Winter Sunlight

    Prologue

    She looked up from her book, at the sound of the ringing doorbell. It was a brave soul who knocked upon Malfoy Manor at this late hour, when her mistress was not at all inclined to hospitality. She flicked back a stray strand of hair behind an ear with an annoyed hand, and returned her attention to her book. The steward, she was certain, could take care of the matters. As he had done for the centuries he had served as the steward for the Malfoy family and the manor.

    The doorbell rang again, insistent, and she looked about in annoyance, prepared to call for the ghostly steward. Before she could reach for the bell he appeared before her, his hands clasped before his translucent torso in consternation.

    "Madam, there is someone who insists upon speaking with you."

    She turned her attention back to the book, and she could feel the slight breeze from the ghost, in all probability wringing his hands in uncertainty at this silent refusal.

    "But he insists, madam, and we cannot remove him, for he has both authority and power."

    This time she looked up from the book and glared at the ghost in full, who shrank back in fear. There was a very short list in her mind of the people who would come knocking on this old, forbidding manor. And of the few, only one had both reason and the ability to be standing before the hostile manor.

    And even a month was not long enough to stop her heart from clenching at the very thought of him.

    "I do not wish to see Mr Potter."

    But apparently, her list was too short, for the ghost clasped and unclasped his hands in even further anxiety. "But madam, it's not Mr Potter."

    She lifted an eyebrow in curiosity, and the steward added hopefully, "It's your cousin, Sirius Black."

        *

    She gestured her cousin to a seat, which he took with a graceful bow. She tucked her feet in under the chair and looked at him carefully, feeling a small pang of loss. There was no trace of the cocky young cousin she'd once known, wild and rebellious, always ready for the next adventure. Now he had the look of one who'd done and seen and lost too much, and the bitterness and sorrow had been etched into his face. Was it the ten years in Azkaban that had changed him so? Or the two wars he had seen, to the bitter end? Perhaps it was a cumulative effect of both things. But his eyes were still sharp, watching her sit expressionlessly. But she too was a master at waiting, allowing - forcing - him to speak first.

    "You haven't changed very much," he sighed. She raised a pale eyebrow, but didn't answer. He continued anyway. "To hear Harry speak of you...."

    "I have no wish to hear that name spoke in my presence, in my own house," she stated firmly. And with more vehemence that she had though she had. But too many nights had been spent letting the circle of thoughts drive sleep and peace from her mind. But Sirius seemed determined to explore that avenue of thought.

    "Do you bear him so much ill will?"

    She turned her face away, and smiled thinly to herself at the denial that rose so easily in her mind and lips. But while she may lie to others, she might as well be truthful with herself. But that did not mean the need for to voice the truth, so she sat silently, and did not answer. And as usual, her silence was misunderstood.

    "It was my idea, mine and Neville's, and we had to force him to go along with it. Though in the end he refused to allow it interfere with anything."

    She heard the note of disapproval in his voice. Though, she said to herself, there was no need to be surprised at this news. There were numerous reasons why he would - should - oppose any liaison with her. Some of her thought must have shown on her face, and Sirius answered them.

    "No, I didn't approve. And I don't think I need to explain why."

    She nodded, and put her cup on the table between them. "So why are you here?"

    He sank back into his chair, and she imagined that she could hear his bones creak with weariness.

    "He's sick, Narcissa. Very, very ill. Been so for almost three weeks, now."

    She froze, for a moment unable to move - to breath.

    "The mediwizards first though it was a flu, then pneumonia. Now, they have no idea."

    "His fever."

    How she knew she didn't know, but she could tell with certainty. He had been so nonchalant about it himself, when asked. And she had never pried. After all, their entire relationship was built on unasked questions and unspoken answers.

    "Yes. You know. Of course you know - how could you not...." said Sirius, half to himself.

    "What do I have to do with this?"

    His eyes flickered upward and looked straight into her eyes, and she felt as if his gaze penetrated the mask she wore, and read in her mind her true thoughts. But he didn't voice her true feelings back to her, saying instead, "I don't know."

    He shifted uncomfortably in his seat before continuing. "I don't know, but something just told me, to go to you. And we'd run out of all options, and I thought, maybe...." He averted his face, unable to go on, the first sign of genuine emotion revealed through a crack in his facade.

    "It's a terrible thing, to lose a loved one," she said condolingly, and tasted the words in her own mouth, bitter and reproaching. But who did it condemn? The war that had torn both husband and son from her? The suspicion and mistrust that had taken her second chance, so unexpected, from her again?

    He whipped his head around at her statement, and stared straight into her eyes. "It's a terrible thing, to lose a child."

    She flinched as if slapped.

    "Will you come?"

    She turned her head away from his demanding eyes. It was then that she remembered where she'd last seen that look in someone's eyes. It had been there, in those familiar emerald eyes, every time they had been turned to gaze upon her. And then she knew, with certainty.

    The eyes were looking at hope.

    "I don't know."

    But she was lying.

