Sugar Water

Suite 3B, Today

Draco eyed himself in the full length mirror as he slid his shirt on. He was freshly showered, with that brand new clean feel all over his skin. The pulsing heat of the water had done nothing for the tight set of his body, or the way his nerves were wound, despite how she always suggested it helped to calm people.

He kept meeting his own eyes in the reflection, because he thought he was really the only person to grasp what today meant for him. The only person who could really understand just how far he had come, or what he had done. The only person who felt like laughing at the absurdity of what he would be doing in just a few hours time. His little inside joke with himself as he began to button his shirt, watching the small white plastic slide through the slots. He had spent two hours picking out a shirt, and two weeks looking at it in the closet while he contemplated his correctness in the purchase.

She laughed at him, because he had stopped being so picky a long time ago. He would have laughed at himself too, if he hadn't been so damn jumpy.

It's like a fairytale, that's what his mother would have said. What she always said to describe something unbelievable to him, even when he was far past the days he would lay in wait for her to read one to him before he fell asleep.

Because he used to. He would do anything to make sure he kept himself awake long enough to have his eyes open when she peeked inside, just so he could hear the soothing nature of her voice as it spun the story out for him. When he was really tired, and scared he would fall to sleep in the comfort of his bed and darkness of the room, he would get up and run around in circles. Jump on his bed, and soar around the room, as if he were flying on a broomstick. His mother would find him in bed with a sheen of sweat and a racing heart, but she always pretended like she didn't know what he was up to.

He used to be obsessed with the fairytales she read him, and he would memorize them, so he could read them from memory and to himself whenever he wanted. As soon as he was able, he read them himself, working over the words over and over again. He would play with his friends, assign characters, and act out his favorites. They used to be a huge part of his world, before his father declared over dinner one night that he was too old for such things. And that had been it. He stopped playing, and he stopped reading them and being read to. But he never stopped reading them inside his head. He never stopped remembering them.

There was something amazing about them. Their greatness, that he could grasp even at such a young age. And it was strange, for someone as anti-hero as himself, to have once been so inclined to them. To the idea of saving the world.

France, Post-Tower: 1 year, 2 months

It was one of those days that started humid before the sun had even risen that high. It was the starting light of morning and the air was already heavy, making movements even more sluggish as the heat pressed against your skin.

The outdoor cafe was cluttered, despite its almost empty state of customers that morning. The tables were crammed in close, and when the place was full, it was a gridlock of chairs. An obstacle course to the bathroom or the exit, that always made one want to hop up on the tables and walk across them like you could get away with it.

There was a table of men diagonally from where Draco was seated, and all of whom looked like foreigners who hadn't gotten to bed yet. They were bent over their pancakes and eggs, and despite the occasional obnoxious yell or laugh, they were fading out.

Draco had felt completely comfortable in his dirt-stained white T-shirt and worn out jeans, until she showed up, clean, pressed, and put together meticulously. Except her hair, of course, which couldn't seem to be controlled in the current air. It had been pulled tight and secure to a bun at the crown of her head, but wisps of frizz sprung out to frame her face. It would be worse by the end of their conversation.

He was suddenly very aware of the gash of light brown across his stomach from a grimy pole he had leaned over two weeks ago, and the rest of the dusted brown from a bad night out before that. His jeans were frayed around the bottoms from a lot of walking, and he thought he had one more wash in them before the worn fabric at places in the crotch, seat, or knees gave way to a hole.

Sometimes he forgot who he used to be in favor of who he was. But then there was Hermione Granger.

She sat with no air about her. As if she were used to doing this already, though Draco could count back and mark it the seventh all together, and only the second at this particular cafe. He watched her closely, for signs that she was feeling superior or haughty. For reasons to get angry with her.

"What do you do, Malfoy?" She glanced up at him, half her face bright from the sun rising, the other more hidden and dim.

"For what?" He did several things, and she would have to be more specific.

"For money. You said last time that you were renting a place out. How do you pay for it?"

"I hardly think that's any of your concern."

She picked up the small morning menu, her back ramrod straight as she diverted her eyes from his. He had a habit of making people uncomfortable when he stared at them like that. Put his full attention on them. It had something to do with the coloring of his eyes and the way he carried himself, he thought. The way he carried himself despite his clothing. He knew he was intimidating. That was half the battle.

"I'm trying to make conversation."

"I'm not."

He worked at the back of a restaurant a long walk from there, washing dishes next to the stove. There were no Cooling Charms, or muggle air conditioning, and the blaze from the fire heated the place up like an inferno. So he soaked his shirts with sweat and water, and washed dishes while the locals made fun of the Englishman who couldn't speak more than two handfuls of French words.

