Paths

Fzz.

It is a well-known fact that all stories begin and end with somebody's fault. In Draco's case, it was his father's fault. Perhaps a little bit his mother's fault. He wasn't quite sure, but he did know this: whoever's fault it was, it was definitely not his.

Fzz.

Once, when his parents had been out, he had watched a Muggle movie. It was stupid. Yeah, very stupid. Muggles were, in general, pretty stupid. However, all the stupidity aside, it did have one thing going for it which for all its betterness, the wizarding world did not: it had guns. Bang bang.

And also explosions. Boom.

Those alone had been enough to give him a week of sleepless nights re-evaluating the value of wands, which, to the best of his knowledge, generally made noises like party favors: lots of hissing and fizzing punctuated by the occasional monumental balloon pop.

And, in fact, this was why, in what Draco Malfoy currently considered the last climactic scene of the movie called his life, he thought the sound effects were rather lacking. Yes, he was aware that he was seeing his life as a movie. No, he didn't think it was narcissistic. And if anyone had a problem with it, they could just speak to his father, thanks very much. Well, actually...

Fzz.

/Wands/.

Not that it did him any good to be pondering this subject right now, now that he was sitting in cell number who-knew-what, twiddling his thumbs and waiting for Father to hurry up and do something about it.

It had been all Father's fault. If he hadn't gone out that night, Draco wouldn't have forgotten to re-arm the security spells. The Ministry would never have gotten in. If he'd been a little more efficient at cleaning up the family name after Voldemort's demise... hell, if he hadn't gone off and sold his pathetic soul to the Dark Lord in the first place, none of this would have happened at all.

Never mind that Draco more often than not romanticised the notion of being a Death Eater and used to practically flaunt the fact that his father was one. Yeah, that was irrelevant.

He sighed. And it wasn't as though Father would have let him actually be one. Of course, he was somewhat glad of it now. Having a Dark Mark on the inside of his wrist would just be digging himself a deeper grave at this point. The Ministry already thought he was an accomplice.

Fzz.

Draco rolled his eyes. Either he was a Death Eater or he was not. He wasn't somebody's /lackey/, least of all his father's. It gave him a vague little bit of comfort to know that his father was also stuck in Ministry custody, under far more severe charges than the ones against him. Not that he wanted his father executed, no. But he thought it poetically just that, if nothing else, he wasn't the only Malfoy here.

In the meantime, before he had a chance to prove himself innocent, he was stuck sitting around and staring at the paint peeling off a cement wall in a cell. It made his skin twitch. As cells went, this one was decent, he supposed. Rather drab and not the best maintained, and it smelt like detergent, but Draco held that the smell of detergent was better than the smell of uncleaned toilets any day.

Fzz.

And what was that infernal hissing anyway? He'd thought it was just in his head, his mind being sadistic and replaying the truly dreadful soundtrack to The Night You Were Captured, but it seemed to be coming from out in the hallway. Picking himself up off the bench with a sigh, Draco padded silently to the door of his cell and tiptoed to take a look out of the tiny grille up near the top.

The hallway outside, like the cell inside, was fairly unremarkable. Whitewashed walls, dirty tiled floor, desk... nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Then again, Draco wouldn't really know, having only been here a day or two. Though there should have been a guard sitting there. Probably. Maybe.

He paused to listen: nothing.

So no more hissing. No more wandwork. Strange.

He couldn't see a thing from where he was anyway -- why did they make the bars so high up?

A quick glance around the room found Draco a rusty looking folding chair, which he dragged screeching to the door. It made ominous banging noises as he stood up on it to peer out at the hallway again.

Still nothing. The adrenaline that had gathered in his brain was beginning to lose that tingling sensation. Maybe it had just been in his brain after all.

Then a slight squeaking noise caught his attention. Not the chair, though, it was something out in the hallway.

It sounded, in fact, like a rusty door, swinging on its hinges... well. Was he psychic, or was he psychic?

Draco spared a moment to congratulate himself on his brilliant mystery-solving skills, then leaned forward some more. Two cells down. Who was that? The chair creaked in complaint as he shifted his weight on it. "Shut up, I'm getting off already," he muttered.

