night--the whole bloody flat is right in front of that door," Draco said, massaging his aching eye.

"You could have used the bed."

"It's yours."

"Yeah, but I don't usually go to sleep until seven or eight. I don't sleep much, actually."

Draco sat halfway up and watched as Potter plodded barefoot to the kitchen area and put the kettle on. He seemed quite energized as he swept Draco's bread crumbs into a dustbin and set about cracking eggs into a frying pan. Stranger yet, he was bobbing slightly as he cooked, concentrating on the turn of his spatula as he hummed an off-key tune under his breath.

"Uh, Potter?" Draco ventured, cocking his head to one side. Potter's head bucked up in surprise, as if he'd forgotten his presence entirely, then his face broke out into an easy grin--so far it was the first natural, un-constipated expression that Malfoy had seen from him.

"Eggy-weggy-faggy for you, Malfoy? Got nearly a dozen here."

"Potter..." Draco began, rising to his feet and nearly swept over at once with light-headedness. "Have you been at the bottle or something?"

"Not a bit....Not a drinking man." Potter made a showy to-do about flipping his egg over in mid-air. "Just a little Ma Huang now and then...for an all-natural lift."

"You say 'all-natural' like it's a good thing," Draco said, frowning. After six years of potions with Snape, Potter ought to have remembered that plenty of all-natural things could kill you dead in a span of six seconds or less. "And if it lifts you this much, it's no wonder you can't sleep," he added. Now that Potter's hat was gone, he could clearly see the ashy-coloured rings beneath his eyes.

"I don't want to sleep," Potter said, his tone flat. "I don't particularly want your concern, either."

Draco remained silent, watching as Harry arranged his eggs onto a plate and began to dig in with gusto, washing down each bite with steaming gulps of tea. Once he'd tucked in, Potter leaned back in his chair and wadded his napkin into a ball, his expression now weary and...darkly unsatisfied. As if the meal he'd relished only minutes before was now going topsy-turvy in his gut, and had left him wishing he hadn't sampled the food in the first place.

"So...find a way to keep yourself entertained while I was gone?" Potter asked, tossing the shredded napkin over his shoulder.

"Not really. I would have read a book, but the ones you own seem to all involve complicated heists and boring descriptions of Muggle technology."

"Yeah...mystery and spy novels. I got them all at a second-hand shop," Potter said, making it sound as if he himself had yet to read a single one.

"Oh," Draco said, disinterested. "Spying is quite the popular Muggle pastime, isn't it?" he asked, thinking vaguely of Granger, who--if she was indeed a spy--made the whole enterprise seem remarkably unappealing.

"What d'ya mean?" Harry sounded tired now as he carried his plate over to the sink.

Draco yawned and glanced at the clock; it was almost five in the morning. "Oh, you know. Granger claiming to be a spy and all. Just another mudblood's delusion of grandeur, I suppose."

"What?"

There was a clatter as Potter abruptly dropped his fork and plate into the sink. The tone in his voice wasn't weary now, and he spoke with a piercing edge.

"Oh...bloody hell, Potter...not mudblood. I meant...you know, Muggle. Same difference, anyway."

"Hermione's a spy you said? Did I hear you right?" Potter looked fully startled now, his face chalky in the dim lamp light. His hands opened and closed, fingers twitching as he bored Draco with his eyes.

"Well...so she said." Draco shrugged, uneasiness slowly washing over him. Should he tell Potter about seeing Granger in Azkaban? He really didn't fancy talking about dreary Azkaban at this hour, when he should by all rights be sound asleep, insuring his complexion against premature aging and the like. "I mean..." he said, choosing his words carefully. "She's your friend. You'd know about it better than I would."

Potter closed his eyes for several seconds. "Malfoy," he said, finally opening them, and even through the semi-darkness they leapt out in vivid green. "You're the first living wizard I've seen or heard from in the last three years. Until a few weeks ago, I hadn't even thought of Hermione--not even her name crossed my mind. If I had passed her on the street, I may not have even noticed her."

Draco remained in his seat, his mouth struggling to form a response. "You're kidding," he finally said.