She didn't need to know this.

The waitresses and waiters at the cafe always looked a step up from having a disorder. Draco wondered if they purposely hired people paper thin to make sure they could fit through the tiny spaces better.

Granger ordered a tea and a stack of pancakes, her words mangled with a horrible fake accent. The waitress still got the point, accepting the menu even though they kept them on the table, and made her way back through the tables again. Draco took a sip of his coffee, just a few hours away from sludge, and wondered if Granger thought he would be staying the whole time she devoured her breakfast.

Draco was big on breakfast himself. He liked to face the day with waking bones and a full stomach, but it didn't usually work out that well for him anymore. He either slept til noon or had spent all his cash on something else.

"We observed the location you gave for several days. It looked dead. No hint of wards, no activity. We sent a team in anyway to check it out, and they made it to a few yards outside the building before they disappeared. And I mean, disappeared. No boom, no spell, no anything. The moment they crossed that point, they were portkeyed somewhere else."

Draco took another sip of his coffee, and looked up at a table in the center. Someone had stacked glasses on the uneven surface, and the sun shined off them in bright little bursts of white. He saw them falling in his head. Shattering to a million pieces and shining that light back at the sun in brilliant reflections one hundred fold. Saw Crabbe flying through a glass door and out onto the banquet table, the glass speckling in the air like a thousand dots of shimmering light.

"You didn't tell me about any of that, Malfoy."

He looked back at her, and she looked at him like she were trying to see right into him. He thought it was a naive attempt. Even if she knew Legilimency, Draco's head was like a steel fortress. His father had made sure of it. He felt no probing, but Granger seemed the gentle type.

"No, I didn't."

He hadn't remembered until then, when she mentioned it. Anyone without the Mark was portkeyed out, unless they were touching someone with the Mark. It had been years ago since he had been there last. He couldn't remember details.

She sighed like it was a rush to get all the air out of herself, and the salt shaker clicked loudly on the table as she set it down. "We're trying to help your mother, Malfoy. The least you can do is help us."

"You're trying to help yourself. I'm trying to help my mother."

"We're--"

"I already know the story that you're using. Don't bother repeating it."

The waitress was coming, if her sudden grab of attention over his head was anything to go by. The group of men at the far table were retiring from the night out, and as they wound their way past the center table, the glasses shook in their precarious positions. Draco watched them on a breath, until they settled and the rattling stopped, and they remained safely stacked and intact.

Granger placed as many fingertips as she could manage on the china cup, and raised it to her mouth. She pressed it against her chin and bottom lip, and just breathed in the warmth and fragrance, as if it were freezing outside.

Draco sniffed. He had found another thing that annoyed him about her.

"All of us are getting what we want out of it. I'm not saying the Ministry is just doing this to help out your mother. Everyone has their reasons. Mutually beneficial, if you will."

She went back to blowing across the steaming surface of her tea, and he grunted his reply.

"Malfoy, if you leave out information like that again, and put us in danger as you have, then this is over. It's not a game. You're not in a power position."

He settled his full attention on her, but it didn't seem to rattle her as it did before. Her cheeks were dashed with red in her conviction, and she had set her cup down to get the point across. She wasn't messing around. Well, neither was he.

"I am in a power position, Granger. I have the information you want. When someone has something you want, that gives them power. Are you getting this?"

"Actually, Malfoy, there are other people that would be willing to give us this information as well." She held up her hand when he opened his mouth. "After a little convincing. And no, perhaps they don't know as much as you do, but they'll know enough. They will suffice, if you keep coming up lacking."

"Then why not go to them as well? Collect information from all sources?"

"Because the Ministry isn't that interested in giving out too many free rides, or having that many 'loose ends' around. You have been sufficient until this last bit of information. If you continue to be a problem, though, then things will change."

He turned his cup around twice, watching the liquid slosh against the sides. "And who is to say that I didn't just forget about it?"

"No one. But you had better start remembering, Malfoy."

He lifted his eyes. "Are you threatening me?"

She shook her head, bringing her cup back up to her face again. "I'm just letting you know."

Draco stared at her a minute more before heaving a sigh and leaning back in his chair. "So what do you want from me now?"

"We want to know where they went."

"I don't know."

She finally looked at him again, her fingers flexing. "You need to think of something. Do you know how angry the Ministry is right now? Eight Aurors are missing because of your faulty information. If we don't find them soon, and at least most of them alive, I don't know how much longer I can hold them off from taking you in."