As he moved back from the door, he made a mental count on his fingers of the people he knew were still in custody. It didn't work out quite as well as he'd hoped. He knew very little. Crabbe the senior, he thought he'd read in the Prophet, had already been convicted and executed. Goyle was still here as far as he knew. Perhaps Avery and Zabini... he wasn't sure where they were, but he didn't recall hearing of their captures. His father...?

Just then, a loud, wailing siren came on overhead.

Draco paused. Zabini would /not/ have managed that.

With a long-suffering sigh, he stepped off his chair and gave it an irritated kick. It clattered into the corner pathetically, clanking loudly in complaint. Wishing he had some proper lighting and some accompanying music, Draco sighed yet again and said, "Well. It looks like I'm the only Malfoy still here after all."

End scene, curtain drop.

When he caught up with his father, they were going to have a serious family conference.

---

LUCIUS MALFOY, SUSPECTED RIGHT-HAND MAN OF YOU-KNOW-WHO, ESCAPED FROM MINISTRY CUSTODY

Sirius Black slammed the paper down onto the table with a dark growl. The plates rattled. Outside, two sparrows picking at the ground fluttered away, surprised by the sudden noise.

"Something wrong, Sirius?" Seated in an old, worn wooden chair opposite Sirius at the breakfast table, Remus Lupin raised an eyebrow from behind his tea.

The table, an old rickety wooden one, looked just about to collapse. Remus had no doubt it would if Sirius kept up with abusing it like that. Though it didn't matter much to him. They needed an excuse to get a new one. Or at least one with all four legs. This one had a baseball bat strapped to one of its broken legs.

Sirius leaned back into his chair, also, like the table, a miracle of modern furniture. The slightest grin quirked at Lupin's mouth as he watched Sirius make a visible effort not to shatter the entire breakfast set in his rage. Whatever the bad news was, he could wait. He sipped his tea.

After a moment's worth of quiet seething, Sirius finally responded by throwing the Daily Prophet across the table at Lupin. "Read /that/."

"No need to try to behead me, Sirius... hmm." Lupin set his tea down and scanned the headlines. "Lucius Malfoy. They just caught him two days ago, didn't they?

"Yes!" A vein was pulsing in Sirius's forehead. "Yes, they did, and the sneaky bastard managed to get out this morning, and do you know /why/?" He caught himself before he slammed his fist on the table a second time and coughed. Lupin could almost see the table cowering in fear.

"No, but do tell me," said Lupin with the patient air of one who's heard the same sermon too many times. "Only, try to be quiet about it. Harry's still sleeping."

"Not really." Both men turned to look in the doorway, where Harry Potter, clad in Golden Snitch-covered pyjamas five inches too short for him, stood, blinking owlishly at them. "What's going on?"

"I think we need a new table." Sirius suddenly announced.

"I told you you'd wake him up, and yes, we do. Morning, Harry. We're eating breakfast."

"Yeah, I can see that," said Harry as he seated himself and poured a glass of juice. "What's the noise about, then?"

Lupin shot Harry a glance that said all too clearly, "Why. did you do that." to which Harry grinned sheepishly. Meanwhile, Sirius quickly reverted back to his previous state of seething anger.

It was, unfortunately, the state of being that Harry generally found him in. Sirius had the shortest fuse of any of the people Harry knew, but to make up for it, he was violently and awkwardly loyal to his friends and loved ones. Since Harry had first seen him, Sirius had undergone a dramatic change, going from emaciated and unshaven convict to the fairly cheerful -- though obviously not currently -- and much more handsome man he was today. His hair was cut, his face shaven, and only the slightest signs remained from his stay in Azkaban. It had taken him a good while since moving in with Sirius, to get used to those signs, and to let them go -- Harry could, on occasion, be too overprotective for his own good. Sometimes he found Sirius sitting on the porch, staring blankly into space, and knew he was reliving his nightmares again. Currently, however, he seemed very much here and on-topic, his fist clenching and unclenching around a stainless steel fork.

"Go on and let it out, Sirius," said Lupin placidly. To Harry, he explained, "It's the Ministry again." Harry nodded knowingly as he lifted his cup. When Sirius wanted to badmouth the Ministry, he would badmouth the Ministry, and nothing anyone did would stop him.

Sirius's cheek ticked. "They do nothing right. Nothing. Can't investigate correctly, can't fight properly, can't even keep their own bloody prisoners in their own bloody cells. Nothing. Let me tell you, Harry, politicians are dangerous people. They only ever think about themselves and they're the most inefficient idiots on the face of the planet."

