Winter Sunlight

Winter Sunlight

By Undertree33

Chapter 1 – Hunting Monsters

There was a crowd gathered around the pavement, held back by yellow tape and the forms of grim muggle policemen standing behind it. Harry could see a pool of dry black blood on the pavements, and the chalked outline of a person, weaving in and out of the pool of blood. But the body was gone, being loaded into the back of an ambulance next to another shrouded body. He looked at the two bodies, the familiar aura of violent death surrounding the area, and took in a deep breath. Whether he appreciated the tang smell of dried blood mixed in with the sharp bite of late autumn winds, or the aura of death he could almost taste in the air, blood screaming desire for vengeance, venting rage on all until it was found, he didn't know. But it was enough to make him feel almost nostalgic.

He could tell that Neville could also feel the residue of death in the air, in the way his shoulders tightened and his nostrils flared. They were a matching pair, he and Neville, fit for nothing but to sniff and hunt out death.

The paramedics finished loading up, and closed the doors to hide the covered bodies from view. A collective sigh and buzz went up from the crowd as the winking lights of the ambulance slowly disappeared around the corner, and they started dispersing with the disappearance of the sights. Curiosity only remained at a peak with the morbid human fascination with death. When that was gone, people started finding better things to do with their time.

He turned his attention back to the policeman, who allowed them to pass after inspecting his escort's credentials, with a curious look on his face. No doubt he was wondering who they were, but he kept his face impassive, and kept his scar hidden beneath his hair. The scar attracted too much attention, from both muggle and wizard worlds, and he wanted this visit to remain in as few memories as possible. He was stared at often, both in and out of work. He was used to it. And with ways to deflect unwelcome attention or curiosity.

He rubbed his face with a grimy hand. How long had he been up and running? He could remember catching a short shut-eye two days ago, and eating something a few hours back, but the memories were all running into each other. Gods above, he was tired, chasing after the chain of murders that had broken out in wizard London in the past week. A higher death count than seen in all the years since the war had ended. Rumor and fear was flying thick and fast, and his division was running at full steam, and beyond.

They were pointed to the man in charge, a large heavyset man with a red face and bristling mustache that reminded him vaguely of uncle Vernon. But he had a look of competence about him that would have had his uncle sent packing.

"Afternoon, Agent Weasley, Internal Relations," his companion spoke. Harry was reminded again how amusing the statement was. There was nothing "internal" about what Ron did – he was the liaison between muggles and wizards, after all. Ron had been especially proud of the sarcasm inherent in the name.

The inspector introduced himself, and his voice was a low, brassy rumble. The man took Ron's offered hand with a curious look, and then shook their hands in turn. He had a heavy, strong grip that he liked. The inspector obviously was curious at the two unshaven young men with sunken eyes, one short, the other tall.

When Ron had explained their purpose, the muggle police inspector - "Toriop, though everyone just calls me Inspector Bull" - shrugged, gesturing to the scene. "Go ahead. Looks like bad business all round, and I'd appreciate the help." He looked at Neville, who shrugged. With a nod, he headed inside the building, his little troupe following.

The building was lavishly decorated, catering to the wealthy, and the flat was even nicer. It was nice in a way that spoke of long digits at the bank, and fine taste by the people who spent it. Harry himself had no appreciation for such things, but he could hear Ron's appreciating whistle. Ron always had an eye for luxury, despite his vehement statements against such bourgeois sentiments.

Neville also looked in close detail at the things he passed, and he could tell a little better what Neville was seeing, which were multiple wards and magical guards. He couldn't remember a place this heavily warded since the first time he had entered his godfather's place. But every last ward was disabled or destroyed outright. Then they entered the master bedroom, which put the rest of the house to shame, in more ways than one.

"See anything?"

Neville grimaced at Ron's flippant remark. All three of them could see, clear as day. The walls, the floor, the ceiling - even the open windows were laid so thickly with wards that it set his teeth on edge. And where there were no wards, it was filled with fine works of art and expensive looking pieces of furniture.

He wondered how anyone could bear to live and sleep in such a place. Even the muggle inspector was uneasy, although he probably couldn't tell why it was so. Though the form of another figure outlined in white on the floor, this time vaguely female, should be able to explain away a few of the jitters.

Neville frowned and stared and said nothing, which was rather unusual. Then again, they were pretty beat. He was peering about the room with his penetrating gaze, brown eyes gleaming. Sometimes he wondered whether Neville could see through the walls. The rest of the time, he believed.

After a long, thoughtful look at one of the walls, covered with multitudes of small miniatures and paintings and of course, the omnipresent wards, Neville took a step back and took his wand out. Unconsciously, Harry's own hand also reached and tightened on his own wand, the smooth surface familiar and comforting. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Ron doing the same. Neville pointed the wand at the picturesque wall, and muttered a spell.

There was a wrench of magic, as the wards tightened on this magical invasion of the sanctuary. Then a gleam of red light appeared, covering the entire surface of the wall, and when it was gone the wall had disappeared, opening into an alcove with full bookshelves lining the walls, and a large wooden cupboard.

Somebody - probably the inspector - exclaimed with surprise, but all three ignored it. He had his wand out and ready, as did Ron. After a short wait, by unspoken consensus Neville entered first, while the other two hung back and watched.

Neville touched nothing, but every object in the room was subject to intense scrutiny. When Neville opened the cupboard with another muttered spell, it was filled with spell ingredients. Contraband spell ingredients. Skull of babes, skin of virgins, eyes of the blind - they were all there, and more, some that even he hadn't seen before.