    *    *    *

    Winter Sunlight

    Chapter 5: Become Monsters, Part I

    "Those who hunt monsters beware, lest they become monsters themselves.

    If you stare long into the abyss, the abyss stares back into you."

                        Nietzsche

    He burned and he burned. His body ached and sweated, and his throat was always parched, but the burning never ended. And he could hear the Voice, mocking him, inviting him to the unlife it led, a ghost whispering in the ears of men and women. And he cursed it every time he could gather the strength to, though the mocking laughter easily neutralized whatever venom he could summon into the words.

    In his dreams - or were they his waking hours? - he saw things. Places and things and ghosts of past and future, everything stained with the stench of blood and fire and guilt. Guilt that stained his hands with blood he knew will never come off.

    Sometimes Ron and Hermione appeared - both young and old, together, separate, with him and without, and he could see and hear the worry in their face and voice. Then he would be sucked back to the past, and remember the touch of her skin as they fumbled against each other in the clumsy passion of youth, trying to drive away together the coldness inside. And her voice as they told stories to each other, to pass away the sleepless nights under the sickening cloud of death that hung over them all.

    Then the Voice would surge back, whispering of betrayals and mocking laughter in the dark corners behind his back, and he would remember the ache when he saw her dark hair against the red of another. And then he would cry out in pain and anger and loss.

    At times Dumbledore was there, abed in his final moments, at last peaceful and victorious, revered by all as he finally laid down the cares and worries of the mortal domain. And yet the sibilant whispers continued in his ears, of his final abandonment by this man, this hypocrite. Who had left when the war was finally over and won. And left him all alone to pick up the pieces of the ruin that was the world and make it all right. Alone to shoulder whatever burdens that would come his way, until they weighed down upon him and drove him to his knees.

    And every once in a while even his parents were there, rotten skin and muscle hanging on a face with smiles frozen in rigor mortis. Their beckoning waves with skeletal hands made him draw back in horror and disgust. Because they were there, flanked by all the others that had died in that grueling war, men and women who had been ground to dust under the millstones of fate. He agonized at their wordless, reproaching looks, their faces pallid with the onset of death, their limbs twisted and broken in a dance grotesque. And the Voice whispered to him of their resentment, of their jealousy, of their fury - for he, the less deserving, had lived while they had not.

    *    *    *

    Neville stared into the glass and sighed. Harry was pale and gaunt, almost swallowed by the white sheets. His black hair was streaked with premature silver, and from time to time he would thrash and shout and speak, the words a rasping sound of whispering scales against scales. They were recording what he was saying, hoping that it would give some insight into the nature of his fever. But what they could understand were mostly incoherent jumbles of words. Though every once in a while he'd would repeat "God damn you to hell," in always exactly the same coldly venomous way.

    "What do the doctors say?" a voice asked from behind. He felt the questioner step up next to him, and lean against the glass.

    "They don't know. They have no idea, at all," he replied tiredly. "Now the bloody fools are worried that he's contagious."

    He looked around, noticing the heavy dark circles under Ron's eyes and the grey tint to the normally ruddy skin. Even brilliant red hair had lost that vibrant sheen. And he was alone.

    "What's Hermione doing?" he asked.

    "Buried herself in the library again, searching for a clue." Ron sounded desperate - tired and afraid. That wasn't like him at all, laughing even in the face of looming defeat in all the years of the war. He'd laughed even when half the Order had perished in an unprepared clash with the Death Eaters. Roaring drunk, yes, but laughing nonetheless.

    "You need to rest, Ron."

    Ron shook his head vehemently. "He needs me. I know he does." But he sounded half-doubting, himself. They were running out of time, and it was only raw magic that was keeping Harry's body from burning away. The fever ran so high, that sometimes he wondered if the body would spontaneously burst into flames at death, and be born anew from the ashes.

    He shook such pointless thought from his head.

    "You're going to do him no good if you collapse yourself. And you can't go in, anyway. None of us can," he added, at Ron's angry look. The presence of any of his friends had caused such violent reactions that the staff had banned them all from the sickroom.

    A figure appeared at the end of the corridor, and Hermione walked to them, as silent as a ghost. Her lips were blue, and she too had a grey tint to her normally ivory skin. She came and gave Neville a hug, before leaning against Ron, who wrapped his arms around her protectively. Neville felt the pang of yearning for comfort himself, but quashed it. He could go see her later. And at the moment, this was one of the most highly secured areas in the entire world.

    Though he could already see the answer in her face, he asked her anyway. "Any luck?"

    She shook her head and buried herself further in Ron's embrace. He sighed and leaned his head against the window, trying to draw in whatever relief the cool glass offered. The surging feeling of helplessness and despair surged up his throat and almost suffocated him, and he pulled at his collar irritably.

    "Who's that?" Ron suddenly asked, and he pushed himself away from the window and glanced down the hallway. Sirius was walking towards them, escorting a figure covered in a white cloak, with the hood up. Hermione had also turned her head to look at them, and frowned.

    "It's not anybody I recognize. Neville, do you know...?"