"This is Sirius telling us we need a totalitarian dictatorship again," said Lupin.

"Mr. Weasley works for the Ministry," said Harry through a mouthful of toast.

"I am /not/. And Harry, he's the exception that proves the rule. You know that. The Ministry ... except for Mr. Weasley, obviously ... is nothing but a bunch of blockheads pretending they know what they're doing and making people's lives hard just for the sake of making people's lives hard."

"Huh," said Harry eloquently. Then, "So what happened?"

Lupin lifted his cups from the table in careful expectation of Sirius's wrath. "Lucius Malfoy. Escaped."

This, if nothing else, seemed to penetrate through to Harry. "Really? Lucius Malfoy? That's Draco Malfoy's father. I thought they only caught them two days ago?"

"/Yes/, they did," said Sirius, who looked like he wanted to bash his own head into the table, "which is why this entire situation is so stupid --"

"Did Draco Malfoy escape also?"

"No, I don't think so, but --"

"Funny. They're a really funny family."

Sirius opened his mouth to say something, but was quickly interrupted by Lupin.

"Yes, they are at that, Harry. Hard to figure them out. And eat your breakfast, will you, Sirius? The situation is probably not as bad as you may think it is. They'll catch him again eventually, and it's not as though he has anywhere to go."

---

In a mental monotone, Draco reviewed the places his father could go. There weren't many, he reflected with some satisfaction. He kicked his dinner plate off the edge of his bed and sat up. The bed was so hard and lumpy he'd probably get more rest sitting with his back against the wall than lying on it. And in the meantime, he had yet to come to terms with what he thought was the greatest betrayal of his life.

How, exactly, could a father forget to take his son along?

Especially if said son was in jail.

It made no sense. Lucius Malfoy was not a bad father, per se. Draco knew he loved him. He spoiled him. Bought him everything he wanted, even the things that supposedly, money couldn't buy. Draco smirked. Like the Seeker position he'd got second year. (Not that he wasn't /good/. No, no he was plenty good. But Flint had tended to favour older students.) And as much as Draco didn't like to admit it, his father protected him. There were the occasional times when he would tell Draco some of his Death Eater secrets, but more often than not, he wouldn't. It kept him innocent, and Draco knew it.

So why, in this most crucial and very convenient moment, had he forgotten to release his son?

Draco wanted to kick something, but he was fast running out of new things to kick. So he sat there, tired, confused, and above all, bored, and waited for something exciting to happen to him.

Not that he had much hope.

---

"Are you /sure/ we should do this walking thing? We're late already." One week later, Sirius had calmed down significantly and Harry, he, and Remus were going to the Weasleys' for one of Mrs. Weasley's sumptuous picnics. It was him, Ron, and Hermione, and their families. Which was why Sirius and Lupin were coming along. "Wouldn't it just be easier to use Floo Powder? I mean, exercise is good and all, but even if we left now, we'd still be half an hour late."

Sirius busily adjusted his orange tie and ignored Harry.

"And Sirius, honestly, you don't need to wear a /tie/ to go walking."

"Are we leaving any time soon, Sirius?" Lupin stood by the door, examining a crack in the frame. "Because if not, I think I might start on fixing this."

"Coming, coming," Sirius grumped, tearing himself away from the mirror at last and giving his tie one last tug. "Honestly, the whole world is against me." He paused, fingered the tie, and gave Lupin a jaunty grin. "Like my tie?"

"Er," said Lupin kindly.

Harry laughed and quickly headed out the door. Very quickly. Behind him, he heard Sirius give a plaintive whine and Lupin's voice, correcting himself hurriedly, saying, "Thankfully, taste in clothing doesn't run hand in hand with personal attractiveness."

Harry whistled an off-tune melody loudly. So. Perhaps he ought to get a head start. The Weasleys were fairly nearby -- only about a twenty-minute walk away. Lupin and Sirius, whenever they were done, could catch up with him. He still found it weird to be living with Lupin. After all, he'd been his /professor/. And it was only slightly weird -- only slightly, really -- that Sirius could possibly be romantically interested in Harry's professor. Ok, so they knew each other from way back, but still...

The talking inside ceased, causing him to quickly trot down the walkway to the street. Not interested, thanks very very much.

He was just pondering the direction he ought to take -- left or right? -- when he heard a loud BANG!