Oh, but he's not. Harry Potter a kidder? Not likely. Gryffindors can't even take a joke, let alone make one.

"I'm not," Potter said, shaking his head in denial. The flat expression in his eyes confirmed that he spoke the truth.

"I don't understand. Did someone obliviate you? Were you so keen on battling the Dark Lord that you stupidly cursed yourself by accident?" Draco didn't mean to sound so critical...actually, he did. It was just like Potter to waltz into his life and prove to be useless. Draco--managing to avoid, for the moment, the fact that it had been he who waltzed into Potter's life--felt his last hopes of ever making it back to the wizarding world shrivel away in a single breath.

"Doesn't much matter," Potter said, pushing away from the sink and opening the refrigerator. He pulled out a bottle of wine and began to uncork it.

"I thought you weren't a drinking man," Draco said, raising an eyebrow.

"Shopkeeper downstairs always pushes this half-priced rot on me," Potter said, grimacing as he took a drink straight from the bottle. Moving back to the table, he offered the bottle to Draco, who stared at it disdainfully before gripping the neck and taking back a long pull. It was thick and syrupy--not at all like the French vintages his Father had served--and he coughed roughly before handing the bottle back.

"Does she still have all that hair?" Potter asked, his voice rather distant and wistful as he dropped his chin into his cupped hand, his other hand clutching the bottle. "She really hated her hair."

"Of course she had hair...she's a bit young to have gone bald," Draco said, momentarily distracted by the question, which was a pointless one, he thought, as Granger's hair had never been her best selling point--not that she'd had many to begin with. He briefly considered describing the mudblood's silly attempt to pull off life as a blonde, but then decided it didn't much matter. Potter's weird series of revelations were much more pressing, and had replaced Draco's general sense of unease with a faint sort of fury. "I'm serious Potter. What in fuck happened to you? What kind of person would leave Hogwarts behind for....this," he said, indicating the flat with his hands. "I always knew you were a bit off--hanging out with the Weasel and his Mudblood girlfriend, fainting because of one silly Dementor...but really, to just stupidly forget our world? Just how mad are you?"

Potter's face darkened. "It doesn't take much to loosen your tongue, does it?"

"I'm a Malfoy," Draco said, throwing his head back haughtily. "We're not in the habit of mincing words to spare the feelings of others." Deep down, a tiny part of him was warning that he was steering the conversation in an extremely foolish direction, but he seemed unable to stop talking.

"Of course not." Potter's bloodshot eyes blinked lazily as he passed the bottle back over. "You haven't changed. The fact that I have must be an unpleasant surprise."

Draco drank deeply, then answered: "An annoying surprise, at any rate. I'm starting to think you won't be much use to me..."

Shut up-Shut up-Shut up-Shut up-Shut up

"...I need to get back to the real world, and you want to mope around pretending it doesn't even exist. What a sorry pair we make."

"I agree." Then, with no visible hesitation, Potter reached out and swiped at Draco's chin. When he pulled his hand away, his fingers were smeared with wine. "You're a messy drunk," he said lightly, rubbing his fingertips together.

Draco's hand shot up to his chin and lingered there stupidly, tongue working at the sour taste that filled his mouth. A hazy montage of pink neon and bronzed men in skimpy loin-cloths was swimming forth in his mind, causing him to slink back into his seat. "Potter, are you gay or something?"

Potter half-grinned, though the expression was shadowed and hard. "Or something, I guess."

"Because I have a fiancée..."

"That must be nice." Potter's expression scarcely changed as he tipped back the remaining wine into his mouth.

"Somae....Somae DeSilver. The Baron's daughter."

"The who?" Potter looked blank.

"Baron Florian DeSilver? Jesus, Potter. Only one of the richest wizards in all of Europe."

"Ah," Potter said, though there was no recognition present in his voice. "Somae, is it?"

"Yes. She attended Beauxbatons."

"Pretty?" Potter's tone was one of neutral disinterest, and Draco was struck with the notion that he was doddering on so that they could converse without actually saying anything. Not that Draco minded, particularly; he wasn't keen on sharing late-night sob stories with Potter, but he did want Potter to snap to it and offer a sensible plan to get him out of this run down flat and back to his cosy Manor.