    At his lack of an answer, they turned as one to look at him. Neville scowled and leaned back against the glass with his arms crossed. He couldn't bring himself to believe that she could perform some miracle where the finest mediwizards had failed. But even he had to admit that they'd run so far out of hope, that he was willing to grasp at even the flimsiest of straws.

    But it didn't mean that he had to like it.

    *    *    *

    Slowly, as if he was rising from the deep, deep depths of the ocean, his consciousness surfaced, and Harry blinked his eyes open. They opened up to an unfamiliar white ceiling, and the steady glow of warm yellow light. He felt weak, as if he had been asleep for a long, long time. He turned to his slightly to the side, even though a movement that small caused a ringing pain in his head.

    He wasn't surprised at all to see her there sitting haloed in pale yellow light, cool and graceful, slim and haughty, pale hair flowing down like molten silver threaded with gold. She'd appeared in his fever dreams and hallucinations many times before, after all. She looked down at him, expressionless, and he imagined that he could read the emotions in her stormy eyes - hate and love, happiness and sorrow, all warring for dominance in that beautiful, so beautiful, face.

    He opened his parched lips to speak to her anyway, but his tongue was heavy and dry in his mouth and all he could make was a rasping sound. A slim hand was lifted from her lap and laid on his forehead with shocking coolness. And blessedly, for the first time in weeks, the Voice fell silent.

    "You're here. You're really here...." he croaked, in wonder. She nodded and stroked his fevered brow, and he sighed and closed his eyes, her fingers sending cool waves of relief into his brain. Then afraid that she'd disappear while his eyes were closed, he opened them again and looked at her, sitting up straight and tall in that uncomfortable way of hers. He could see the lines of fatigue on her face, but she didn't waver, nor turn her eyes from his. In the end, it was he who was forced to turn his eyes away.

    "How long?" he whispered. His throat was still parched dry, and she helped him to a glass of water.

    "Nearly three weeks," said a voice before she could answer, hurrying from the doorway. Sirius came up beside her, smiling down at him with such obvious relief that it warmed his heart. "It's good to see you back."

    He tried to smile back, though it was shaky at best. He glanced over at her, who sat calmly, unperturbed. Sirius, noticing his gaze, smiled and excused himself. "I really need to run off, but I'll be back as soon as I can. In the meantime, I leave you in capable hands."

    Sirius left, and he sank back into his pillow. She helped him to another drink of water. He sighed as the cool liquid soothed his parched throat. "You two have talked," he said, as she eased him back onto the bed. She nodded, placing the glass on the side table. "So should we."

    She said nothing, pulling the sheet up around his shoulders. His hair had grown longer, though it had thinned during his illness, and she carefully brushed them away from his eyes.

    "It can wait. For now, rest."

    *    *    *

    There was a certain grimness to the room, though the general atmosphere was light. Chairs were brought and scattered around the bed, and they all sat around Harry. Sirius, who had been fiddling with a small black box, finally set it on the bed and took his seat. Harry looked around them, then smiled mirthlessly.

    "This reminds me of the council chamber." All the others, except Narcissa, knitted their brows in distaste, and the temperature in the room plummeted a few more degrees.

    "This conversation needs to be recorded. Does anyone have any disagreements?" There was a brief silence, and Sirius nodded, satisfied. "Well, Harry, this is your story to tell."

    "Where to start?" Harry wondered out loud.

    Hermione leaned forward, worry and curiosity occupying her face. "At your illness, Harry."

    "Then it'll have to be at the start."

    *

THIS AUDIO FILE HAS BEEN CLASSIFIED **TOP SECRET** BY THE ORDER OF HER MAJESTY'S MINISTRY OF MAGIC, DEPARTMENT OF AURORS.

UNAUTHORIZED RELEASE OF THIS AUDIO FILE IS SUBJECT TO PROSECUTION UNDER ARTICLE 17 OF THE SECURITY AND INTELLIGENCE PROTOCOL.

    FILE - #195842

    TYPE - Audio Recording

    LOCATION - Undisclosed

    DATE/TIME - 4 February 1600 GMT

    *START TRANSCRIPT*

POTTER : It all began, when we killed Voldemort for the fourth time.

    *MUTED WHISPERS*

POTTER : Yes. Voldemort was nearly indestructible. You knew that. But after the Triwizard Tournament, and his full return, we were inextricably linked. Kill him, and he will simply draw on my life to live on. Kill me, and I could probably do the same.

BLACK : I never even heard a whisper, and I was in the innermost councils!

POTTER : Only Dumbledore and I knew it. What would you have thought, if we told you that Voldemort was perfectly capable of making a full recovery from death? So Dumbledore and I, we sat and thought and thought. It occurred to me that killing myself would solve the problem. Though I'm afraid Dumbledore wasn't quite susceptible to the idea.

GRANGER : And he was right!

POTTER : Was he? If it meant that none those people need have died, if I only had the strength to do what needed to be done? I could have ended it, there and then, and no one would have had to suffered or died.

R.WEASLEY : You're not responsible for everything that happens.