Neville continued his searches along the bookshelf, running through the titles and peering at the bookshelf, searching for any more hidden tricks. Apart from a ward that prevented the books from being summoned, there was nothing special about the bookshelf. The books, however, were a different story.

It was the most comprehensive library of the dark arts that he'd ever seen, and that was saying much, seeing as he had personally sacked Voldemort's very own collection. The collection was truly impressive, filled with the rare and obscure tomes of the ancient dark arts, along with the easier to access - but still highly illegal - books of more recent dark arts.

Harry noticed that the inspector was hanging back and watching with avid interest, keen intelligence behind his eyes. The inspector was intelligent enough to wait and keep his curiosity in check, until his questions could be answered. And in the meantime, he gathered as much information as he could. He reminded himself to pump the inspector for anything that they had missed. Before wiping him, of course.

After a long, uneventful search, Neville came back out of the alcove. "We're finished here," he said. He turned to the inspector and raised an eyebrow. "Unless the Inspector has anything?"

The inspector shook his head.

"Nothing unusual except for the double homicide. Cash and easy goods are gone, so it looks like a robbery gone bad...."

Neville and he exchanged a look of surprise. Something was wrong here. There was something that they had missed. Neville turned back to the alcove and started searching the alcove in greater detail, while he turned back to the rest of the room and examined the pieces in depth. The inspector looked a bit taken aback by the reaction his casual comment had caused, but Ron was watching them work with both appreciation and apprehension.

"I've got it," said Neville. He straightened up and hurried over, where Neville was gazing down at a spot in the bookshelf. An empty spot. "Don't know how I missed it. They took a book, maybe two." He sounded faintly angry with himself, but too tired to bring his full effort into it.

The books to the left of the blank spot read 'Vampires' and the ones to the right read 'Zombie.' The bookshelf was alphabetized, though that was no indication of the title of the book. The proprietor had put his own covers on the books, labeling them to his personal preference.

He turned around, and the inspector looking at them with an impatient look on his face. He could see that the inspector was preparing to ask a number of awkward questions.

"Now I want some answers from you folks...."

He shot a glance at Ron, who nodded.

"Here, inspector, let me explain a few things to you...."

Neville turned and left the room, and he followed close behind. As he left the room, he could hear Ron's voice. "Obliviate!"

He stepped out into the street, already darkening with the sunset. It was chilly in the late autumn winds. Neville was staring morosely at the muggle policemen, who huddled in their jackets, fighting the cold. But he welcomed the cold that seeped into his bones and soothed his constant fever.

Leaning against the wall, Neville fished in his pockets for a pack of cigarettes, then lit with a sigh. Standing beside him, Harry flared his nostrils, blowing out, and turned his head to frown at the smoker.

"Filthy habit."

Neville shrugged at his shorter friend, and the two of them waited in silence. It was only one of Neville's many vices, after all. And it was their first true break since the first call had come in, a week ago.

Reminded, he put a hand against his head. It burned, like it always did, with fever. It seemed unnatural to him that his temperature could be so high while he walked about with complete faculty, but he wasn't about to complain.

"Your headache?" Neville asked. Harry nodded, and Neville left him alone. The mediwizards had never found anything truly wrong with him.

Neville had smoked down to the filter when Ron emerged from the building. "Well, that's taken care of. Where're you two off to, now?"

He looked at the falling sun. The day was almost ending, but there was nothing at home that tempted his presence. The office it was. He looked at Neville, who looked at him with bland eyes. Ron blew out an exasperated breath at their silent communication.

"Really, both of you should take a break. You look like you've had a pretty rough week. Though those were the days. I sometimes miss them, you know."

Neville retorted, flicking the butt away. "No, you don't. You like your new job, just as Hermione likes hers."

Ron grinned, that patent Weasley grin that somehow brought all the fire of life the members of that family possessed to the fore. Harry was grateful that his friend had retained that singular trait, despite everything.

"How about dinner then, before you two head off?"

He shook his head no, and heard Neville make his own excuses. He shook Ron's hand, and felt a brief flash of disappointment pass across Ron's face at the warm, but not overt, gesture of friendship. Inside, he too missed their easy camaraderie of the old days. Sometimes.

"Give my regards to Hermione, will you?" said Neville, then the two of them disappeared with a flash of apparation.

* * *

Neville's hands started that familiar jerking, and he shouted to his partner. "Excuse me for a moment." He had forgotten her name. She nodded and shouted something back, though it was drowned by the blaring speakers. But he thought she had gotten the message, seeing as she didn't try to follow him. If she thought he was leaving her, fine. He was easily confident of catching someone else.

The tightly packed bar stank of alcohol and smoke and cheap perfume, overlaid with the unwashed body of the masses. His hands started trembling, as he weaved his way through the crowds of waving dancers and couples lounging and making out in the semi-darkness, all sight colored by the whirling, flickering multi-colored lights.

Smiling back at some of the prettier women leaning against the walls, or dancing on the floor, he made his way to the back. What it was about him that women found attractive he would never know, but they flocked to him like bees to the honey. More like moths to the flame, he amended to himself. He should be resting now, recharging his energies, instead of going clubbing through the night, but it was instinctive, almost. And he'd been out of firewhiskey, anyway.

His hands were trembling fully now.

He half kicked the door to the bathroom open, gratefully free from the masses of people. It was lighted with blue fluorescent lights, washing out all colors into a weird shade of bluish grey. There was a small group of men leaning against the wall or lounging on the floor in the far corner, joking and talking with each other through the haze smoke of cigarettes and Merlin knew what other things they were sampling.

Neville turned to the washbasins and dashed his face with cold water, grimacing. The black circles under his eyes had receded, and the pallor had been treated liberally with alcohol, but the trembling still continued.