"Yes, quite. But it really doesn't matter, Potter...I can't even contact her now. Unless you can actually do something of use and--"

Draco's words were cut off when Potter thrust forward--his movement both determined and casual at once, somehow--and began to worry at the knotted draw-strings of the pyjama trousers Draco was wearing, loosening them enough to send his hand sliding down the hollow plane of his abdomen, then down further yet, his grasp hot and wine-sticky, causing Draco to suck in his breath and pull away.

"Potter...what the fuck are you doing..." he hissed, slitting his eyes. Potter's hand had found what it was looking for, and Draco, while alarmed by the fact that this was Potter's hand...touching, well, his dick, was unable to pull away completely, his response to sudden, too severe, to fully ignore. The touch was rough, but warm and human and...

What in mudbloody hell is Potter doing?

"Be quiet," Potter said, his face pale and vaguely infuriated as he bent over the tiny table, his hand working with quick expertise.

"Eat shit," Draco croaked before tilting his head back in abandon, closing his eyes so he at least wouldn't have to look into Potter's face when he inevitably came. Potter himself indeed possessed the gift of dexterity, and the finish was almost painfully quick. Somewhere beyond the dull ocean thrum that filled his ears, Draco could hear himself moaning in the process, his mind shrinking away, thoughts blurry with confusion.

What am I letting him do?

The warning thought came too late; his task complete, Potter sat back and wiped his hands on his trousers, then brushed a spray of fine perspiration from his forehead. Then he picked the bottle off the table and took it into the kitchen area, tossing it carelessly into a dustbin where it shattered noisily. After a minute or so of catching his breath, Draco did the only thing he could think of, what his instincts were urging upon him; he began to laugh.

"What is it now?" Potter asked, frowning.

"Just dotty enough to fancy a Malfoy then, are you Potter?" Draco said, his voice thick, wobbly around the edges. "How terribly rich..."

Potter stopped at the kitchen sink, his back to Draco, and was silent for several seconds. Then he pivoted around and marched back towards Draco, his stride determined. Draco tried to shrink away as he leaned in and grasped him by the shirt collar, hauling him up and out of his chair in one strong, smooth motion. Potter's jaw was set, and he looked at Draco evenly, his face just close enough to cause a vaguely panicky feeling to run riot in Draco's gut. He knew from experience that if Potter hit him, he wouldn't hold back.

"Get out," Potter said, his tone dreadfully calm.

"What? Potter, I--" Draco stammered, unable to finish because Potter chose that moment to shove him away. He stumbled backwards, nearly falling over the sofa cushions strewn about on the floor. Noticing them, Potter plucked one up, along with the blanket Draco had been sleeping with, and pushed both into Draco's arms. "I'm going to sleep now," he said. "I want you out."

"But where do I...?"

"Just go," Potter insisted, guiding him towards the flat's front door and depositing him in the hallway outside. Then he said nothing--no goodbye, no get back to you later--firmly shutting the door in Draco's face.

Draco stared at the door for several minutes, certain that a piteous Potter would open up at any minute. Very funny, Potter, Draco said in his head, ready to deliver the words when he finally appeared.

But he didn't; a few creaks came from behind the shut door, then all was dead quiet. Once accepting that he'd actually been turned out for the night, Draco sat down on the floor of the draughty corridor, hugging the blanket around his shoulders and looking from left to right, his eyes wide. Aside from a dim light bulb hanging over the stairway, the corridor was dark and quiet. Draco finally laid on his side, propped up by the sofa cushion, half-dazed as he tried to sort out the peculiar events that had just taken place. He supposed he ought to have been more upset at Potter for jerking him off in such an uninvited manner--and he very well might have been if the act hadn't been so mechanical and completely lacking in intimacy. As it was, it hadn't been much different from what Draco usually did to his body when he was alone in the dark. No, he was more perplexed as to why Potter had done it. Because whatever had happened between them wasn't at all about sex....it was about something else.