"You said you were the only one who knew my location."

"I am."

But it didn't matter. Because she would rat him out if her job called for it. There was only fake security and temporary trust in war. Only ever that. Even if you weren't fighting in the war, you had to fight for where you were and what you needed. But that was life too.

"Give me your napkin. Do you have a pen?"

He wrote it for his mother. The list of locations where his friends would be, and his family, and the people he had grown up around. He brought them down on a small cheap napkin with smudged lettering, because one of them might know what had happened. One of them might be able to help her.

He passed it back, tried not to think about it, and left as the waitress was coming back with her pancakes.

Suite 3B, Today

His hair had been a stubborn decision on his part. It had grown a bit long since the last time he had a decent cut, and when he observed it in the harsher eye of the public, he realized it was too long. Not that he was molding himself to a nicer image for them, or a more accepted one. It was just that he didn't feel the need to have people draw more comparisons than they already did between him and his father.

That was the hard bit too. Because a man stands and takes five years to redefine himself. To crash his own self into the already leveled scope of his life, and to stand in the muck until he figured it out. And there had been this whole life and person to rebuild and reconstruct. To reassemble out of the mess of what made sense and what didn't.

He was still toying with it. Still unsure and unsteady on his own two feet, and now he had the attention of the Wizarding world swinging back to him. Draco couldn't honestly say he was ready for it. Couldn't say he was secure enough in himself yet to deal with their criticisms and fast judgement on his character.

There was so much bad back story, and no one got it. No one understood why it was he would be there tonight. Draco didn't even really get it himself.

Russia, Post-Tower: 9 months

He was in Russia. Had been for months now, but different places. Snape had taken off a few months prior, and Draco couldn't tell you where he was if he had a wand to his temple and a belly of Veritaserum.

He was sleeping in a cot in a small room at the top of a pub. Wickeder men than he had ever been, were constantly passing through and sleeping in one of the other three cots. Draco kept his head down and covered at all times, because any man truly in the way of bad things, knew the face of a Malfoy. On the nights he shared the top floor, he laid in bed and kept his eyes open in the dark, listening in a paranoid warp that lasted until they were gone.

His money was dwindling to the point of worry, he had outgrown or ruined most the clothes he had brought, and he had no idea where to go next. It had been easier with Snape. He led them, he took care of them, he made sure they were alright. The world was harder and scarier without backup, or help, or just someone else you knew was in the mess right along with you. He had to do everything on his own now, and he had no idea how to do most of it.

He had seen Hermione Granger twice before she appeared at the top of the landing. He had been walking out of the alley next to the pub, having spilled out most his guts next to a wooden carcass of something and a rolled up rug. All he tasted was puke in his mouth, and that burn in his throat as his stomach resettled itself again. When he stumbled out of the alley, he stumbled right back in. The old familiarity came jetting back into his bloodstream as he watched the girl and two other slightly familiar females walk across the road. And when they continued laughing and chatting, he was positive they hadn't seen him.

Then Granger, as they passed the alley, twisted her head and looked blindly into the darkness. Draco stepped back farther on instinct, but she only kept walking, never saying a word.

The second, he had been outside. Pressed against the wall of the pub and talking to a small brunette woman, who reminded him of Pansy so much it nearly hurt. It was something he always did. Searched for the faces of his friends in other people. Like Goyle would be walking down the street in an obscure place in Russia, or Malcolm would be trying to drag Millicent from the local floral shop. But he still did it, before he could even catch himself. It was instilled in people to look for the familiar, the comfortable, the safe. Especially when the world around them was the direct opposite of that.

She had passed by him and turned her head back, just as she had when she walked by the alley a day earlier. Just like she had before Draco convinced himself he was smashed and seeing things. Her eyes found his though, and not just the black of night as they had the previous time. And she didn't look away. Didn't even look surprised by the whole thing. Draco was more thrown by that, than the fact he had been wrong in manipulating himself into disbelief last time.

Granger had walked into the pub, and after several minutes of convincing himself that he could make his way through the people without her seeing him, he headed in as well. He went straight behind the bar and through the door to the small kitchen, and then upstairs. He had looked around for Granger without being obvious that he was scoping for someone, but hadn't seen her.

Not until he had his small bag of clothes held tight in his hand, and was walking quickly for the stairs to get out of there. Out of town, maybe out of Russia. Given the Granger Doppelganger reaction to seeing him, he was starting to think it might not have been her. Or was, but she didn't recognize him. It had still freaked him out enough to get him moving though. Tore down the thin and unstable walls of safety the place had given him in the first place, and left him scrambling for his belongings and the door.