He ran a shaking hand through his hair, and stared at the face staring back at him in the mirror. His cheeks were still a little round, even though all the other fat had long been sweated and wounded and burned from his body. He sniffed at the stink of cheap perfume and smoke etched onto his clothes. Some smokers seemed to be unable to smell the thing on their clothes. He wasn't so lucky.

He turned away from the basin to the small group. The youths came up to their feet and tried to look menacing, but he ignored them and headed straight to the man in the reggae cut.

"Waddya wan, man?" the man asked, peering at him through the ridiculous sunglasses. In this dim light, of all places. But he wasn't about to discuss the dictates of fashion with this man, in this place.

"The good stuff," he replied, and was answered with a white grin and open palm. A small transaction took place, and a small vial and a roll of bills changed hands.

He kicked a stall door open. There was a man inside, fully dressed, leaning against the wall with an empty grin and drool leaking from the corner of his open mouth. He dragged him out by the collar of his coat, and closed the door behind him. He closed his eyes before carefully opening the vial and spilling the contents into his mouth. As always, the thought that he could have grown the necessary ingredients himself passed his mind, before he moaned in relief as it sizzled and burned against his tongue and the roof of his mouth. Then there was a white glare of light somewhere, and everything faded out.

* * *

Harry was dreaming again.

Logically, he knew his body was lying on the hard bed in his empty flat, burning with his perpetual fever. But his mind didn't seem to care, transporting through time to his memories, that it replayed over and over and over.

He didn't dream often, but when he dreamed, his dreams were always haunted with the ghosts of the past. Occlumency was no use, for no amount of magic could seal away the images and memories that were burned into his mind.

The dreams brought with them the memory of the blood and the fire and the pain. And above all, guilt. Guilt that stained his hands with blood and refused to come off. Sometimes he wondered when he'd be free from the stench of blood. The rest of the times, he didn't wonder, but knew, that it would never come off.

But this ghost, he welcomed, even though it made his heart beat heavily from the pain and his guts wrench in guilt. Because when he dreamt of her it wasn't always about death, and he could hope for a little while that the blood would come off.

He was writing a report at a desk, an old desk. He remembered both report and desk with vivid clarity. The smooth surface, worn by years of use. The way the rickety drawers would jam, and the handles fall off, when he tried to open them. The report was never finished. It was strange what little things the mind remembered.

There was a knock on the door, and he put the quill down. It was sticky with the blood on his hands. He picked up his wand, and it was weeping blood. It always was, in his dreams. He wiped the blood on his trousers, and called out for the person to enter, though he already knew who it was.

"Hey, Harry."

She was almost bursting with happiness, and his heart twisted in sharp pain. She had been so young and full of life, even though there had been so little to be happy about, those days. If he had been their symbol, their figurehead, then she'd been the fire that kept everyone going.

"Hey, Ginny. What's up?"

She practically danced inside and proudly lifted her left hand, and he could see the twinkle and gleam of a band around a finger.

"Finally! He asked?"

Ginny grinned impishly. "Of course he didn't, the stupid git. That stupid saying of his, that he 'wouldn't leave me a widow before time.' I asked him instead."

He laughed, because it was the right time to laugh. But he also laughed because if he didn't laugh he would have to weep, and she didn't deserve that today. No matter his true feelings on the matter.

"I hoped you'd be happy for me," she said in a subdued voice, observant as always.

"Of course I am!

"Of course you are," she echoed, and let out a low breath. "I wish things had worked out with Hermione."

Somehow, she always knew the things to make his heart wrench, in pain and in love. He grinned, though it hurt his face, and clenched his teeth against the pain. "So what did he say?"

She took his apology for what it was, and went back to her usual cheery self. As always, he wondered how much of that was real, and how much a facade.

"What could he say? What could any man say, against my charms?" Ginny gave a toss of red hair. "He said yes, of course. It turns out that he had the ring in his pocket all this time, the git." She smiled, and flourished her ring.

"Happy now?"

"Of course. Couldn't be better - except for the whole You-know-who thing, but we'll win in the end, I know we shall."

"Love conquers all?"

"Love conquers all."

That had been the day before The Day.

* * *

Neville lounged on the rather uncomfortable chair in the large corner office, all black and white with modern furniture that looked rather out of place with all the other things outside. But it matched perfectly with the handsome middle-aged man sitting in the sleek black armchair behind the desk. The man was sitting with his eyes closed, and had his fingers under his nose in a way he had learnt over the years to mean that his superior was in deep thought.

The door opened, and Harry stepped inside, closing the door neatly behind him. Harry also looked much better than the night before, though he still had black circles under his eyes. He himself wasn't much better inside, he thought. Though 'it' had helped a lot on the outside.

Sirius Black opened his eyes and smiled as his godson found his seat. But the words that left his mouth were all about business. The Furies, as the other aurors jokingly called them, were gathered.

"So, what do we have?"

"Nothing yet," Harry responded, straightening up in his chair.

Sirius quirked an eyebrow at his godson's words. "Yet. So you have something."

"Maybe," Harry hedged. Harry disliked committing himself before he was certain of the chances. But he could be reckless when certain.

"Well, what do we know?"

Neville spoke up from his chair, still sprawled. "We have over a dozen murders on our hands, all wizards, obviously. Sometimes their families, sometimes not."

"It looks like the murderer only killed the families when they interfered with the murder," noted Sirius.

"True. So we have the murder of a dozen wizards, some in good standing, some not. Some famous, others not so renowned. Where's the connection?" he asked.