Instinct caused him to duck, and he grunted as he hit the ground hard, but after a moment, he realised that whatever the noise had been, it hadn't been close enough to have been aimed at him. Cautiously, he got to his feet and gazed around. Just to his left and above the treetops, there was already a billowing pillar of smoke.

Some sort of explosion? Perhaps some incompetent wizards trying to enchant a stove again. He'd heard enough of Mr. Weasley's stories to make a fair guess at these things.

Harry was wiping the dirt off his sleeves when he heard loud voices from inside the house, which told him Sirius and Remus had heard the noise also. A moment later, the two came barrelling out and came to a panting standstill next to Harry.

"What was that?" said Sirius, his hands going automatically to smooth back his tousled hair. "Did you see what happened, Harry?"

"No," said Harry. "I'll bet it's probably someone's stove exploded." He craned his neck to see over the treetops. "Actually, it looks pretty serious for an accident."

"Yes..." Lupin furrowed his brow thoughtfully. "... and that, in fact, is the direction we ought to be going in right now. I hope the Weasleys are ok."

Now that he mentioned it, Harry thought those distant trees looked somewhat familiar. Something like the ones surrounding the Weasley residence. He squinted. If that was Ron in those flames... or Hermione... or any of the Weasleys or...

Behind him, Sirius frowned, sending a slight concerned look his way, then turned back and pointed at the house. "Harry," he said quietly. "We could always check before we leave? We can call their fireplace."

"Good idea," agreed Harry eagerly, already turning to run back in. "It would only take a minute, right?"

"Right, not a problem."

"And we're late anyhow," Harry added.

Once back inside, they came to stand around the fireplace. Lupin muttered, "/Incendio/," to start a fire, and Sirius directed the fireplace to call on the Weasleys. The flames roared in response, as Sirius crouched before them.

Meanwhile, Harry sat impatiently on the couch, legs crossed. "See anything yet, Sirius?"

"Blurry." Sirius was leaning forward so much, his face was almost inside the fireplace. "Oh."

Harry's heart raced.

"Oh?" said Lupin.

"Oh. Oh, bad," Sirius said in a deadpan. His eyes were darting from side to side in their sockets, taking in whatever it was he saw at the Weasley's. "Yeah... we've got to get over there. Remus, why don't we Apparate... and Harry, I don't think you want to use Floo Powder today.

"What happened?" asked Harry, concerned.

The flames died down suddenly as Sirius shut down the connection and turned to Harry. "You were right about the explosion, I'm guessing. Maybe not a stove, though. I thought I saw everyone outside, but it's hard to tell. The entire kitchen was in flames, and there was some junk in front of the fireplace... difficult to say. I'll go take a look myself. I wonder what they were doing over there to set something like that off."

"Sirius, let's go. Harry, try to contact the Ministry, and tell them that Arthur Weasley's house is on fire and we may need emergency medics."

"Sure," said Harry, a touch shaken. Emergency /medics/? This was supposed to be a picnic. There shouldn't even have been fire. At all. Meanwhile, Sirius and Remus disappeared together, and Harry took their place in front of the fireplace. "Ministry of Magic, please."

The flames roared green for a moment, played a snatch of what sounded like a monkey on a violin, then a very tired-looking young man appeared. "Ministry of Magic, Department of Civilian Activities, how may I help you."

"Er," said Harry.

The man in the flames looked as though he was going to repeat what he just said again, so Harry quickly followed up with, "I mean, yes. I mean, something's happened."

"Really. Sorry, sir, I have another call coming in, could I--"

"Wait! I mean, Arthur Weasley's house is in flames!" Harry waved frantically at him to put down his wand. Don't put me on hold, he thought anxiously. "They... we think it might be someone attacking him. Or his... his family."

We? No, actually, nobody had said anything of the sort. Harry cursed his mind -- he was so trained into paranoia from Voldemort, it was hard to stop now.

"Who exactly is we?" The young man's hand, hovering drastically near to a wand on his desk, suddenly relaxed. So he wasn't going to be put on hold. Good.

"Er, er... Sirius Black. And Remus Lupin. And.. and me."

"/Ah/." A look of understanding seemed to pass over the man's face. "Harry Potter. And his... guardians. And where exactly are Mr. Black and Mr. Lupin? I see they're not with you."