She stood in his way though. What probably amounted to five and a half feet of feminine framing, though her stance made her look as if she believed herself a giant.

Fuck. Fuck, he swore over and over again inside his head.

He was swimming with questions. What she wanted, what she was doing there, how she had found him, how many people she had with her.

His hand went for his wand, but it was in broken pieces in his back pocket, where he kept it always. Three pieces. Two, from a few hours after he left the Tower and broke it in a sobbing, hysterical rage. Three, from when he was mugged in Finland for the first time in his life, and the one piece snapped when he landed on his ass on the pavement.

She held up her hands, to show him nothing was in them he guessed, and took a step forward. Approached him like a trapped and angry dog. And maybe he was.

"I've seen you around for days now, Malfoy. I just want to talk."

The amount of adrenaline pumping in his body was phenomenal. He threw himself forward and grabbed at the first thing his hand went for -- the amazing puff of hair on the top of her head. His hand sunk into the mass at the back, and he grabbed a handful of it, yanking viciously. She let out a short cry as her head came with his pull, but he didn't hear it through all that blood rushing in his ears. He twisted it in a circle, until her body was sideways and her neck was bent oddly. Her one hand came up to sink her nails into his arm, and the other batted at his face. She landed two sharp smacks against his cheek as he wrapped an arm tight around her stomach, turning her back against him and jerking on her hair repeatedly. He used his weight and strength to pull her struggling self with him as he walked backwards. Her foot stomped down on his, and she was yelling something at him, her fist knocking back into his stomach and pelvis. He would have been nervous if she weren't blocking everything else, and if he could think straight at all.

She felt as if she were convulsing with the way she was throwing her body away from him, and his grip was slipping. Her elbow flew back and knocked the air out of him, and he turned quickly, using his weight to fling her to the side. She fell back with a cry, landing on the floor, and a puff of her hair was in his fist as he slammed the door shut.

He breathed harshly, looking about himself for a way to keep it shut, when the door blew off from the hinges. Dust and bits of wooden debris showered down into the air, the door falling sideways with Draco's hand still on the knob.

Granger stood on the other side, her wand clasped tightly in her hand, glaring at him and bright red. She looked like she were about to explode.

"You. Asshole," she breathed.

Draco was contemplating tactics. He either stayed and let Hermione Granger, of all people, be the one to catch him. Or, he took off down the stairs and gave it his best run.

"Did it turn you on, Granger? I've heard stories about how you mudbloods like it rough--" She raised her wand, as he knew she would, and shot a jet of light at him.

Draco hauled the door up in counter, already letting go and turning before he heard the wood splinter with it. He grabbed his bag from the floor, having dropped it during their scuffle, and didn't think he even touched the first five steps on the way down.

He actually thought he might have had a shot at it until he spotted the two guys standing shoulder to shoulder at the bottom of the stairs. Their wands were raised and trained on him, and he had to grab the railing to stop from plunging into them. He lost his footing and hit the stairs hard on his leg and hip, his upper body lifted from his grip on the rail.

"Fuck!" he yelled, getting himself to his feet with a wince, his hip protesting any movement.

He rubbed at it brutally, clenching his jaw, and turned toward the wall. He wanted to kick it in his rage, and so he did, slamming the tip of his boot twice into it. His eyes were watering with his anger, and he thought his heart was going to palpitate itself to a stop at any moment.

He couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe it.

"Malfoy," Granger barked from the top of the steps, and he didn't even look at her. "We're not here to bring you back to England. In fact, because we didn't come into Russia with the clearance to capture you, we can't bring you back."

Right. Because the Ministry was the most legal and lawful system he had ever seen at work. Merlin, his father still had sway there.

"I just want to talk to you. About your mother."

Draco felt the muscles move, the bones jerk as he snapped his head up to look at her. His hand stopped rubbing at his hip, and he ignored the stinging in his toe.

"If you can be nonviolent, and sit down to listen to what I have to say in a respectful manner, then you have nothing to worry about, Malfoy. I'll change my mind on the trip to Russian authorities to get my confirmation, and track you down."

It took him several long minutes to relent. If his mother hadn't been dangled over his head, he would have taken his chances on running again while Granger sought her confirmation. As it were, she made it so he couldn't.