"Do we even know that it's the same murderer?"

He grimaced and nodded. He had a feel for such things, and in this wizardly institution of law enforcement, such things were not only trusted but encouraged. And he wasn't the best tracker in the division for nothing.

"So where do we go from here?"

"We know they took books of magic from one of the houses. Maybe they took other things from other houses. I want to do another sweep of the houses, see if we've missed anything."

"What I want to do," said Harry, "is to search the houses of the Death Eaters."

The two of them glanced sharply at Harry, who remained impassive. Sirius steepled his fingers.

"Why?"

"We might find something."

Sirius glanced at him, and he nodded, agreeing with Harry. It was never a bad thing, to give the Death Eaters a shakedown. Even if it was only their families.

Harry left to get the paperwork sorted out, and he tracked his friend leave with his eyes. He turned back to Sirius, who was shuffling his reports, and got ready to leave himself. But Sirius called out to him before he reached the door.

"Neville."

"Yeah?"

"I try not to interfere with your personal life," he commented, "but I will say this, because it could interfere with your work."

Neville cocked his head to the side, though he had a feeling he knew what was coming. He could feel the familiar twitch in the back of his hands, but he suppressed the feeling. There was no physical addiction. It was all in the mind.

"- ville, are you all right?"

He looked up to see Sirius half standing, with a worried look on his face. He nodded, and tried not to scream at this loss of control. Maybe a full minute had slipped by, while he was involved in fighting an imaginary urge of his mind.

"For the last time, Neville, you really must quit." Sirius tried to give him a disapproving stare, but the worry in his voice gave him away.

"I will, Sirius. I promise."

He opened the door and stepped outside before Sirius could say anything else. They've had this same conversation time and again, and he had promised, every time.

And every time, he had broken his promise.

* * *

Harry pressed the doorbell again, and felt the men behind him shift uneasily. Annoyed, he pressed the bell again, even as he wondered whether he should simply break the door down.

"Who is it?" came a cool voice from across the door. He motioned to the captain, who nodded and responded.

"Ministry of Magic! We're here to conduct an inspection of your premises!"

There was a brief silence, then there was the slam of bolts being pulled back. The door silently opened and a tall woman stepped outward to the doorway. Her face was expressionless, though she had the right to be afraid. The grueling war had cost her both husband and son, and the world had never quite forgiven the families of Death Eaters. But it was for the sake of the son that he took the care to be as cordial as he could.

"Good afternoon," he said with a nod. She raised an exquisite eyebrow, exactly same as his godfather, and he came to the conclusion that it was a feature common to the Black family. Wordlessly, he handed the document over to her. It was a warrant, signed by the Minister of Magic, the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and the head of the Division of Aurors, which authorized the Division of Aurors to search the premises of one Narcissa Malfoy, neé Black, for evidence of dark magic. The men standing in the hallways started fidgeting as she slowly read the warrant, but he took the time to admire the view.

She was, he realized, still very beautiful. There was nothing about her that suggested her age, now well into the mid forties - but wizards lived much longer than muggles. She stood tall and proud, her grey eyes flicking right and left along the lines. He saw how her thin lips moved slightly, forming out the words, then open and close in a sigh. She moved to the side, leaving the way clear.

"Thank you." He motioned his men in, and they streamed around the two of them, wands and dark detectors out, fanning throughout the flat. She rolled up the warrant and handed it back to him. He slipped it into the sleeves of his robes, then turned and kept looking at her. Apparently not to her satisfaction, since she stared right back.

Harry could see her taking him in, and wondered what she saw. Did she see the young boy, excited and frightened at the Quidditch World Cup, or did she see her dead son's arch rival? Or maybe she saw him as he saw himself, short, gaunt, without glasses now, with short rough black hair and that perpetual scar in his forehead, robed in black.

Their staring match continued, and he cleared his throat. "This will take but a moment. I apologize about the inconvenience."

"Really?" The word was laced with sarcasm, short and cutting. He would have smiled, except that he had forgotten how to, and shrugged instead. Before him, he could hear the bustle of the men moving about, the sound of drawers opening and closing, going through her belonging like she was some criminal. Which, he reminded himself, she well could be.

She crossed her arms and turned her head to look at the mess the men were making. He knew they were very professional, thorough but tidy. They put things back where they used to be, and every one of them wore gloves. Although he couldn¡¯t see her face he could almost feel her frown deepen as the men began moving the furniture about.

He felt the slight weight of the warrant under his hand, and was forced to suppress a sudden quiver of glee. The Death Eaters were going to get what they deserved. Then there was an echo of a chuckle in the back of his mind.

It was the Voice again, familiar sibilant whisper of scales on scales, talking in his ear. It whispered, as always, of dark things, hidden beneath the shadows of the moon and behind the curtains, of trusts forsaken and oaths broken, of betrayal and faithlessness and the things that beasts did to fellow men, and always, always, death. The sweet stench of blood, its hot stickiness as it slid through his fingers, dripping, dripping, drying and flaking upon his feverish skin, then the hot gush as it slipped and slithered on his lips and tongue and down his parched throat, the heat as it settled in the pits of his belly, burning hot, molten fire running through his sluggish veins. And then he would gag against the rising bile, while the Voice laughed and mocked him.

Sometimes, he wondered if he cracked his head wide open and spread his brain out on the ground, searching with a fine comb, he would find the Voice, a dark little nub hidden in a crease in the corner of his brain, and be rid of it once and for all. He longed to be free from the Voice, though he could hardly remember a time that it wasn't there, whispering the darkness into his mind.