POTTER : No, only for what is within my power to do. How do the muggles put it? "God give me the strength to do what I can, and the grace to accept what I can't." Well, I could do much, much more than anyone else. Anyway, it was more about our uncertainties to complete success, than anything else, that kept me from suicide. Instead, Dumbledore and I researched the dark arts, for clues to breaking the bond. We didn't find any, but I did come across an interesting spell as I did my research.

GRANGER : What spell?

POTTER : The name of the spell? I don't know. It was from an old text from somewhere, and I only saw fragments of it. The spell, basically, drains the life and magic from a creature and grants it to the caster. Dark magic, really. Rather perfect for my situation.

R.WEASLEY : And you used it on him.

POTTER : What do you think? Voldemort's dead, isn't he?

BLACK : So, why are you sick?

POTTER : Isn't it obvious? A human body was never designed to hold that much magical energy. Voldemort was one of the most powerful wizard in the world. I am no mean wizard myself. My cup, so to speak, is spilling.

GRANGER : And why didn't this happen before?

POTTER : Voldemort's lifeforce was containing the magic inside me.

GRANGER : Was?

POTTER : Apparently it's not happening any more.

R.WEASLEY : Why did you tell us this before?

POTTER : I didn't want to. Sorry.

R.WEASLEY : And why are you telling us now?

POTTER : Maybe I want to live now.

    *SILENCE*

POTTER : Now, when can I get out of this damned hospital?

    *END TRANSCRIPT*

UNAUTHORIZED RELEASE OF THIS AUDIO FILE IS SUBJECT TO PROSECUTION UNDER ARTICLE 17 OF THE SECURITY AND INTELLIGENCE PROTOCOL.

THIS AUDIO FILE HAS BEEN CLASSIFIED **TOP SECRET** BY THE ORDER OF HER MAJESTY'S MINISTRY OF MAGIC, DEPARTMENT OF AURORS.

    *    *    *

    Sirius closed the report and slouched in his chair. Neville thought that he looked quite tired - perhaps even as tired as he himself was feeling. Harry had only woken three weeks ago, and the two of them were back at work, saving the world.

    Or at least trying to stop it from falling apart completely. The murders had stopped, but the murderess was still loose. While the Minister's office had made press announcements hinting that the perpetrators had been scared out of their activities by ongoing investigations, the press was still hounding for news. And they really weren't any closer to finding her, whoever she was.

    "How's Harry?" Sirius asked.

    "He'll be alright, they say. You know he's moved in to Narcissa's flat last week." The woman had too much power over Harry, for good or for ill. But Sirius seemed to be satisfied with whatever interview he'd had with her, and accepted her completely. Despite everything she'd done for them - especially Harry - Neville felt that he had to voice his suspicisions, to bring some caution into the game.

    "Though... he's so up and hale now with her beside him, that I'm beginning to wonder just what exactly she has to do with his condition."

    Sirius sighed, going through the old argument again. "Look, Neville. I know you aren't too fond of her, but I can't imagine her doing anything like that to Harry. I'm convinced."

    "You were convinced with Peter Pettigrew, right up to the moment he betrayed you all."

    It was a low blow, and Sirius' flinch comfirmed it. He was about to make a hasty apology, when Sirius waved it away with his hand.

    "Don't worry about it. Just take it into consideration that I trust her. All right?"

    "Yes."

    Then the worried expression disappeared behind his usual, business-like mask, and Neville wondered whether Sirius knew how similar the cousins looked and acted from time to time. Even Arabella Lestrange had faced her death with a calm demeanor, much to his own dissatisfaction. But he pushed his curiosity to the side, focusing on the business at hand. They had more pressing matters to attend to.

    Sirius steepled his fingers. "Okay. Let's start. Anything new?"

    "We've confirmed that some of the dark magical objects sold from the pawnshop are the ones stolen from the murder sites. I've ordered a 24-hour surveillance on the shop."

    Sirius nodded, eyes gleaming. "Good. Anything else?"

    "That's it," replied Neville dejectedly. Sirius' gleam died, and he leaned back, sighing.

    "So... what do we have?" Sirius asked, with the air of a man who's heard it all before, but would like to check one last time.

    "Twelve separate incidents over a month and a half. Fourteen dead, mostly by magic but one by falling to death."

    "Connections?"

    "That's the problem. There aren't any. It seems almost random."

    "But the murders have stopped," interjected Sirius.

    "Because they've probably gotten what they wanted," he replied. "It's not an unplanned, random serious of murders. Forget what everyone else is saying. This was planned from start to finish. The last couple of murders occurred just to throw us off the scent. And we know when things began spiraling out of any acceptable pattern."

    "The missing tome. Or tomes," Sirius remarked.

    They looked at each other. It was a dead end here. From the other books, they could tell the missing volume - or volumes - could be anything that started with half the alphabet. The list of such books, even narrowed down to dark magic, was yards long on parchment.

    "I can't believe a man like that, who's anal enough to categorize and rebind all his books, wouldn't have a list of them somewhere," he said in frustration.