His mother was sick, supposedly. It seemed that Snape had been keeping it a secret from him, and when the older man left him months ago, it was to turn himself in on a deal for the treatment of Narcissa. Granger informed him that she had been breathing in the fumes of something, most likely a potion, over a long period of time. It deteriorated her health and by the time the Healers got to the location Snape specified, she was in a state of coma. The Healers couldn't identify what was wrong with her or what she had been breathing in, and couldn't find a way to wake her up or cure her.

His mother was dying.

Snape had said that several months before the night on the Tower, Narcissa had been staying at a Death Eater base, and it's believed that that was where she contracted her sickness. Granger was asking him for locations and information. For any possible places she could have been staying and that the only way his mother could survive, was to find out what had done it. So they needed to find the place she had been staying, or some people who would know what happened to her.

Granger pulled out pictures of his mother. She was pale blue, and faded away, and nothing at all like he had seen her last. That was not his mother laying there at all. He looked away, and didn't look back again.

"Do you think your side is any better than the Dark Lord's now? Asking me to do something I don't want to do for the sake of my mother's life?"

She almost snapped. He could tell because her facial expressions all played out in front of him like a story, and the way she white-knuckled her wand.

"Don't compare us to your 'lord', Malfoy. Your mother is already sick, and dying. We're not making her that way. We want to help her, but we need your information first. We're not asking you to kill anyone."

"You're asking me to kill the people there. To kill them or jail them, whichever comes easiest for you and yours at the time." he spat.

And they weren't just people. They were his people. They were the ones he grew up with, and did all those stupid kid things with, or who sung Happy Birthday to him every year since he gurgled on his own spit.

But there was his mother too. And it was balance, and scales, and which one mattered more. It was choice. Always choice, for Draco. Always the hardest choices.

Lobby, Today

Draco had to wait for the limo. When he was younger, just a fresh teenager with a pocket full of his father's money, the limousines had always been ready when Draco had been ready. It was the way of his world then - it completely revolved around him.

Now, he stood in the lobby of the upscale hotel, and only felt odd as his newly shined shoes clicked across the marble. His tie was too tight, and the jacket was too constricting, and he already wanted to take off his cufflinks and roll up his sleeves.

It had felt like slipping back into uniform, feeling the rich material slide across his skin. Like coming back into his own. But Draco had seen a different world now, and when one faces the worst of his troubles in rundown jeans and faded T-shirts, they don't really expect to be facing down their dilemma a year later in a suit. It's the way things happened. When someone crashed out and fell from the lap of luxury, they didn't just come back up again. They got used to the bottom, even if the reminder of the way life used to be is still ingrained into their skin and mannerisms.

He could feel it though. Could feel how simple and easy it would be to fall back into it. It was all he had known for most his life. But there was this irrational part of himself that flung itself so hard against the idea. Like falling back into designer shoes and on time transportation would mean he would lose a part of himself. A part of the person he had become now.

The concierge smiled warmly at him, but Draco saw the waver in it. He observed the way the man kept his eyes on him at all times, and made sure to never turn his back to him.

"Sir, your limousine has arrived." He had the kind of voice that shook from a lifetime of use.

Draco nodded at him, walking through the door he had opened, and headed out into rainy London. The lights gleamed off the wet streets, and there was just the faintest drizzle to the night. It was warm, and the world smelled new.

The driver was holding the door open, and Draco nodded his appreciation to him, sliding into the leather interior. Dim lights shined down from the roof and around the side bar, two bottles of champagne set out. Draco was glad to be the first one in, but judging by the size of the limo and the two bottles out, he would be having company soon enough.

France, Post-Tower: 1 year, 7 months

Draco wrote down the location, directions, and traps for the secret entrance into the Nott dungeons. He slid the piece of paper back to Granger, and ignored his words jotted down. Ignored the feeling in his gut.

"This should be extremely helpful." She smiled at him, and it made him uncomfortable.

She had taken to doing that now. Since the fifth time they met up in the cafe. Like he was doing something honorable or something. He always glared back at her, and it used to work to get her to stop smiling at him, but now she was just used to it.

"Anything else?"

"Do you know we found Darwin in your mother's things at the house she had been staying at? I didn't picture her as the type."

"What did you picture her type to be then?" Draco sounded like he was looking for a fight; he usually was with her.

"I'm not sure." She seemed to sense his violent nature when it came to anything that could be insulting, and so chose her words carefully. "I just didn't see Malfoys' reading muggles. I thought it would be banned literature or something."

She laughed, like it were a joke. Draco only stared back at her, turning his coffee cup around and around.

"It was, naturally. My mother just never paid much attention to rules."