The more he sat and thought about it, the more his unease grew, flooding away his former sense of righteousness and leaving him feeling much as he had during the day's previous hours, as he had walked alone in a world he didn't understand; worse yet, he felt cowed, as if he had misbehaved and the result was a sharp slap to the face. If Potter had just tried to kiss him or something...well, Draco could have handled that--even if it meant conking the daft fool over the head with the wine bottle. If Potter had just wanted his body...well, so what? Lots of people did. It had never occurred to Draco that Potter hated him as much as he had always hated Potter. But now the truth was blazingly evident, and Draco understood just how much he was unwanted.

He shivered and tugged the blanket, willing it to take on the shape of a welcoming embrace, though it was nothing more than a poor substitute. Exhausted, he closed his eyes and slept.

***

It had been his only request: "Bring me the boy". The identity of the boy being obvious, I had only two options before me: align myself with Dumbledore and refuse, or align myself with the Dark Lord and comply. Neither option was appealing at that moment, as both spelled my untimely end. So I did the selfish thing: I saved myself. I feel no guilt in that--it is human instinct to save ones' self, especially when weakened and in physical pain. But then again, at what cost?

"Kill the boy and you insure his martyrdom," I said, avoiding Voldemort's reptilian glare, yet careful not to avoid it so much that he think me deceitful. "Being familiar with religion and prophecies, I imagine I don't have to explain to you what an impact such martyrdom will have."

He said nothing, but I detected a mental hiss. He pulled away from my line of vision, moving back into the darkness, and I felt relief at being momentarily released from his gaze. What I said to him was not a charade: Harry Potter, dead at the hands of Voldemort, would only guarantee that a good majority of the wizarding world shake loose their terror and take up sword against him, swearing to avenge the death of the Boy Who Lived. Megalomaniac as he was, Voldemort knew what I said was true. What he did not know was the entirety of the prophecy--if he had, he would have never accepted such advise. But I was convinced I had him fooled, had him believe that this time around, he would have to play from the shadows if he wanted to win.

I might have left it at that but didn't know if it would be enough. That was the most trying aspect of being in the Dark Lord's service--never knowing when you had gone too far, when you had not gone far enough.

"There are other ways to destroy him, you realise," I said, curling away from the sight of Karkaroff's putrid, greying form. "The boy's power lies not in his magic--I as his teacher can verify this--but only in his legend."

Voldemort shook slightly--in anger, not fear. Never fear. "Go on, Severus," he said, his tone vitriolic.

"Destroy the legend, and you destroy the boy," I said simply, though I was internally shuddering at my casual words. I did not like Harry Potter. I did not want him destroyed. I wanted only to live. I wanted Harry to live long enough to destroy Voldemort, as he was destined to.

And then, in that silence that was punctuated only by the crackling of a cold, platinum-coloured fire, I saw light fill the Dark Lord's eyes. Sharp, painful light...the light of inspiration.

I knew then whom I had saved, and whom I had sent to his doom.

***

Snape couldn't sleep. Strange shadows crawled along the ceiling, and even when he closed his eyes, he could still see them there--sense them. So he sat up instead, his long frame cramped and weary in the confines of the lumpy sofa he was resting on. The flat was almost as quiet as his dungeon had been, its silence breached only by the occasional sputter of a car, passing just outside.

The evening had not gone well; after realising that her maps were a failure, Hermione had gone silent and accusatory, her defiant posture a clear indication that she was somehow blaming Snape for all that had transpired. Shortly thereafter, she had announced that she was retiring for the evening, and instructed Weasley to make Snape up a bed. Weasley, still clearly less-than-thrilled by his presence, had nonetheless complied. As he handed over a pile of woolly blankets, he said only one thing:

"She's going to demand that you tell us what you know, after she's had her sleep. Just so you know."

Snape had only nodded. He was prepared to divulge everything, eventually. He had not originally envisioned Hermione as the one he would lay his confessions before, but he was tired of allowing secrets to fester within him. And if the information he possessed aided her in her misguided quest, so be it. He still stood by his original line of thinking: even if Harry Potter were to be found, he would not be the person she remembered. Not even remotely.