    "I'm sure he has a list," Sirius replied. "We just don't know where it is."

    "Yeah, well he's dead now. Maybe we should raise him up and ask anyway. Anyway, are you going to the ball tonight?" Neville asked, veering away from the boring - and depressing - subject.

    "What did you say?" Sirius jerked up suddenly, and Neville was startled.

    "I said, are you going to the ball? Why, is there something wrong?"

    "No, before that!"

    "Uhh...." Neville had to think quickly. "That we should raise him up and ask?"

    Sirius froze at his words, and Neville cocked his head. "What?"

    Fingers snapping, Sirius exclaimed, "Ask the dead! Why didn't I think of that before?!"

    "You know any practicing necromancers?" Neville asked in amusement, wondering whether the fatigue had finally ridden his boss of his wits. Or maybe it was switching back and forth from being a dog. He'd never bought into the whole animagus thing, after all.

    Sirius made a half-annoyed, half-amused slash of his hand. "His will!"

    "His will?"

    "His will," Sirius affirmed. "You're too young to think of writing one, that's why it hasn't occurred to you."

    "I've written wills before!"

    "Yeah, and stuck in the back of your drawers to be found at death. You young ones are always like that. His attorney probably has it. Go and find who the attorney is, whether he has a list, and if he does...."

    Having caught up to Sirius' train of thought, Neville nodded and sprang to his feet.

    *    *    *

    The hall was majestic. The ceiling was two, perhaps even three stories high, magically enchanted to reveal the sky on the outside. On a clear day one could see the black sky and the sprinkling of stars, but today the sky was grey with clouds, the moon peaking through from time to time to give off a pallid glow. Arches circled the length of the hall, wrapped in clinging golden leaves, leading off into an aisle and series of alcoves running around the main hall itself.

    It was packed full of people, an assembly of almost all the esteemed figures of the wizarding world in Britain, and most of Europe as well. Harry watched the flurry of activity, the men in full dress robes or tuxedos talking in low voices, the slightly higher voices of the women in clinging dresses of silk and satin, the tinkle of crystal meeting crystal as champagne flowed along with the conversation.

    Normally, he avoided crowds and crowded locations like the plague. But he knew it meant so much to her. Though she had never slipped a word about the affair to him, the invitation card, left on his pillow, had been an eloquent plea. And he could never refuse anything she asked, he knew that now. Putting that thought away in a corner of his mind, he squared his shoulders and entered.

    For a moment no one noticed him, and during that brief respite he looked about with interest. Decorations he couldn't see from outside the hall shined and turned in the still air, streamers and banners and balloons, colored green and black and red. The first two were the family colors, although they could have just as easily stood for Slytherin. Another reason he had hesitated to come, and when he had arrived, to enter.

    But what were the red banners for?

    "It's for her."

    He hadn't realized that he had spoken that last thought aloud, and he turned to face the speaker, her clear voice warming a spot in his body he had despaired of ever warming again, until he had met her. She was looking up at the banners herself, sad and wistful yet somewhat proud. She wore her pale blond hair piled artfully on her head, held haughtily. Or at least, so it would seem to the untrained eye.

    Strange, how in such a short time his mind had captured so many images of her, in as many variety emotions. He knew the curve of her neck bowed in grief, and lifted in joy. A pale brow lifted in amusement, or the slight thinning of her lips in displeasure, and the miniscule frown of her brows at a vexing puzzle. Even the feel of the spun gold of her hair running through his fingers, and her glorious smile at his touch. He cleared his throat, along with the memories.

    "I think that Ginny would have been glad."

    Narcissa nodded in acquiesce, then turned and smiled faintly. Even that simple curving of her lips gave her life, replacing the cool regal grace with warmth, though he knew only he could see her emotions under the cold mask that was a part of her life.

    "I didn't think you would come," she said. Harry shrugged, unable to find anything to say. There was a small awkward silence, as the two of them searched for things to say. It was amusing, he thought, that they'd never had to meet in public before. The words they had no need for in private became a necessity in public.

    They were rescued by a crowd of people who rushed up to gawk at the famous Harry Potter.

    "Oh my god! It's Harry Potter!"

    "Why, Mr Potter, you've hid yourself away from the world for so long!"

    "Can I have your signature? Please?"

    "Mr Potter! Mr Potter!"

    Suddenly there were people all over him, as he was turned this way and that, petted and touched like an animal at a fair. In the confusion he looked about for Narcissa, but she had slipped away.

        *

    Harry slipped into an alcove, where he could find some shelter from all the noise and heat and the people. And the attention. Especially the attention. His mouth was dry, and he chugged down the lukewarm glass of champagne, and searched for something cooler to quench his thirst.

    "Escaped from the wolves, eh?" a voice popped up from behind, and he whirled around in delighted surprise.

    "Ron! And Hermione!"

    He turned and gave his friend a hug, then released him to lift Hermione in a tight hug before whirling her around. She let out a surprised squeak and hit his arms, laughing. A few people turned to look at them, amused, and the trio retreated deeper into the protective shadows of the alcove.