"Oh." It took her a few seconds to find something to say. "Do you read Darwin then?"

And that was the first time Draco ever stayed until after she had finished her pancakes, and then even longer after that. Until the coffee buzzing through his system was making him jittery, and the sun was high and warmer, and the cafe was crowding quickly.

It started a pattern though, and after all her raving on about the pancakes, he ordered them as well the next time. And the time after that, the conversation was so heavy and involved, she followed him back to where he lived so they could finish it up on the walk there, as he had to get ready for work. It had been the first time Draco ever thought it was weird to walk beside someone. To have Granger next to him, legs in sync with his.

The next time, she just showed up at the house. Stood in the hall with one of the whores catcalling her until Draco walked out from the kitchen and spotted her. But he kept letting the women think Granger was looking for something, because it was far too amusing to watch her bat off their advances.

Limo, Today

Seamus Finnigan stared at him from across the length of the limo, and Draco stared back. The space had seemed huge before, when he had been sitting by himself and contemplating the champagne. Now the distance couldn't stretch on long enough. He felt as if there was hardly any room to stretch his legs.

"I heard that you were invited. No one really knows the full story."

He should have known he would be riding with a Gryffindor. It was practically in the rule book to twist him up in the worst way possible at the most anxious moments in his life.

Draco hummed lightly, staring out at the passing scenes, at different lives, at everywhere other than here. "I don't believe I know yours either."

And he knew there was a difference. A big, gaping void between this cocky little fuck across from him, compared to the cocky little fuck that was him. It didn't matter though, because it was the point. Draco had no business knowing Finnigan's, and Finnigan had no business in his. It was really that simple to him. But he wasn't the one trying to start up a conversation about it, and where it should have ended (shouldn't have even started), Finnigan carried on.

"I was born a halfblood. I went to Hogwarts. I was sorted into Gryffindor. I became friends with purebloods, muggle-borns, and halfbloods. It was never a question what side I would be on when Voldemort came back. I fought for my friends, myself, and what was right. End of story."

"How heroic of you," Draco drawled, leaning back against the seat.

"I know it was," the other man came back with quickly, and Draco could see him nodding his head at the corner of his vision, looking a bit like he may want to pummel him soon. "So what's yours, Malfoy?"

"None of your business, Finnigan."

"I told you my story."

"And I'm not telling you mine. I didn't ask for yours."

"You hinted at it."

"If that's what you took it for."

"Fine. I'll stick to my guess then. Tried to kill off Professor Dumbledore, ran away, hid out like a coward, pulled some strings, signed a lot of checks, got yourself cleared. Right?" Draco was silent. "Yeah, I thought so."

"You're so intuitive, Finnigan. I'm blown away."

The redhead paused. "Wrong then?"

"You can decide that for yourself."

"What are you trying so hard to hide, Malfoy?" he whispered savagely, and it sounded dangerous somehow, like his father when he was catching onto something you did that he wouldn't mind killing you over.

Draco kept his head facing the window but turned his eyes to meet the other man's. "Why are you trying so hard to find out?"

Finnigan threw himself back in his seat, lifting his ass off to get more space in his pocket for his hand. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and put them away, never looking away from Draco the entire time. He wondered if it was some sort of lame intimidation tactic.

But then he thought about how this wasn't a great way to rebirth himself into society. About how all these people were connected like the steps of a ladder, the way of society. Finnigan was connected to every Gryffindor of their year, and every good guy-chest puffing-megalomaniac in the whole fucking Order and Ministry. It wasn't a good thing to piss off one on their side. Not yet, anyway. Not straight out of the box.

"I went to Hogwarts. I was sorted into Slytherin. I became friends with more purebloods. It was never a question of what side I would be on when Voldemort rose again. I fought for my family, and found out murder wasn't right. End of story."

He faced the window again. Finnigan was silent.

France, Post-Tower: 1 year, 8 months

He started counting time post-Tower. As if the rest of his life didn't count up until that part. But Draco saw them as two separate things. There was the Draco he had entered sixth year as, and the Draco he walked out of that tower as. The Draco he was now. It might have seemed a little crazy to someone else if he were to explain this reasoning, but he didn't have to worry about that, because it was only inside his head and it made perfect sane sense there.

Then he started to think of Schizophrenia and how it didn't usually come into effect until someone hit their early twenties, and Draco didn't want to push fate by thinking himself as two different people. So everything became pre-Tower or post-Tower. He used to think of it as 'before everything that happened in the Astronomy Tower' but it was too long, even for his mind, and it shortened itself over time. And that was that. That was how he grew to categorize his life. Everything in his life had either led up to the events of that night, or was caused because of them, and it only seemed fitting he would look at it like that.