As his eyes strained through the darkness, Snape could make out the outlines of the blonde wig that was perched on a desk lamp at a ridiculous angle--a reminder, perhaps, that however seriously Hermione claimed to take her 'work', there was at least a fraction of escapism involved in it. Not that Snape necessarily blamed her--escapism was common in these times. After three long years of unclear information and false-leads, wizards and witches weren't sure just what kind of war they'd entered into, whether the enemy was Voldemort or their own government; as such, they found solace in frivolity and gossip, the more low-brow aspects of the wizarding world. Snape himself wasn't much different, having invested so much time in investigating the bottom of a bottle these last few months.

Hermione Granger's problem was that her escapism prevented her from accepting that Potter might have simply given up on the whole business of magic; she preferred to imagine him held hostage, or working incognito somewhere, unable to reveal his location for the sake of everyone's protection. But then again, the option of giving up was not really in Hermione's vocabulary; she fought against all and everything that opposed her, no matter the cost, and until just now, she had probably always assumed that Potter was fashioned the same way. Hers was a type of pig-headed stubbornness that Snape both loathed and admired, but that same stubbornness had never been Potter's way. Instead, Potter had always struck Snape as an uneven looking-glass that reflected the emotions of those closest to him--he had believed in the wisdom that Dumbledore had offered, time and time again; he was angered by the same things that angered the tempestuous Ron Weasley, and he had mustered up passion to match Hermione's own when the situation called for it. Potter's actions had always been crafted by his need to fit in and find acceptance, by his desperate desire to live with the destiny that he didn't, in essence, deserve.

A harsh viewpoint, perhaps. But what had Potter really done to defeat Voldemort? Nothing, really. He'd merely escaped with his very young life, and had inadvertently damaged Voldemort's own in the process. And sometime around his own fifth year, the truth of this fact had begun to dawn on Potter himself. He had changed; grown despondant and angry. He had been unhappily forced to reclaim his hero status in order to sway a doubting public--to sway his doubting self, perhaps--and in doing so had lost so much.

On the first day of classes in 1997, Potter's belongings had been owled to Dumbledore's office; there was no accompanying message or note, no clue as to what might have happened to the young wizard. Concerned that bodily harm had befallen Potter, the Headmaster had sent Moody and Lupin out to investigate. In a few days' time, they returned with Harry in tow--a frightened, struggling boy who appeared to not know his own Professors, who seemed unable to recognize any of the castle's surroundings. For reasons unknown to him at the time, Snape had been called to Dumbledore's quarters to witness the boy's return.

It was not a pleasant sight. Potter had to be physically restrained by Moody and Lupin, locked between their arms while alternately screaming and sobbing, his face red and tear-streaked. He had been dirty and smelly, his glasses gone, his body trembling. The most disquieting thing, however, had been the boy's refusal to open his eyes; whenever he did squint one open he let out a fresh yelp, as if the sight of their concerned faces was the very thing driving him mad.

"What's been done to him?" Moody had demanded, looking quite ill. Dumbledore ignored Moody and instead spoke to Potter, saying his name--Harry?...Harry?--over and over again, as if trying to penetrate the terror the boy was fully engulfed in.

"I don't know," Dumbledore finally admitted, only after touching the boy's firey brow once then immediately pulling back as if he'd just received a burn. "But it would appear that...nothing's been done to him."

"How can you say that?" Lupin had cried, upset. But for once, Snape was in agreement with the Headmaster. Potter's behaviour was not in line with one who had been cursed, but rather far more resembled that of one who had simply jumped off the deep end into sheer insanity. Dumbledore was at a loss as to why--outwardly, at least, though his quiet, meaningful glances in Snape's direction indicated that he was considering each and every possibility.

After much argument about how to next proceed, Dumbledore finally hushed them all with a single glance. He pulled the traumatised boy aside and, out of earshot, spoke very softly with him for several long minutes. None of them could be sure what was being said, but it seemed as if Potter answered his headmaster at least once, and after doing so, Dumbledore let him be, returning to them with a grim expression upon his ancient face.

