On Different Sides

On Different Sides

Chapter Two

"Regret does not bring back a lost moment and a thousand years will not recover something lost in a single hour." - Stefan Zweig

"This is where I say I've had enough and no one should ever feel the way that I feel now. A walking open wound, a trophy display of bruises and I don't believe that I'm getting any better."

-Dashboard Confessional

Draco Malfoy was wet, and he was cold, and he hardly cared about either fact. One thing that had remained constant about the Manor over the years was its sheer frigidity; he had grown so accustomed to it in his childhood that he barely noticed. Still, it would hardly do to come all the way home only to come down with pneumonia or some other ailment. He narrowed his eyes; even the blazing fire wasn't enough to warm the whole room. He nudged the chair he was reclined in closer.

A house elf (Tibby? Wobbly? Ed? He had no idea) crept into the room, placing a drink on the small table next to Draco before slinking out again post haste. It simply would not do to disturb the Master. Draco snorted softly to himself. The wayward Master had returned to the Manor.

He reached for the glass, bringing it to eye level and swirling the amber liquid lazily. Whiskey, wouldn't Lucius be proud? Dead and gone nearly nine years and still his elves served him. Draco couldn't count all the times his father had stood in this very study, admonishing him for one infraction or another. He could picture him now, glass held resolutely in one hand while the other would strike out lightning fast at his son. He never spilled a drop. Malfoys were, if nothing else, extraordinarily steady.

But Malfoys were so much more than that: haughty, arrogant, possessing a concrete belief that one's point of view was the only valid one, outwardly unfeeling and inwardly cowardly, impeccably stylish, noble in blood if not in actuality and loyal to one thing above all others: the family.

Draco remembered his childhood, learning about his family with wide-eyed wonder and vowing with the conviction only a small child could possess to live up to every expectation laid at the feet of the sole heir. Listening intently to every story, every lecture his father had deluged him with practically from birth, he had decided that he would make his father proud if it killed him.

How he had loved him, then, in innocence and ignorance. As he grew older, that love had faded into a steely respect. He wasn't sure exactly when that respect had faltered and transformed into hatred, but only knew that it had. He couldn't think of it as a blind hatred, really, as it had been anything but that. No, it had been a cold, calculated loathing. In the space of a few short years, he had gone from blind (the word suddenly seemed fitting in that context) adoration of his father and the desire to do anything to please him to the polar opposite. In those final years of approaching adulthood, Draco had been filled with the need to do anything to defy him.

It had started off small, really: letting his marks fall because his father expected academic perfection, dropping Crabbe and Goyle as his friends and dodging them at every turn because he knew that Lucius was using them to keep a watchful eye on his son, quitting the Quidditch team because, well, that had simply been a ploy to anger the man (and had really been a stroke of genius on his part - "Honestly, Father, all that practicing is taking away from my studying, and we both know, given my marks, that I need the extra time.").

He had defied his father as much as he could and get away with it, angering the man over and over again while far enough away that Lucius couldn't do much about it. Oh, he'd paid well enough for his crimes while at home over the summer, but it had been worth it just to see that little muscle in Lucius' jaw tick, again in this very room. He had informed his son in a frigid tone that he knew exactly what he was playing at, and that his 'little games' would do him no good. He was and always would be a Malfoy, and that he had best learn to accept it.

The only thing that particular lecture had accomplished was to convince Draco that he had to try harder. It had been perfectly obvious that regardless of what his father said, his actions were getting to the man. This was incredibly satisfying to Draco. He remembered thinking, as Lucius had droned on about family responsibility, behaviour befitting a Malfoy and Draco's failure at both, that there was nothing in his life more important than doing the opposite of everything his father commanded of him. He had had the rather humorous thought that if his father were on the side of Dumbledore and his followers that he would be first in line to join Voldemort, as much as the idea disgusted him.

It wasn't so much that he had any desire to be a courage-waving, let's-charge-in-and-get-ourselves-blown-up good guy. Far from it. It was simply that his father wasn't on the side of light. He was a known Dark Wizard, no matter what he deluded himself into thinking the world at large knew (or didn't know, as it were) about him. According to "Operation, Drive Father Daft With Defiance", Draco was obligated to stay as far away from Voldemort and his followers as possible. If that meant eventually serving Dumbledore in some capacity, so be it.