    "Harry, really! Have you no sense for my sensibilities?" Hermione mock-scowled, hands on hips.

    "You had sensibilities?" He dodged a blow from Hermione, who sniffed in annoyance, and turned his head to Ron, watching them with a smile. "What are you doing here?"

    "What do you mean, what am I doing here?" said Ron, indignant. "I'm one of the directors for this charity!"

    "Sorry, I forgot. So, when did you two get here?"

    "A little while ago, chap. We've been enjoying ourselves watching you flounder in that sea of people," Ron grinned.

    And just like that they fell into the past, and the three fell to telling of old stories and new, arguing and bickering. Just like old times.

    Almost like old times, he corrected himself, as he listened and smiled and spoke when it was his turn to. He would have been equally content to watch the interaction between his two best friends, the way their hands touched, or how one would listen while the other spoke, the way they fitted around each other. That hadn't been there before, though now he couldn't imagine things any other way.

    "So when's the wedding?" he popped in. The two looked at him in slight surprise, and Hermione blushed rather charmingly.

    "Soon," said Ron, smiling. "We'll let you know as soon as we fix a date. And you know you're standing in as my best man, right?"

    He nodded, smiling.

    Suddenly he realized that his two friends had stopped talking, and was looking at him. Rather, past his shoulder.

    "Ronald. And Hermione. You look especially beautiful today." Narcissa nodded at the three of them. Ron simply smiled, but Hermione went over and gave her a hug. Harry stood there uncertainly, and he could see the same in Narcissa. There were eyes everywhere here.

    "I'm afraid I'll have to borrow Ronald for just a moment," said Narcissa finally, turning back to Hermione. "The directors are having a small meeting." Hermione nodded, and Ron followed Narcissa away. He stood beside Hermione, looking at the two people disappearing into the crowd.

    Hermione broke the silence first. "You shouldn't be ashamed of her." She was giving him the Look. The one she used when he had asked for her homework, or sneaked off to Hogsmeade, or did a thousand and one other things she disapproved of. Come to think of it, she pretty much disapproved of everything he did except saving the world. And even then....

    "I thought that was what relationships were all about. Each other," she pointed out.

    "We're not ashamed of each other, or our relationship," he responded lightly.

    "Then what was that?!" Hermione stamped her foot. He simply grinned at her, and she blew an exasperate breath. "Anyhow, let's dance."

    "Dance?" he blanched.

    "Yes," declared Hermione. "It's your punishment."

    "But my aching two right feet...."

    "Oh, you whine like an old man. You'll do just fine."

    Hermione dragged him into the hall, and joined the crowd of dancing couples. He wasn't quite as bad a dancer as he had been, although he barely qualified as passable.

    "Really, Harry, you should relax more. There, like that." Hermione, of course, whirled and moved like a feather.

    "Have you seen Neville?" he asked her.

    "No. Why?"

    "Nothing. Just a bit strange, that's all. He got an invitation, I'm sure of it."

    "Maybe something came up at the office."

    He raised his eyebrows at the comment and shook his head.

    "Hardly. I work with him, remember?"

    "Well, maybe Cho didn't want to come."

    The two of them danced for some time, and he was finally beginning to feel a bit comfortable, when someone cleared his throat.

    "Excuse me," said Ron, grinning. "But I do believe I'd like to cut in."

    Smiling, Harry released Hermione, who gave him a little peck on the cheek before dancing off with Ron. Narcissa was left standing next to him, and he could read the startled amusement and apprehension in the way she looked at the departing couple. They had been rather deftly maneuvered. Ron was a chessmaster like no other.

    "Would you like to?" he asked.

    The question was laced with so much hidden meanings that he didn't dare sort each and every one out. It was an offer, like the one he had made, months ago, in the dark hallway standing at the doorway of her flat. And he waited for her to make the choice, just like she had made the choice so long ago.

    *    *    *

    Neville sat still, staring at the open report on his desk. Stare any harder, and his eyes would have bored a hole in the paper. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, and looked disbelievingly into the paper.

    He almost wondered whether his eyes were failing him, whether his bias was coloring the report somehow and magically changing the words. But they didn't change no matter how much he rubbed at his eyes or reread the line after line of neat, impersonal handwriting. Or the photograph of the woman, talking to that grimy old shopkeeper in that grimy old pawnshop, may it burn to the ground and rot. The report, the photograph, the interview, the surveillance reports - they all matched up to one answer.

    "Damn it all to bloody hell and back," he whispered. He put a hand to his head, and wasn't surprised at all to feel it pounding. He swallowed, hard, then looked up at the man standing before him, looking as grimly uncertain and worried as he himself probably was feeling.

    "Where's Harry now?"

    "The Malfoy Charity Ball, sir. With HER."

    Ah yes. The invitation was sitting on his desk, forgotten underneath the report. As a matter of fact, he was supposed to be there, as well. He looked down at his own suit and grimaced. He didn't know whether this was a blessing in disguise, or something else. Luck could be such a whore sometimes.