It had been rather quiet this past month. Or had it been talking, and he never noticed? He didn't know which thought he liked better. He ruthlessly quashed the Voice, shutting it away from his mind, though he knew that would only make it stronger.

Narcissa gave him a strange look, and the Voice abruptly fell silent. Harry gave a little uncertain twitch of his head, but it didn't come back. It was very, very strange.

Before he could follow his thoughts, one of the men came up to them.

"Sir, we're finished. She's clean."

He turned to her, who was glaring at the man as if he had offended her. Which he, and they all together, probably had. "Thank you for your cooperation. When can we come by Malfoy Manor?"

She looked a bit taken aback by that. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said, when can we come by Malfoy Manor?"

She turned her glare at him, and Harry could feel the coldness emanating from her. But there was something else underlying it, though he couldn't feel it.

"When would you like to 'come by?" Her voice was chilling.

"Sometime soon, but at your convenience."

"Next year?"

He merely raised his brows. "Sooner than that, I hope."

She sighed. "Next Monday morning?"

He nodded. "Next Monday morning it is. We will see you at Malfoy Manor. Thank you for your cooperation."

He was about to leave, but hesitated. He teetered there for a moment, undecided. There were things that should be said, a message long delayed to be delivered.

He spoke without turning to face her. "He said, when he died," he had no need to tell her who had given him the message. "That he was sorry he couldn't go to Rome with you. I'm sorry he was killed."

He could hear her take in a shuddering breath, but he had his back turned, so he couldn't see her expression. Which was for the better, he decided.

With a swirl of his robes, he apparated away.

* * *

Neville Longbottom limped up the stairs to his flat. He was exhausted, and had little to show for the effort. His old injuries throbbed painfully, like they always did when he was tired. He leaned against the landing to gather his breath. His ribs throbbed horribly, but he was too exhausted to perform a charm on anything less than life threatening. He'd been out for the last three days, with very little to eat and even less to sleep. And the cold seemed to have taken a permanent lodge in his bones. He sighed and started limping up the stairs again. Sometimes anti-apparation charms just wasn't worth the hassle.

After what seemed an eternity of steps - all because the elevator was held up on some floor and refused to come down - he finally arrived at his flat. The familiar door beckoned to him, and he fumbled his key out with relief. He muttered the charms under his breath as he turned the key. His door alone had more wards than most houses, and to open it without following the proper procedure was a quick invitation to stupification, or worse.

He limped into his flat, completely bare of all but the absolute necessary furniture. That consisted of a bookshelf, a wardrobe, a table and chair, and a bed, all crammed in a corner of the large living room. What his rooms looked like at this point in his residence, he really didn't want to know. He had simply warded up the doors.

Limping over to the kitchen, he rummaged about until he found a dusty half-empty bottle of whiskey. The alcohol burned its way down his throat, sending a wave of shocking familiar warmth through his body. Taking another sip, smaller this time, he opened the fridge. There was only a stockpile of various potions in it. Sighing, he took out a healing potion and closed the fridge. The healing potion sent another tingle of warmth through his body, albeit much gentler. Tossing the bottle into the sink, he picked up the whiskey and headed to the bathroom.

The bathroom was just as bad as the rest of his flat, devoid of everything but a rack of towels, neatly folded. A muggle washing machine sat next to the tub, and a mug sat next to the washbasin, holding the minimum necessities. He turned the hot water to full strength in the tub, and stripped off the wet clothes.

He sank into the half filled tub with a sigh of relief. The potion was working its magic, healing old pains and injuries. The rising water covered him, and he slowly drifted off to sleep.

Neville snapped out of sleep. For the moment not caring what had woken him up, he reached down and grabbed his wand from the mass of soggy clothes. The familiar feel of smooth wood comforted him. Senses alert now, he tried to sort out what had woken him up.

*Crash*

Ah, that was it. He got up. The water was tepid now, so he figured about an hour had passed. Moving quietly, he grabbed a towel off the racks and wrapped it around his waist. There was a scuffling sound, then another crash, then he could faintly hear a woman's shout through the walls. Apparently, someone was moving in next door, and making enough noise to carry through the walls. Shaking his head, he went to get dressed.

All dressed and prim, Neville closed the door to his flat, and set the wards back up with a spell. There was a stream of men coming to and fro next door. A young woman was standing at the doorway, shouting and pointing the men this way and that.

She was dressed in a simple shirt and jeans, that flattered her very long legs. His eyes traveled up her figure, slim yet curvy at all the right places. She was of medium height, with black hair cropped short at the nape. As if noticing someone staring at her, she whirled around gracefully. She moved like a dancer, lithe and graceful. He wondered what she'd be like, in bed

She was pretty, if not outright beautiful. He marked her for Asian descent, but with hints of curving cheekbones that suggested Western blood. That, and the twinkling blue eyes above a small, delicate nose.

He frowned. She looked familiar, for some reason. He started going through the list of faces and names in his head, matching and discarding. She looked older than memory vaguely indicated, so she must be someone from school or....

"Cho Chang!" he exclaimed. "The Ravenclaw Seeker!"

She looked a bit taken aback, and she leaned back slightly. "Uhh...hi? Do I know you?"

He smiled and offered her his hand. "Neville Longbottom, House Gryffindor."

She raised a hand to her mouth, eyes widening. "Neville Longbottom?!"

She gave a squeal and gave him a hug instead. He was slightly surprised at the rather effusive display of emotion, but put it down to his paranoia. He hadn't known her that well at school, after all.

She pulled back and looked up and down, taking him in fully. She cocked her head to the side and grinned.

"Why, you've certainly grown taller! And shaped up, too!"