"They've Disapparated. They went straight to the scene and told me to call the Ministry. They said they might need emergency medics. And... they said it looked bad over there."

"Harry, I'm forwarding your request to the Department of Magical Emergencies, and help will be right there." He paused, and gave Harry a thoughtful look. "You do know where to call in case of an emergency, don't you?"

"Huh?" said Harry. He'd never had to call for emergencies before. After all, at Hogwarts, you just shouted for help and sooner or later Madam Pomfrey would show up on the scene, or someone would escort you to the infirmary.

"It's very simple. Just 'emergency.' The Ministry of Magic line comes here, where we deal with things that don't need immediate handling."

"Oh," said Harry sheepishly. "Ok, I'll remember that."

"There you are, we have an emergency team on the way. Have a ... er, nice day, Harry Potter."

The flames subsided again as the connection was cut. Nice day! Harry didn't think he could possibly have a worse day. Ron or Hermione or some of their family could be hurt and injured or, god forbid, even dead. Although Sirius had said he didn't think anyone looked seriously injured, he'd also been looking through falling planks and lots of flames, and Harry didn't think he should take Sirius's word as hard fact just yet.

In the meantime, he was going to run to the Weasley's. He thought, for a moment, of taking his Firebolt instead, but the last thing they needed right now was Muggles on the scene wondering what a boy was doing flying through the sky on a broomstick.

---

By the time he reached the Weasley's, the Ministry emergency team had been there for fifteen minutes already and the flames had already been put out. Harry did a quick head count. Everyone looked safe, though more than a little harried by the whole thing.

Ron was the first to see Harry jogging up, out of breath. "HARRY!"

He was covered from head to toe in ash, but otherwise, he looked just as he'd always looked. Tall, gangling, and definitely not dead.

"Ron, you're ok! Is everyone else fine?" Now that he was here, Harry could see the damage that had been done -- it looked almost as though a dragon had come along and made lunch out of the front half of the house.

"Yeah, everyone's fine. We were all outside when it happened. Dad thinks Mum left the stove on, but Mum said she hasn't used it at all today. Which is reasonable. I mean, the picnic was all cold food."

Harry collapsed onto the grass, panting. "Wow, a longer run than I thought, coming to your house," he said. "Huh. So you don't know what happened?"

"Ginny was babbling about seeing people running out of the flames, but she's in a bad state right now, so nobody really knows for sure. But why would anyone want to set /our/ house on fire?"

"Dunno. Where's Hermione gone to?"

"She's around. She was just with me a moment ago." Ron gestured vaguely at the surrounding area. "The Ministry is looking into it though. That's them, poking through the wreck. Dunno what we're going to do. I suppose we could always spread a really large canvas over the hole and enchant it so it's weatherproof. For now, at least."

Harry laughed. "A canvas?"

"Well, it's no easy thing to do construction on your own, so we'll be needing to hire someone to do it. And it'll take awhile, I'm thinking."

"I see." Harry took a moment to let his eyes sweep over the scene again, and spotted Hermione headed their way. "Oh look, there's Hermione."

At the sound of her name, Hermione came running over. She, like everyone else there, was covered with soot, but otherwise looked fine. "Harry, you're here!"

"Yeah, glad to see everyone's ok. Have you spoken to Sirius or Lupin?"

"A minute ago, yes, they're just around the back," she said, brushing soot off her cheeks. As she nodded to Ron, standing behind Harry, a sudden thought seemed to strike her. "Oh Harry, did Ron tell you what Ginny was just saying?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "Saw people running out of the flames. Sabotage or something like that. But she's supposed to be in bad sha--"

Hermione shot Ron a dirty look and interrupted. "She's /fine/. Honestly, Ron, you have no faith in your sister. And, Harry, she said she saw people in black hoods. You of all people should know what kind of wizards run around in broad daylight in black hoods."

Broad daylight? Black hoods? Harry's mind raced -- oh! Wait a minute...

Harry and Ron gaped at her simultaneously. "But they're /gone/."

"What?"

"Well... they're gone," said Ron, with the expression of one stating the blatantly obvious. "We beat them. No more. Remember?"

Hermione glared, and even through two layers of soot, her glare was enough to send both boys cringing. "Don't you two ever read the paper? We haven't caught all of them yet. And just last week, /Malfoy/'s father escaped from prison. Whatever he's doing, he can't be up to any good. And you /know/ how he hates your dad, Ron."