And then he started losing track of time all together. He forgot the dates, and the days, and he would forget the months too. Would go on thinking it was October until there was a blizzard under Christmas lights, and he would remember. It had been the end of July before he realized his birthday had passed. He had missed New Years Eve just recently, which had always been one of his favorite holidays. Because there wasn't anything there. Nothing definable in his life, or anything worth counting for. There were days and nights, and a few moments in between that sometimes distinguished yesterday from a week ago. And that was just it. His entire life. Seconds, and clicks, and bangs on the wall, and long walks home.

It stopped being 'three months post-tower' or 'a year pre-tower'. It was just one or the other now. There was before, pre-tower, which he tried not to think about at all but he always did regardless. And then there was now, the hell pit that was post-tower, and he tried not to think about that either. The memories were random moments and pieces of time, all filtered into his head from something he hadn't ever learned to close. But they always felt like someone else's. Pre-tower always felt like someone else's life. And post-tower always felt like something he never wanted.

Pre-tower he had a room as big as this house/hotel, which was just a house, but with a lot of extra rooms for more money. If he knocked down all those walls, his old room would be about the size as the whole place. And his life was grand, and rich, and he was so important there. To his friends, and to the future his father had planned for him, and to his mother. Pre-tower was this brilliant piece of a life.

Post-tower, he had a room a little bigger than his old bed. Just enough room for a twin and space to walk around the edges, and that was it. And he had to get a job to pay for his shit room, and the whores were louder than the men ever paid them to be, and he was no one. Some stupid British kid who didn't even speak the language, all washed out in their neighborhood, just eighteen and already 'going through the motions' of life like it was all over for him. Post-tower was the lowest he thought he could ever be.

He watched outside his window, as the house across the street blazed brightly, illuminating the thugs, nosy neighbors, and prostitutes walking along the pavement. Judging by the far away sounds of sirens that hadn't grown any closer in the past twenty minutes, Draco guessed it was another raid downtown.

He cracked his window, smelling smoke and sulfur, and listened to the distant screams, and then a shriek of tires. Bang, bang, bang, a muggle gun went off, paused, and went off again. There was a woman sobbing in the middle of the street, running around the burning house, and yelling out at intervals. The newly homeless shuffled in their pajamas, and took safety shoulder to shoulder, watching their possessions go up in yellow, red, and black. A gun went off again, closer this time, and Draco shut the window, closing out the sounds and the stench.

His breath fogged the glass, and when he pressed his hand against it, the warmth radiating from his skin fogged his imprint there. He watched the people in their pajamas, already poor and now hopeless, grappling with the idea that their lives had just crashed down. He wondered if they would count too. Post-fire, day one. Oh, that had been a hard night, he remembered. He wondered if they felt something close to what he had felt then. Wondered if they were just as fucked as he was now.

Limo, Today

They were getting closer to the building, Draco knew it. It was the way he could feel the apprehension mounting inside himself, like a brick wall building and building until it just filled him all up. He hardly felt like he would have the strength or ability to climb back out of the limo, for as heavy as he felt.

The girl Weasley had joined them in the limo, much to the surprise of Finnigan, Longbottom, and two other males that Draco didn't know. Supposedly, she was supposed to ride with the rest of her family and extended, in what was probably the longest limo yet, but she had a girly emergency and had to catch a later one. All five of them sat at the opposite side in a small half-circle, either sneaking glances at him or all out staring.

Draco ignored them, fingers twisting and tracing his cufflinks methodically, and his eyes glued to the people and places passing by his window. If he were honest with himself, he had thought that Granger would be following in Weasley, knowing that she was probably the closest girl friend that Granger had. But he knew better, as Granger was bound to be riding either with the Weasleys', or perhaps a separate limo for her, Potter, and Weasley.

He would be alone when it was time to own up and face the press for the first time since everything. Since Dumbledore, and France, and the Manor, and Azkaban.

He smoothed his tie, and caught Weasley's eyes on him. He turned his head to look back at her, and wondered if Granger talked to her about him. Told her personal things, or even anything at all. Her gaze had drifted down to his hand, where four arched lines were white and scarred into his palm, and he clenched his fist and turned it against his pant leg. He didn't like the idea of it. Of anyone knowing but her. He let go of his cufflink, the obvious nervous habit, and looked away.

Closer, still.