He grinned back, and took an innocuous step back, pulling free from her hug. She didn't seem to notice.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. He smiled and pointed a thumb back his door.

"I live here, right next door. Though I could ask the same about you."

"I came back last month, and I'm moving in here, as you can see." They moved aside as some more men levitated pieces of furniture along.

"Came back?" he asked in confusion.

"Oh, you didn't know, did you? I was away in America, for a couple of years, during the...the war." She winced and looked at him carefully, to see if she had offended him by mentioning the war. He smiled to show that he was alright with the matter, and she brightened up.

"So that's why my English is all fouled up with that Yankee twang," she exaggerated. He noticed that she made sure he was with her before she went on with whatever she was saying. It was novel to him, so used to grim men with few words.

He broke out of his observation, and she smiled and continued. "My parents didn't want me living out in the middle of here all alone. They worry a bit too much, anyway. So I ended up having to pick the most tightly guarded building in all of London. No apparation, controlled floo network, no random owl deliveries, no burglars, and even an auror of their very own, living right here!"

He almost laughed out loud at the last, but one of the movers chose that moment to call Cho.

"Damn! Listen, Neville, I've got to run. But I'm planning to throw a housewarming party sometime next week, so be sure to drop by then. Or I'll be very angry with you. And I know where you live!" She hissed the last, grinning. She gave him a quick peck on his cheek, then ran into the flat.

Bemused, he stood still in the hall for a moment, listening to the bustle coming through the open door, then headed for the stairway.

* * *

There was a report sitting on his desk. Harry leaned back in his chair and started going through it. It was a comprehensive finding on Narcissa Malfoy for the last few years, since the end of the war.

The first parts contained detailed descriptions of her flat, along with her furniture and belongings, recently added to the report by the aurors who had conducted the search. There was nothing suspicious, nothing at all. And he found that very strange indeed. She had been married to a Death Eater after all, and a very powerful one at that. It would stand to reason that she possessed at least something of dark magic, if only as a memento.

He turned the page over to a report on her financial statements. As the widow of Lucius Malfoy, and the only survivor of the Malfoy family, she was the sole heiress to the entire Malfoy fortune, which was one of the largest and finest in the country. And the Malfoys were the only old money the ministry hadn't confiscated at least partially, because of Draco Malfoy. It seemed that she could also draw a pension from Draco's posthumous awards, although she didn't do that. Instead, most of her money - and energy, apparently - was devoted to charity, especially the one she had founded. The Draco Malfoy Foundation for Children.

He skimmed through the rest of the report, finding nothing of interest. Other than the foundation, she didn't meet anybody, or go anywhere, or do anything. On the last page he found a photo of her, face covered by a black veil. In the picture the wind blew at her veil, shaking it slightly, but she didn't make any movement. He realized that the picture was from the funeral.

"Sir, we're ready to go."

He looked up from the report to see an auror sticking his head inside.

"I'm on my way."

Narcissa was already waiting for them at the front gate. She was wearing a grey cloak, with the hood drawn up, hiding her face in an alcove of shadows. Harry was surprised to see that she hadn't entered the manor grounds, but was waiting for them to arrive. He couldn't see her face, but her hands clasped and unclasped in nervousness.

"Are you alright?" he asked gently. She jerked her head up, surprised at his question, then nodded.

She led them up the long driveway, the trees dark and forbidding. Here and there he could see glimpses of exotic plants and trees, unkempt, every one of them dangerous. Neville, with his love of herbology, would probably have a fit over the variety offered here.

They drew up to the manor itself, set on a small rising that overlooked the entire estate. He took in an appreciating breath. The manor was much like the owners who had inhabited it for centuries. Or perhaps the manor had molded those who had inhabited it. But there it was, beautifully elegant, yet coldly arrogant.

Narcissa seemed to falter for a moment when the manor came into sight, but pressed on. They ascended the steps, to the large double doors, shut firm. Reaching out a hand to the brass handle, he hesitated, and turned to Narcissa.

"May we enter?" he asked, gesturing towards the doorway. She nodded, then hesitantly put her hand on the handle and pushed the great oaken doors widen open. They opened soundlessly to the grand lobby, spotlessly clean despite the years of disuse he knew it had gone through.

"Welcome," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "To Malfoy Manor."

They stepped into the lobby, and a ghost appeared before them.

"Welcome back, Madam. It's been a long time." He was an old, old figure, dressed immaculately in ages-old robes. He looked at the men behind her suspiciously, but she seemed to have recovered her poise.

"Charles, these men are from the Ministry of Magic. They are here to search the premises. You are to provide them every assistance possible."

Since a ghost couldn't look any greyer, Charles only managed to look scandalized. But he obeyed, and beckoned for them to follow him.

* * *

Neville woke up with groan. The sun was already up, and sunlight shone on the bed. The familiar throb in his head told him that he had been drinking, and the warm body next to him told him what he had been doing last night.

"Damn," he muttered, rolling out of the unfamiliar bed to the unfamiliar room. He searched for his clothes, scattered all over the room.

The figure in the bed stirred, then a bushy hair of dirty blond peeked from the sheet.

"Are ye goin' now?"

Her eyes really were blue. He had thought they were colored lenses that the muggles were so fond of wearing. And she didn't look that bad. Pretty, certainly. Maybe even beautiful. And he didn't know the first thing about her, nor wanted to. He went back to his clothes, and scrounged around for his socks.

"I can get ye brackfast, if ye like," she offered as he gave up the socks as a lost cause. He tried to smile at her, and searched his memory for her name. It didn't seem to want to resurface from the haze of alcohol and drugs. He never really was a morning person, and Gran had always taken him to task on that.