That one expression had said it all; Snape knew at once, without asking, that Harry Potter's looking-glass persona had finally been shattered. He didn't know how, or what had happened, but the boy must have found reason to look within himself...and had retreated fully when he saw that there was nothing of real substance looking back at him.

"Not sleeping, I see," Hermione's voice came out from the dark, somewhere behind him, and startled him from his thoughts. He craned his neck and saw that she had come in from the hallway, still fully dressed and be-wigged, as if she had not yet retired for the night. Her posture was tense, her arms crossed before her chest, but it was too dark for him to read her facial expression.

"And neither are you," Snape said lightly, stretching out his legs.

"I couldn't," she said, and moved from the doorway towards him, finally settling down on the wide arm of the sofa near his feet, her body turned towards the window that faced the street below. "I've been thinking about what happened earlier tonight," she continued, her voice tight. "You made me feel dreadfully stupid down there, in case you didn't know."

"A talent of mine," Snape said, unable to disguise the weariness in his voice.

"Agreed," she said, her back stiffening. "I'm used to solving problems on my own--with a little help from my friends, perhaps--but to forget such a basic tenant of wand frequency is...well, embarrassing."

Snape nodded slowly, dimly aware that she could not see the gesture.

She continued on. "So I was thinking that I could use your help. As in, I help you find Draco, you help me find Harry." Her words ended in a rush, as if expecting him to flat out refuse.

"How do you know Harry wants to be found?" Snape asked, mentally noting how strange it was to call Potter Harry.

She turned and faced him. "Maybe he doesn't. I'm not going to force him to rejoin the old posse or anything, Snape. I just want to know that he's alive and well...for a start."

"Very well," Snape said, then lowered his eyes gravely. "Weasley told me that you'd demand an explanation from me, and I'm prepared to give one."

She sighed. "Not now, if you don't mind. Save the confession for daylight--right now I just want to know that you'll help us."

He studied her face silently, noting that her brow knitted in the middle when she was tense, and that she was gnawing at the edge of her lip expectantly. Sign himself on to help a couple of feisty Gryffindors? He weighed the humiliation of working with a Weasley versus working for the Minister of Magic and was surprised to discover that, hands down, he preferred the former. Not because he liked Hermione or her Weasley friend, but because with them he at least stood a chance of behaving in a fully human way--a way that for him meant giving orders, being taken seriously, and not having to feign the dull pleasantries of everyday life. Arrogance and superiority was his birthright, and having stunted it for so long felt like breathing underground for several bleak, cold months.

With this thought, Snape straightened up and took in a long, dignified breath, feeling his chest expand in a liberating sort of way. "Miss Granger, I will work with you on condition that you never question my authority, obey my commands at all times, keep your friend Weasley on a leash, and let me wear that watch you currently have around your wrist. Unless you can agree to offer me all of these things, I plan to leave this horrid city first thing in the morning--Fudge be damned."

Hermione's mouth slung open in surprise, and for a few seconds Snape was nearly positive that she was going to protest--quite vocally, at that--but she instead surprised him by leaning forward and studying at him intently. Snape stared back; her face was so close that he could make out a fine strand of unremarkable brown hair at her temple, just visible beneath the mass of the red wig, looking delicate and hopelessly out of place.

"Someone start a parade," she finally said, grinning ever-so-slightly. "Old Snape is back in command--or is it back to Professor Snape, now that you're in charge?"

"Snape is fine," he grunted. Privately, he was getting used to being called 'Snape'; the past twenty four hours had given him new appreciation for the name that had always slightly embarrassed him. The way the word flung from Hermione's mouth, casual and matter-of-factly, made it sound tough and resilient...to hear Snape in that tone made him feel like...'Ace', or 'Spike'.

"Just remember that as second in command, I expect to be heard," she said, standing up and brushing off her dress.

"It would be impossible not to hear you." Snape rolled his eyes, grateful that the darkness kept her from seeing him do so. Hermione made a small noise as if to retort, but was interrupted by the sound of breaking glass, loud and coming from below.

"What was that?" She asked, jumping slightly. Snape said nothing, only stood and made his way to the stairs, gesturing for her to follow. It occurred to him only briefly to be cautious, but then he remembered that this was the Muggle world, and that the dangers within it were easily contained with a simple spell or two--such a predictable place it was, really.