"That doesn't make any sense at all," Ron muttered. "Who would come along and set a kitchen on fire just for the hell of it?"

"Well," said Hermione, with a glance spared to Harry, who was standing there looking about as confused as Ron, "whatever they were here to do, I sincerely doubt it was to set your kitchen on fire. /I/ think they somehow found out that Harry was going to be here, and that's why they came."

Once again, both boys stared at her. Finally, Harry spoke up. "/Why/?"

"Yeah, that doesn't make sense either," Ron agreed staunchly.

"No no," said Harry. "That's not what I'm saying. But still... it's not as though anything they did to me could help them. Dumbledore told us that no magic can raise the dead, and Voldemort, I think we all agree, is definitely dead this time."

Hermione appeared to ponder this for a minute, then shrugged. "I don't know. But I think the Ministry agrees with me on this one." She nodded meaningfully at the workers still sifting through the ash. "I already spoke with them."

---

"Hey."

"Mrph." Draco did not deign to speak to his guard. Not now, not ever. He fed him, and that was about the extent of his knowledge of his existence. He also kept him locked in here. Which was not nice.

"Hey kid."

"Not a kid."

Footsteps approached, and Draco looked up from cleaning his fingernails to see the guard's grinning, red-cheeked face in the grilled window of his door. "Knock knock."

Draco gave him what he thought was a threatening glare. It came out more surly than he hoped. "Go away. I don't /want/ to hear your latest stupid joke."

The cheerful look washed out of his face, and the guard slapped a copy of the Daily Prophet against the heavy metal door. "Well, fuck you too. I was going to tell you something interesting, but apparently, you don't want to hear it." He spat in the corner. "Prisoners these days. Back in the old days, jailers would beat you for fun. Be glad the worst I do is a lame joke."

"Daily Prophet? What was that? That was the Prophet. Show me!"

"Not telling you anymore."

"The fuck is that about?" Draco hopped off his bed now, fingernail cleansing forgotten, and craned his neck above the grille to give the guard a menacing look. "Tell me what you were going to say."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't have to. You're my prisoner." He looked up, smirking. Draco gaped at him. "And you're rude."

"Well," said Draco slowly, his mind going at breakneck speed to weave some sort of halfway plausible excuse for himself. There was a reason he was cranky. Really. Besides his generally being cranky on a day-to-day basis. "I mean... I think... it's understandable given the circumstances."

No response from the guard. He was contentedly reading his paper.

"After all," he continued, speeding up, "I am imprisoned against my will, and, I might add, completely on flimsy and faulty evidence, /and/ to top it all off, my sweet daddy decided to hop out of jail without me. I'd like to see you go through that and not be cranky."

The guard raised an eyebrow dubiously, lowering his paper. After a moment's glaring, he said, "You're not a good actor."

"Ow!" Draco banged his head against the door as he jumped up angrily. "Hey!"

Looking vaguely alarmed, the guard waved the paper at him. "It's just an article, for heaven's sake. Calm down." He seemed to think that telling Draco whatever news it was he had would probably be preferable to letting the boy knock himself out on the door. Though if anyone needed a good beating, Draco did. "Some delusional Death Eaters tried to attack the Weasley house. They said Harry Potter was supposed to be there that afternoon, but he wasn't." When he saw Draco staring at him like he was a ghost, he continued, "Well, you know, nothing actually /happened/. I just read it and thought maybe you'd be interested in what your old colleagues were doing, that's all... oh, damn," he suddenly said, eyes jumping to the clock on the wall. "It's late. Got to feed you."

Draco snapped out of his mental reverie -- Weasley, Harry Potter, attack, Weasley, Harry Potter -- long enough to try his hand at being witty. "Woof woof. Want to take me out on a walk?"

"Fat chance. I'm not as stupid as the previous guard." As the man walked off down the hallway and out of Draco's view, Draco removed his face from the bars in his door. Rubbing dolefully at the red streaks on his jaw, he once again seated himself on the incredibly uncomfortable bed. It was obvious that the Ministry did this on purpose. The bedding, that was. It was probably just his cell, too.

The infinite loop of Weasley, Harry Potter, attack was still running in his head, and Draco diverted his attention away from the bed to return to that now. So. The Weasleys had been attacked. While Harry Potter was supposed to have been there.