He winced and veered his thoughts away from his grandmother, or any other of his relations. He mumbled something under his breath about work. Thankfully, she seemed to be too tired to follow him, or ask him for his number, or any number of things women wanted from him.

She buried her face in the pillow, and pulled the sheets above her head. Thoughtfully, he closed the open curtains, then navigated his way out of the foreign flat into the hallway.

It was a decent building, as muggle buildings went, and he located the fire escape at the end of the hall. He made his way down a flight of stairs, and when he was certain there was no one watching him, he apparated to his apartment building.

"Hey, Neville!" a voice called to him as he turned the wards down and opened his door. He whirled around, hand in pocket for his wand, but it was only Cho. She was apparently back from shopping for groceries, toting a large brown paper bag.

She took in his rumpled figure and the lack of socks with glance, and with a grin handed him a bun from her paper bag.

"Thanks." He took the warm piece of bread gratefully, and crammed it into his mouth. She gave a rueful shake of her head, and he nodded back before closing the door on her amused visage.

* * *

Harry walked into the sitting room the ghostly steward had directed him to. The 'sitting' room was tastefully decorated with a color and warmth that was lacking in the rest of the manor. It was also big enough to fit his entire flat, with room to spare. A fire burned merrily in the hearth, and Narcissa was sitting on a large settee before it.

She had taken her cloak off. Beneath she worn a high-necked black dress that stood in sharp contrast with her pale skin, and the fire cast shadows on her face instead of warming them. He thought she looked like an icy flower that refused to let the warmth touch her.

"We're finished," he called out to her from across the room. She looked up at him, and then lowered her eyes to her hands, clasped before her. He walked over to her, the thick carpets muffling his steps, making them almost silent.

"The others have left already," he told the still figure before him. She didn't move, or say anything, and he stood behind the settee awkwardly. For a while he watched the play of shadows as the fire burned.

Someone spoke, and it took him a moment to realize that it was her. Her voice was very clear, and smooth. "It's the first time I've come here," her voice was soft, "since they died."

He stood still. She unlaced her fingers, and turned her head to look up at him. The curve of her neck was smooth and graceful.

"I'm sorry."

"About what?" her tone wasn't accusing, but he felt accused nonetheless. He looked away from her. There was a large painting of the sea hanging on the wall, looking down at the waves dashing themselves against the cliff. She looked down at her hands again, and he watched the play of long, graceful fingers against each other.

"Tell me," she whispered, and he had to bend closer to hear her. "How they died."

"No one told you?"

"They told me that you were the only one there."

"So I was." He moved over to the hearth and leaned against it, staring into the fire. The red and yellow flames reminded him of a certain redheaded young woman. He closed his eyes, and he could see the events with a vivid clarity, stamped into his eyelids. He recited from memory, the tale told so many times inside his head.

"It was a routine ambush. A simple, routine ambush...."

* * *

"Harry, we've got to go!" Someone pulled at his sleeve, but he pulled them free.

"No."

"Harry, we're hopelessly outnumbered! We can't possibly take them all out!" He could hear the sounds of magic vibrating off the wards. They wouldn't hold out for long.

"No. We'll never get another chance like this. To take Voldemort and all his followers out in one blow. Never."

"Take them?! They'll be all over us! Harry, come on!"

"No."

They had charged out of a secret opening, and struck the death eaters from behind. Scores had died before they knew what was happening. Neither side had held back, having learned the hard way that mercy and pity had no room in this war. The Death Eaters turned on them like a great rearing snake, and the battle had been joined in full.

But the Boy Who Lived had blazed through them like the bolt of lightning that was his sign, felling death eaters left and right, until curses and raw magic had filled the skies. But he had been like a lion in a herd of death eating sheep, who had scattered this way and that. And before his initial fury, even the Dark Lord fled.

"Har - !" A voice was cut off in a gurgle, and he whirled, wand blazing. The death eater received a quick death as his reward, and his company was down to two. Himself, and one other.

"Really, Potter, if you plan these things more carefully you wouldn't blow my cover AND lose the whole team in the process, you know. Typical Gryffindor stupidity."

They stood back to back, wands blazing with curses almost as fast as their mouths shooting each other off. The death eaters were thinning out, many fleeing, while others lay dead. But many, many remained. Too many.

"You make it sound as if your cover is more important than my team."

"I've only got this one life, unlike somebody."

"Just shut the fuck up, Malfoy."

The fact that they were talking to each other at all was a sign of their desperation. Their reserves were drained, and drops of sweat trailed down their cheeks, pale with exhaustion. Cries of rage and pain filled the air, but the hot sizzle of magic overlay it all. And death rained down on those foolhardy enough to stand against the two of them. But they came, on and on. They really didn't have breath for talking, but they went on between their gasps.

Then a figure pushed his way to the forefront.

"Lucius."

Lucius Malfoy smiled at them, though he though it looked a bit strained around the corners. His eyes had a wild look about them, but he held his wand firmly and his head proud.

"Draco," the voice dripped with venom. "It seems you have fallen in with bad company after all. And to think I had such high hopes for you. You and that bitch who gave birth to you."

Draco simply cocked a brow, and in a motion almost too quick to catch, sent a curse at Lucius that blasted the earth around him and sent surrounding Death Eaters tumbling. But Lucius stood upright, untouched by the spell.

"All I know is that the biggest bastard of them all is the one who sired me."

"Then come, my son. Come and die."

"Of course, father."