Downstairs, the source of the clamour was immediately clear. The glass in the large front window of the office was shattered and someone stood outside, working his meaty fist through the hole he'd made, blood running off his knuckles and onto the glass shards that glinted on the floor below. He moved slowly, clumsily, and both Snape and Hermione watched for several seconds, dumb-struck, before he gave up using his hands and kicked in the rest of the window, glass spraying out with shrapnel-force.

"Stupefy!" Snape pointed his wand, aware that Hermione was just behind him, ducking the shower of glass. The curse hit the man-thing dead-on, but instead of falling as he should have, he merely let out a grunt, then continued lumbering in through the shattered window, paying no mind as the jagged edges sliced into his legs; bright ribbons of blood appeared and dripped down to his ankles, pattering faintly on the tiles.

"Who is that?" Snape hissed, pulling Hermione up from the floor by the neck of her dress. The room was dark, but rather than turning the lights on to get a better look at the intruder, Snape ducked back into the shadows, prompting Hermione to do the same.

"The landlord? How should I know..." Hermione said, panting lightly. "But my wand...I left it upstairs."

"It seems that it may not do us any good," Snape murmured. The intruder was inside now, breathing heavily as he lurched towards them. Snape squinted, just barely able to make out the thing's sagging, un-natural features: his face was slack-jawed, his eyes vacant. Even as he moved in their direction, his eyes did not focus on anything, and Snape noted that he moved as if programmed--in short, stunted gestures. Also, the thing smelled; enough so that Snape was touched with a hint of nausea as its sour breath wafted towards him. It was a scent of pungent decay, and the small noise of disgust that came from his side indicated that Hermione could smell it too.

"Oy! What's all the noise about down here?" The door at the top of the stairs opened, sending down a shaft of light. Hermione moved out into it, and Snape could see that her face was flushed with tension--a hint of excitement there too.

"Ron! Get my wand!" She hissed.

"Eh?" Ron leaned over the edge of the steps and squinted at them. "What are you doing down there in the dark...with Snape?" he asked, an edge of accusation entering his voice.

"Never mind that--"

Before Hermione could finish, the intruder--who had until now been blindly groping about the room--flung himself toward her, growling in guttural, nonsensical syllables. Hermione tried to dodge him, but he was moving much faster than before, and Snape grimly watched on as she miscalculated and ducked too slowly, the man-creature's open palm striking her square in the forehead so that she was thrown back, landing in an untidy heap at the bottom of the stairs.

Snape could hear Ron yelling out, but the distinction of his words was drowned out by the thing's loud gasps and grunts, which came laboured from his chest as he turned from his downed victim. Snape's hand fisted around his wand, and just as he was deciding whether or not to use it the creature turned and charged, once again moving faster than before. Snape had no time to utter a spell as the thing crashed into him, the brute strength of his body utterly graceless; the blow sent him reeling through the curtains and into Hermione's map room, where a sharp desk corner caught him on the hip and sent him to the ground, cursing.

Massaging his aching hip, Snape tried to stand. What kind of creature was this? Seemingly immune to magic, he possessed a berserker's strength, but didn't speak and moved at random, as if working under the influence of a very potent Imperius. But Snape had never heard of Imperius making someone or something physically stronger...and yet, even as he struggled to come to his feet, all of his muscles crying out in protest, Snape was struck with the realisation that he himself felt much weaker than usual--as if the creature's presence had somehow sapped him of his own will and strength.

Crawling in on all fours, wheezing, it seemed that Hermione was experiencing the same duress. Ron followed, his face furious, and before Snape could cry out to stop him, he had rushed at the creature, leaping onto his back and shouting profanities.

Hermione crawled over to Snape's side. "What is that thing?" she whispered, her face twisting in horror as she watched the creature hoist Ron up and throw him across a table, glass breaking and paper flying as he slid crazily across the surface and landed on the floor not a half metre away from where Snape and Hermione were crouched.

"Ah fuck..." Ron moaned, his arm held to his chest protectively and bent at an unnatural angle.