    "Get me a team, and a portkey to the ball."

    "Yes sir."

    The auror disappeared, and he took a piece of parchment and started writing furiously on it. The letter from the attorney lay beside him, but it was unimportant now, beside the cold facts that stared him in the face. The owl was off almost before the ink was dry, and he sank back in his chair, trying to gather his breath, along with his wits. His tie was suffocating him, and he roughly tugged it off and unbuttoned the top of his shirt.

    "God damn you, Narcissa," he whispered, looking up at the ceiling. "What the devil are you up to?"

    *    *    *

    Harry heard the buzz among the crowd grow louder and louder, but he ignored it all. As a matter of fact, it was drowned by the pleasant roar in his own ear.

    His hand tightened on hers, and she lifted an eyebrow, but didn't pull away. He fought the urge to smile, knowing that he would look like an idiot. It certainly went with the way he was feeling tonight, though.

    The night was late, and the guests were leaving in droves. They all stopped to say their farewells to Narcissa before they left. And probably to gawk at the two of them, standing side by side. A few - very few - offered him their congratulations, in not as many words. The fact that he didn't know most of them made him prize what few friends or acquaintances she had.

    "Good god! It's Harry Potter! With Narcissa Malfoy!"

    Of course, then there were all the other busybodies, who'd been watching them throughout the entire ball and gossiping to their hearts content. Certainly the reporters were having a field day, and the flash of cameras was like the glittering of stars. But strangely enough, he wasn't quite as annoyed with the rest of the world as he usually was. Certainly, the fact that they were out before what pretty much amounted to the entire world side by side made him rather magnanimous. It was an unfamiliar - but not unwelcome - sensation.

    He felt somebody at his elbow, and turned to see a waiter standing there patiently, holding a letter in his hand. "Mr. Potter, this just arrived by owl post."

    He nodded his thanks, and took the letter - just a folded scrap of parchment, really - then turned to see Ron talking earnestly with Narcissa. Hermione was standing next to him, and he could see that his friend was eager to be gone. It'd been a long night. Their eyes met, and she smiled.

    He slipped the letter into a pocket as she gave him a light peck on the cheek. "I'm glad, for both of you. It's good to see you up and walking again, as well."

    "Thank you, Hermione."

    Ron gave him a firm handshake, and finally the last of the guests were off. Narcissa turned to him, and offered him a small smile. He smiled back and squeezed her hand, before heading off to the great fireplace, the lines now empty.

    "Excuse me, ma'am." Another waiter appeared, and they paused before the flickering flames. "The manager wonders if you could just spare a moment."

    She started and cocked her head. He could see the confusion written on her face, but then her face cleared and she was composed again. Only then he realised that she'd been leaking emotion the whole evening. In a manner of speaking, of course.

    "Certainly."

    He made a move to step away from the fireplace, but she shook her head slightly, and shooed him onwards with a slim hand. Smiling back, he threw the floo powder into the fireplace and shouted his destination.

    *    *    *

    Neville ran down the dusty corridor, breathing heavily. It wasn't the exertion, but the fear that had suddenly gripped his chest, that made his breath short. He ran up to the door and pounded on it, and it rattled against the frail frame.

    "Harry! Harry! Open up! It's me, Neville!"

    He could both feel and hear heads poking out of their respective doors to look at him, but he ignored them and continued his pounding. The flimsy door didn't answer his cries, and he drew his wand in frustration.

    "Alohomora!"

    The door was flung open, and he ran into the flat. There were clothes and books scattered here and there, and a layer of dust that signed the absence of its occupant for some time. Harry had never truly moved back into his flat after his illness. Neville opened the bedroom door, but only a spare shirt lying on the unmade bed greeted him.

    "Narcissa!" he whispered, and he apparated with a crack.

        *

    Unlike his own building, Narcissa's hallway was not warded against apparating. However, like his own flat, her door was heavily warded. He raised his hand to pound on the door.

    And found it open.

    "Bloody hell," he whispered, his senses screaming danger. They told him that there was something, something beyond this doorway that was dangerous, something that should be avoided at all cost. Fear surged up from his chest to clutch at his throat, and he wheezed, trying to draw in a breath around the chill that occupied his lungs.

    But he couldn't go back, , and taking a deep breath, he kicked the door open and dived into the entranceway. He pointed his wand at each corner of the living room, but again there was no one there. Not relaxing his guard, he searched each room as he came up to them, and found them all empty. Only one last door remained. His senses were screaming now, and he could hardly breathe through the tendrils of fear piling in his chest. But he had no choice, and he hesitantly pushed the last door open.

    The wooden door opened silently into the master bedroom, and the sharp shock he felt at the sight of a dark figure turned to relief at the sight of his friend paused in the middle of taking his jacket off, and staring at him in surprise.

    "Neville? What on earth are you doing here?" Harry asked, looking rather confused. Neville hunched over and tried to gather his breath. The cold tendrils of fear that had wrapped itself around his heart seemed to evaporate.