He turned his back on the dueling Malfoys, to face the eager faces of the rest of the Death Eaters. They glared at him, crouching low with wands out, licking their lips at their prey. They also looked at each other from the corner of their eyes, knowing that the first few to attack will die, but even the Boy Who Lived couldn't hold all of them off. And they all wanted to be the one who killed Harry Potter, and be raised above all others as Voldemort's second.

Then there was a shout, as members from the Order burst through the woods and charged the Death Eaters in the rear. Seizing their moment of hesitation, Harry charged into the mass of Death Eaters, wand blazing.

Harry rather casually dispatched the last Death Eater. His lungs were heaving for air, and his heart was drumming at his ribs, but he stood upright, and surveyed the battlefield. He wanted to weep at the sight of dead bodies strewn about the field, the smell of death heavy in the air, but held back. Death had become abundant in the past few years, and a certain callousness had been ingrained in him. Better that than the madness that scratched at the edges of his mind.

What victory, but at what cost? The survivors looked dazed as well, looking at Voldemort's army of Death Eaters, almost completely destroyed in less than a single afternoon. Scores, no hundreds, of bodies were scattered about, twisted limbs in the agony of death. And taking a sizable piece of the Order of Phoenix with them.

Having been drawn away from the Malfoys, he dragged his feet back in that direction. A ways off, he saw Draco, weaving on his feet, his pale face looking even paler. A harsh cut ran across his forehead, covering his face in blood.

"Potter." It was his usual drawl, albeit only a tenth of the normal volume.

"Malfoy. You're wounded."

"Lucius?"

He frowned. He looked about, and saw Lucius Malfoy, his face frozen in a grimace of shock and pain. Most probably at the fist-sized hole in his chest, he decided. Strange, that Draco didn't know. Then again, he probably couldn't see with all the blood sticking to his face.

"He's dead."

"Are you...sure?"

"Most certainly, yes."

"That's good." Draco tottered for a moment. "Or is it?" he muttered as he fell to his knees. Harry saw that the front of his robe was stained dark. He dashed over to Draco, who collapsed onto his back.

"You know, I rather feel like Mordred when he killed Arthur. Except for the fact that good and evil is all twisted around here. So this is what patricide feels like."

"Hold still, you fool." He turned him over and gently parted the robe open. A gaping hole was cut into the chest, blood pouring out in torrents. He bunched the shirt around the wound and tried to bind it, but it was too big, the blood pumping out too fast.

"You know, Potter, I always told Ginny...."

He knew the end with certainty, like he had known with so many others. Some things no one ever had a cure for, and no amount of magic could bring the dead or the dying back. With every gasping breath Draco took, his lifeblood was poured out to the earth.

"So, any last words?"

"Tell my mother...that I'd like to have gone to Rome with her."

"Ginny'll have my head if I tell her that's the last thing you said."

Draco never answered him.

* * *

Narcissa sat still, unmoving. Harry turned away from the hearth he had been talking to. He could see a shining pearl slide out of the corner of her eyes, and run down her cheeks. Then another, and another, until they continued in a stream.

He knelt before her, and took her hands in his own. Her hands were cold, but to his feverish hands they felt right. He looked up at her, streaming with tears, and he kissed her, a gentle kiss on the forehead. She sighed against him, and he kissed her again, this time on the lips, still chaste. Her lips were cold, but she didn't pull away from him, and he kissed her again, this time with a little more heat. He felt his body burning with the fever, but if he could only sink into her soothing coolness, and wrap her body about his own¡¦.

He felt as if he could descend from the burning heights to the calm depths below, and burn away her grief.

She neither responded nor pulled away, but sat still. He pulled back and stared into her eyes, swirling grey storm, all she needed to express herself. He took her in his arms, and she sank into them with a soft sigh, and he marveled at the expanse of cool skin that met his hands as he searched her, even as her hands roamed his body, freeing each other from the confines of their clothes, and sank into the night, fire and ice mingling.

"For comfort," someone whispered.

He surged awake into full alertness, a curse from the years of the war. It was still night, but not dark, a stream of moonlight falling through the open curtains. A pale figure stood there, wrapped in white sheets. He sat up in the bed, entranced by the pearly white skin gleaming in the silvery light. She had a hand resting against the glass panes, her fingers tapping lightly - tap, tap, tap. It reminded him of the branches tapping against his window, in his tiny closet underneath the staircase, reminding him that he was trapped, though freedom was but a wall and a window away. But she continued tapping, tap, tap, tap, and he watched her long graceful fingers perform their little dance on the glassy surface, leaving a stain of fog where cold finger met colder glass.

How long he sat like this, watching her at the window, he couldn't tell, but she finally turned with a soft withdrawn breath. Neither of them spoke, but looked into each other's eyes, cool grey meeting burning green. He held a hand out to her, palms upwards, and she stood tall and still, like the image of an ice goddess of old, a crystal figure sculpted into perfection by the north winds, cold and emotionless, the white sheets her silver robes of office. But his arm was steady, his eyes gazing into hers, and slowly, hesitantly, she glided over to him, like a graceful wild swan caught by the lure of the predator.

She reached him and touched his hand, and he could feel the beat of her pulse, steady and regular, beat, beat, beat, like the tapping at the window. He took her hand and turned her wrists inward, and laid his cheek against her palm, cool against his burning skin.

He ached to let her cold quench his thirsting heat, and drew her close, sighing with the cool touches of her skin on his own. It seemed that when she was beside him he could hardly remember the Voice in his head or the constant fever of his body, and he pulled her even closer, a thirsting man in search of water, and she sighed, cool breath against his ears, her hands leaving a trail of coolness against his back that made him arch into her body and sink into her comforting coolness with a wild cry of relief.

End Chapter 1.