"What does it want?" Hermione didn't take her eyes from the creature even as she pulled Ron over to them, handling him carefully. The thing was circling the room now, his hands roaming listlessly over counters and shelves as if in search of something.

"It's a sodding killer zombie...it wants to eat our brains," Ron said, his normally deep voice strung up in high panic.

"What brains?" Snape snarled, then shot a scowl at Hermione. "You've let him watch those Muggle movies, haven't--"

He was cut off by Hermione's bloodcurdling scream, her pale face looming in close as she wrapped her hands around his arm and dug in with her sharp nails. "STOP HIM!" she bellowed. "ANDY! HE'S GOT ANDY!"

Befuddled, Snape worked loose from her grasp, lightly swatting her away. Managing to look around the room at the same time, Snape could see that the thing did indeed have his arms hugged around the small cauldron. He hauled it from the desk and began to lumber away with it, moving back towards the front of the building.

"Andy...Andy!" Hermione wailed, her tone one of almost desperate heartache. "Oh, do something..."

Do something yourself, Miss Granger. You're the clever one, aren't you? So why don't you just...

Remembering that he had declared himself in charge, Snape got to his feet and began walking drunkenly towards the creature, his eyesight bleary, dizziness washing over him. Noticing his approach, it stopped and watched him almost curiously, arms still tight around the cauldron, the contents of which were frothing and glowing faintly, as if alarmed.

"Put that down, you staggering derelict," Snape snapped, using the dark tone that he had always used to cow inept first-year students on their first day of classes.

But this was no first-year student; even as the thing cocked its head--clearly not comprehending--Snape thought he glimpsed something murky and foul in those vacant eyes...something that was almost laughing at his own pathetic attempt to play hero. Or maybe that was Snape's own internal, caustic laughter. Hero? He was nothing of the sort. Deep disgust rose up in his chest as he backed away, the first to make a gesture of defeat. Before he could back away fully, the thing unhooked one arm from the cauldron and gave Snape a mighty shove, sending him back into the desk again. Snape was hit in the small of his back this time, pain barking up and down his spine, and his legs and feet went watery and numb all at once, causing him to collapse to the ground.

Lost in the thunderous pain, Snape was jolted out of it by a sharp blast of noise, sounding like a whip-crack as it punctured the silence. Eyes startled open, Snape saw the thing stagger and grunt in surprise, almost dropping the cauldron as it reached up to tend to its shoulder, which had begun to spray forth dark gouts of blood. Confused, Snape looked around frantically; back where he'd left her, Hermione was crouched against the wall with her legs pulled up to her chest, her face white and strained as she held a small pistol outstretched in her shaking hand. Snape watched her thin chest rise as she inhaled, then, just before she pulled the trigger a second time, saw her hand steady.

It seemed that the creature fell at the exact same moment that the bang! sounded, the cauldron popping from his hold and rolling away. Dropping the pistol, Hermione scrambled away from the wall and fetched it up, studying the contents with concern, her lips mouthing words that Snape couldn't make out.

"He's okay..." she breathed, steadying the cauldron back on the desk.

"Help me to my feet," Snape said, but even as she pulled him up by the arms, he felt some of his vigour and strength returning; still, she wrapped an arm around his waist and assisted him as they both hobbled towards the outstretched body. And a body it was: an almost-bloodless hole had been shot into the upper-right of the thing's forehead, and without bothering to check for a pulse, Snape could see that he was dead.

"Nice shot," Ron croaked, still nursing his arm a few feet away. Hermione said nothing, instead letting go of Snape and kneeling down beside the body, studying its face closely.

"Be careful," Snape cautioned. The thing had reeked of the living dead when it had first broken in--who was to say it couldn't somehow come back to life now?

Hermione stared at it so long, though, that Ron finally broke the silence by asking, "What is it? Still breathing?"

"No, it's not that..." Hermione began, and Snape could hear her swallow heavily before finishing. "I know him." She paused, and in the silence that followed the sun began to rise, casting long, golden filaments over the man's face, bathing it in light until it could be seen as quite clearly human, and not a monster at all.