Very interesting.

Never the most faithful of people, Draco was very quickly running out of faith in his father. If he was stupid enough to leave his son in the hands of the Ministry, he was stupid enough to do this. And the timing just happened to coincide so perfectly, too...

Draco needed a fast ticket out of here, and he knew where he could get one.

---

Harry was not one to stay in shock. It was enough for him that his friends were safe; he wasn't going to dwell on it and nurse it like an old wound. He was, however, going to pester the living daylights out of the Ministry until they found out who did it and hunted them down.

Meanwhile, Sirius was on a rampage about Lucius Malfoy again, and it seemed from the conversation the two had been holding earlier across fireplaces, Arthur Weasley was of the same mind.

For the fifth time that day, Harry found himself trying very hard to talk to a Ministry of Magic representative without being put on hold.

"So... so can /you/ actually do something about it?" Harry asked the third representative he'd been forwarded to.

The bald man in the fireplace scratched his ear and looked frantically nervous. "Er, no, but ... oh, one moment, let me put you on hold, I have another call coming in..."

"Wait, no--" Too late. The fireplace was already squawking like a yodelling cat.

Harry cut the connection -- it wasn't worth the wait. He had a better idea. He'd probably be seeing Ron again soon -- and even if he weren't, this was what fireplaces were for -- and maybe he could talk to Mr. Weasley about it. Like as not, Mr. Weasley was already on the case and working overtime on it. When it came to Harry, Arthur Weasley treated him like a sixth son. In any case, he just wanted to make sure. He figured he was safe enough where he was, living with Sirius and Lupin. What with the Defense Against the Dark Arts training that Lupin had, he was fairly confident that there wasn't much that could happen to him. Setting a kitchen on fire, after all, didn't seem to Harry like advanced Dark Magic. And besides, he was more worried about Ron and Hermione than about himself, to be honest.

He leaned back into the couch and yawned. It was a Friday afternoon, and it was sunny out. What was he doing indoors? He craned his neck over the back of the sofa. Yes, it definitely looked warm out. And between the fact that the majority of their neighbours were wizards and the fact that there were conveniently tall trees planted all around the property, he could probably even take the Firebolt out for a quick run.

Just as he was getting up, however, the fireplace made a strangled beeping sound -- Sirius had promised to get that fixed, but he'd been promising that for about 6 months -- indicating another call coming in.

Harry frowned. It wasn't the Ministry. The Ministry never called back. In fact, it was probably Hermione, calling "just to check" for the third time. As the face popped out of the flames, Harry grumbled irritably, "Bloody good timing."

"Sorry? Is this Mr. Potter?" It was an unfamiliar face, a woman with sparse brown hair and tired wrinkles around her eyes.

"Er. Yes," said Harry sheepishly. Oops. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, I'm Malinda Gardner from the Ministry of Magic-- sorry, is something wrong?"

Harry shut his mouth quickly. So the Ministry of Magic /had/ called back after all. Some things were less predictable than hold music, apparently. "Oh, no, no. So you're calling about the attack on the Weasleys?"

Malinda Gardner frowned, and the wrinkles on her face deepened. Harry reflected idly that all Ministry workers seemed to be somewhat tired. (He was sure Sirius would be able to read into that somehow.) "Er, not quite. Well, perhaps a little. We have a certain prisoner in custody who's making a whole lot of noise about seeing you. Claims he knows something about the attacks. An old classmate of yours, I believe."

"Oh," said Harry, the eagerness dropping out of his voice.

"Not very excited about the proposition, I presume."

"Draco Malfoy?"

"Yes, that's right."

"I don't want to see him."

He was about to turn away when Malinda said, "Wait, wait. I mean, I'm certainly not going to press you on this, as it's your own business and not mine -- I'm just in charge of setting up visiting appointments. But why don't you just go and listen? No need to take back what he says. And I sincerely doubt a wandless wizard could do much harm to you, Mr. Potter."

Harry didn't say anything for a long moment. Then he sighed, rolled his eyes, and said, "God, Malfoy. When will that prat get out of my life. Ok, then. When do I go?"

---

They sat across from each other and glared.

The glass between them, no doubt enchanted with several magical wards, practically quivered between their glares.

Then Draco said, "Hullo, Potter."

"What?" Harry bristled.