    "Did you get my letter?" he wheezed, and Harry frowned before reaching into his pocket. He withdrew the letter, the seal unbroken, and for a moment Neville had the burning urge to strangle his best friend.

    Seeing his dark look, Harry tore the letter open, and he could see the green eyes flicking as they sped through the hastily written lines. Neville could see the blood draining out of his face.

    "No," whispered Harry, letting the letter fall to the floor.

    "Harry, where is she? Where's Narcissa?"

    "She's at the ballroom. The manager wanted...."

    "Harry," he said again, trying to be as calm as possible. "I've talked to the manager. He said he hasn't seen her since the ball began, nor did he ask for her. There's a team searching the ballroom and the hotel, but she isn't there."

    "I don't believe it. I won't."

    "HARRY!"

    "NO! It's not true! I know it's not true!" Harry shouted back.

    "Then where is she?!"

    "I don't know! She's...she would be...." Suddenly a light of realization came on his face, and before Neville could stop him, Harry disappeared with a flash of apparation.

    "Harry, you bloody fool," he whispered. "At least you could have told me where she went!"

    Footsteps sounded behind him, and he whirled around, wand held at the ready. But it was only the rest of the team, that he'd left behind searching the hotel.

    "Did you find her?" he asked.

    "No sir. Did you find...."

    "Yes I did, but the bloody fool ran off. How soon can you get me the Apparation records?"

    The captain glanced at his watch. "There'll be no one at the office by now. An hour, maybe two."

    "Then we'd better hurry."

    *    *    *

    Harry knocked the front doors down with a curt flick of his wand. He could never remember being this furious before. Hated with a passion, maybe. Calmly yet coldly angry, even. But never this roaring surge of raw emotion that threatened to explode any moment. He felt almost heady with it, as if his feet didn't touch the ground but floated on the wings of his rage.

    He strode through the smoking threshold into the empty foyer. There were pieces of furniture scored with burn marks leaning perilously against the walls, and shattered pottery scattered on the floor. Had his spell been that powerful? He didn't know, now, with the power crashing through his veins like an angry wave.

    As he headed for the door to the hallway, there were shouts hurrying towards him from the other side, and he cocked his ear as the sounds grew louder and closer. Then he grinned darkly as he blew the door inwards.

    There was a muffled thud as the door slammed into something - or someone - behind it. He walked into the wide marble hallway, rapidly crowding with men streaming in from the side doors. There was a shocked look on the sea of faces before him as he casually kicked the moaning man before him in the face with a sickening crunch, then finished the job with a flick of his wand, blood splattering all over the floor.

    The display of anger sent a shiver of pleasure up his spine, and he reached behind his back into the folds of his black dress robe and withdrew another wand. Twin to his own, but stained dark with blood. A few faces paled at the sight, and he marked them with interest. So some of them recognized the wand, did they?

    He reached inside for the magic, the power that had been stored there for so long, untapped. Raw magic, molten hot, flowing through his veins and filling his body, until his eyes were shining and he thought he'd burst from the gathered energy.

    He could feel the corners of his lips straining to reach his ears.

    "Who," he asked, "wants to die today?"

        *

    It seemed to him that some of these men didn't really know who he was. Which was very peculiar, if he said so himself. There were very few people in Wizarding Britain, or even Europe, that didn't know who he was. Not that they were stupid, although a few of them had tried charging him, before being taught the folly of their actions. Though the fact that many of these men were cursing out loud - when they weren't busy fleeing before him - in a foreign-sounding English explained a few things.

    "Goddamn him!"

    "Shit! He's comin' this way! Run!"

    "This is totally fucked up!" That was from a rather disreputably dressed white fellow. The words were the last to ever leave his lips.

    Harry cocked his head to the side in amused surprise and wiped the splattered blood from his face. "Americans," he identified them to himself. "What on earth?"

    But he had more important business to carry out at the moment, and he pushed the question to the back of his mind, and concentrated on the task at hand. He moved instinctively, knowing subconsciously where she was. It was strange, to feel his way instead of thinking them through. But it seemed that his voice of reason was silent today, while his instinct gained control by sheer volume.

    On his way, he hunted down every last man and the fewer women hiding in corners and rooms, fleeing or fighting or begging for mercy. He gave none of the last - at least in the form they wanted.

    To be perfectly honest, he admitted to himself, he was rather enjoying this. Flexing his magical muscle, trailing a path of death and destruction, knee deep in dead and wounded. Of course, the fact that there were no friendlies, and that he could kill anything and everything that moved, added a certain morbid trigger-happy charm to the whole affair. His footprints were being stamped in red by the time he reached the private sitting room, her favorite.

    She was sitting on the settee, so very alluring in her simple white long dress, pale blond hair free from her usual tight braid. She looked up to the doorway as she entered, and her brief look of relief was quickly replaced by a pallor deeper than her usual.

    "Narcissa," he called to her. His voice sounded strange to him, through the churning miasma of emotions wrecking his heart. She shrank back away from him, raising her wand. He almost laughed at her puny resistance.

    "Don't come any closer," she said.

End Chapter 5