France, Post-Tower: 1 year, 9 months

"Big for gigantic coffins." A big guy with hairy hands and sweat dripping off his face smiled like he said a dirty joke, and waved one of his hairy hands in the air of the room.

He said gigantic like gig-antique, and Draco had the distinct impression that he hadn't meant to say coffins. Or maybe he had. The guy was weird like that. When Draco had first shown up, he thought the man he called Dom was the guy who ran the girls. He was the one who owned the house, and had to be seeing his share of the profits. Especially when he had to constantly deal with the assholes coming in banging things around, and demanding things they couldn't find there, and the women fighting all the time. But Draco had seen him slap one once, and seen the woman take off her pointy heeled shoes and clobber the piss out of him. Dom had stood and threw his arms up over himself, screaming in French, and then took off for the stairs. Draco figured from then on that it was the girls who ran him more than anything else.

He was the kind of guy you would imagine in such a place. Dirty, oily looking, curled mustache and thick beard, gut hanging out over the waist of his pants. He stared a lot and picked his nose in public. Chewed with his mouth open, and gave advice on women. Real gig-antique wanker with a penchant for odd behavior. But he minded his business, and Draco could appreciate that.

"A bigger room?" Draco didn't need a bigger room -- didn't even want one. "For what?"

"Who says what? Just uh...going to give you this. Like valued costumer."

Draco scratched his jaw, raising his eyebrows as he popped his tongue into the fleshy side of his cheek. "Why don't you stop fucking around, Dom. You give, I give. I remember."

Dom always tried to bribe things off in exchange for other things. Him saying his 'you give, I give' started on day one, when Draco handed him money and Dom handed back the key to his room. Most recently, Draco wanted a new sheet, and thought Dom was trying to get him to give him a blowjob for it, until he realized he was touching the hole in his zipper-less pants. Yeah, 'cause Draco had zippers in his back fucking pocket, or something.

Dom grinned, yellow teeth plaque crusted and gleaming with saliva as he looked over Draco's shoulder. "The girl."

Draco was surprised for a moment, the cool and composed expression slipping from his face, before he smirked slowly. He glanced back over his shoulder, at the girl who had been staring around at the floor like it was an art gallery. Though, it did look colorful enough for it, to her credit. She had her hands clasped behind her back, her clothes crisp and bright colors, and her hair wild and unruly. There wasn't a mark or smudge on the smoothness of her face, and her eyes were wide and clear when she looked up at the two men staring at her. She was a foreign entity there -- all that innocence standing in the hall of a slum house -- but Draco had always thought she was anyway.

"The girl?"

She turned those eyes to him now, even wider and startled. He looked back at her coldly, a calculated mask on his face to frighten her more. Frighten her enough for her to drop her hands from her back to her sides, and her right to ready itself for the climb to her hip.

Draco turned his head back to Dom, smirk still in place as he shook his head. "You'll only demand the room back afterwards."

"Bastard." He heard whispered harshly behind him, and he reached back without looking, grabbing for her arm.

He hauled her forward, moving to bring her to his side, and she dug her shoes in and shoved back. Her nails dug into his wrist, and his fingers pushed into the warm softness of her upper arm.

"Or, you could just try her out for yourself--"

She kicked his ankle, hard enough for him to jerk forward in response, teeth bared at the flare of pain. She wrenched her arm away, and huffed her indignation, but Draco reached a hand forward on both shoulders and shoved her back. She hit the wall with a gush of air from her lungs, and he pressed his hand over her chest, her heartbeat positively pounding against his palm.

He leaned in, pressing her harder to keep her pinned, but keeping a good enough distance to dodge a leg or knee attack. "Try that shit again."

He was warning her, or challenging her, whichever way she took it. It didn't really matter.

"Let me go," she hissed, and he thought she might be warning or challenging him too.

"Going to go tell your friends about what a violent person I am, if I don't?"

"You may be stronger than me, but you're forgetting something important." She got a cocky little smile on her face, and Draco only mirrored it.

"Perhaps you are," he murmured, raising his free hand, her wand between two of his fingers.

She gaped. Open-mouthed stared at him, breathing out until all the air was out of her lungs, and he let her snatch her wand back. He stepped back, kept his hand over her heart just in case, but the pressure was nearly nonexistent. She smacked her hand into his wrist, throwing it off, and sidestepped him.

She muttered something he couldn't catch, and then turned, storming down the hall and out the door. Draco was smug as he dropped his eyes from the wall, wiping the back of his hand across his hair to get it out of his face.

"No girl?" Dom asked.

"No girl."