"Only trying to start off the conversation off on the right foot. Being friendly, you know."

"The last time I recall you were friendly to me was when we were both eleven years old. If I remember correctly, you were also insulting Ron at the same time."

Draco barely quenched the sneer that rose to his face. "If I remember correctly, we're both seventeen now, practically eighteen. If you're not old enough or mature enough to put aside past differences for the sake of one meeting, then forget it."

"Past differences! What /are/ you-- oh, never mind. Hurry up and get on with it. I don't have all day."

"Oh. Well..." Clearly not expecting that, Draco leaned cautiously forward in his seat, eyes slightly averted from Harry.

"Yees?"

"Actually... er, see, I don't know anything really. Not for certain, but--"

"Malfoy!"

"What?"

"You called me all the way over here just to tell me you don't know anything?"

"Will you let me finish?" Draco was starting to get impatient, and shoved his fingers through his hair irritably. "I know it sounds stupid, okay? I admit it. Now spit on my face and let me continue."

There was pause on Harry's side. Then he shook his head, expression still dubious. "I'm listening."

"I'm sure you've noticed. Voldemort was defeated /months/ ago. It's not as though if the Death Eaters wanted to do something to you, they couldn't have before. But it's only started happening this week. And only just before that..."

"Lucius Malfoy escaped from prison." Harry nodded. Nothing new. It wasn't rocket science -- he would have thought of it even without Hermione's timely prompting.

"Well, right."

"You're selling your own father to me? How low can you get?"

"He's the one who dumped me here."

"Honestly, Malfoy, sometimes I wonder about you. You /and/ your family."

Draco leered. "Only sometimes? I thought I occupied your thoughts every waking moment."

"Not likely."

"Well," said Draco, reverting back to seriousness, "I may not know anything right now, but ... well, he is my father. And I'd be willing to help you. But only on one condition."

Harry gave him a deadpan stare.

"This place is like hell on earth. I need you to get me out of here."

"..." said Harry.

"You don't have to just set me free to go willy-nilly wherever I please, but I'd really like sleep in a real bed again. And eat real food. Really. I mean, I'm sure the Ministry could just as easily keep me under surveillance with a guard following me around twenty-four seven, it's just that they don't--"

At that, Harry snorted loudly. "Yeah, good try, Malfoy, but I think not. I'll manage just fine on my own. Have a nice day in prison." His chair gave a complaining screech as he shoved it back and stood up.

"Hey! You can't just leave like that." Draco knocked against the glass for Harry's attention, and to his relief, the boy turned back and glared.

"Tell me something useful."

"At least /consider/ it?"

"No."

"Potter, I thought you had a heart," Draco whined.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I never did anything, Potter. They're going to send me to Azkaban."

There was a slight pause. "Malfoy. The dementors are gone, you do remember that, don't you?"

"Er. Yes. But they'll /execute/ me. You know how harsh they're being this time. When in doubt, kill. They think I'm an accomplice, Potter."

"Aren't you?"

"No!"

"Look, I don't have time for this." Harry's expression was blank as he shoved his chair back under the pock-marked wooden desk. He idly wondered how it had got to be like that. It looked like chewed pencils.

"They're going to kill me, Potter. You don't know that I'm guilty."

"I know your family is guilty."

Once again, he turned to leave, but Draco said softly, "That's not the same thing."

Again, Harry paused before answering. "... Never thought I'd hear you say that, Draco Malfoy. Times must be bad for you."

"No KIDDING, Potter. Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

"Don't swear at me, Malfoy."

"I don't want to die."

"You're not /going/ to."

"I'll kill myself."

"You wouldn't."

"I would too. You watch the papers."

"Why should I care?" But Harry's forehead was crinkled now with the slightest inklings of doubt.

"I don't know. Because I'm ..." Draco waved his hand articulately in disgust. "Because I'm a person, you twit."

Harry eyed him for another minute, then sighed and turned on his heel. "Jesus Christ, Malfoy, you are such an attention whore."

"Wait!"

"I'll ... consider it, ok? I'll talk to people." Harry gave him a severe glare as the slightest hint of a victorious smile tugged at Draco's lips. "And this is /not/ a promise."

As Harry left the room and his footsteps slowly echoed off, Draco leaned back into his chair and allowed himself the slightest of smirks. Amazing how far you could get in this world just by being Draco Malfoy.

---