He had hoped, however, that it wouldn't come to that. In the year prior to The Lecture, he had spent a lot of time thinking of the ongoing war and had come to the conclusion that he wanted as little to do with it as possible. The only thing he did want was to come out of it in one piece - a breathing and unharmed piece, thank you very much. Therefore, the blatant infractions had become more than a way to get under Lucius' skin. They'd also become a way to distance himself from the man, to make himself as unworthy in his father's eyes as possible to follow in his questionable footsteps.

It hadn't been enough, at that point. He'd been sent from the study and back to school with the warning to be on his best behaviour as a Malfoy. There had been a contradiction if Draco had ever heard one: the words 'good behaviour' and 'Malfoy' in the same sentence. He had wondered more than once if Lucius ever paused to think before he spoke. He had somehow doubted it. The man could spew platitudes like no one he had ever met - probably the same things his own father had used on him.

Draco smiled bitterly, switching his glass from one hand to the other and remembering. He had gone back to school with a new plan, one would that would prove to his father once and for all that he refused to be moulded into a mindless twit and spoon-fed someone else's ideals. He would befriend Harry Potter.

He had thought it perfect, really. What better way to infuriate the man than to make nice with the one person who embodied all the things that Lucius and the one he blindly followed were not? It was the perfect plan, and he would carry it out to its perfect end.

Too bad everything had gone wrong. He hadn't counted on actually liking the insufferable git, let alone loving him. Nor had he foreseen his father's glee upon finding out about the friendship, and desire to use it to his advantage (stupid really, he thought in hindsight, that was exactly what Lucius would want to do). He hadn't thought of himself as stupid then, though, and had tried to turn even that against Lucius. And that, of course, was where things had gone from bad to "the ninth circle of hell".

The game had gone from being a form of entertainment to one of survival on both his and Harry's parts. It had turned out his father had been partially right about him: he was a failure. He had done what he had thought best, the only thing he could think of, and it had nearly gotten Harry killed. Not only that, it had cost him what few allies he'd had - and Harry. The world at large had hated him too, but that wasn't really any different. The world at large had pretty much always hated him.

There had been nothing he could do about it, and so he'd left as soon as he was free to do so. Left his home, his life, the only person he had ever loved, could ever love. He'd run from it all in his new burning desire: to forget he had ever had anything to do with Harry Potter.

Only, it seemed, it hadn't worked. The ghost of Harry was as hard to avoid as the person himself had been, and had followed him to everywhere he'd fled. It had been so bad, in the beginning, that he had even come back once. But he couldn't bring himself to face what he'd done and what had been done to him and had left as quietly as he had arrived.

The following years had passed as a blur, moving from place to place trying to outrun a past that was constantly trying to catch up with him. In the end, it had been too exhausting. It had been perfectly obvious that no amount of time, no amount of distance, would free him of the knowledge that he had been wrong and had been wronged as a result of it. So, once again, he had returned home. Had been home, now, for the better part of a day.

He shifted in the chair. The clothes that had been drenched in the rain now held a clingy dampness, but he couldn't be bothered to change them. He was too caught up in wondering what would happen next. He knew word had gotten out of his return, knew that prying eyes would be around every corner he happened across. The only eyes he was worried about, however, belonged to Harry.

At some point their paths would cross. Wizarding England was just not that big, it was bound to happen sooner or later. Though he was under the impression that Harry had become something of a recluse, he simply could not see becoming that himself, holed up in the Manor like some kind of freak. Not that Harry was living at all like a freak, just like a very private person devoted to his work.

He knew all about Harry's life - the seclusion, the orphanage, and the house he shared with the Weasley girl. It seemed many of the people who had been loyal to his father were happy to be loyal to him as well. He had, after all, proven in that last year of school that he was Lucius' son. His father's solicitor, Mr. Charlesworth, had been more than happy to tell him all about Potter's fall from grace and had added that he would be more than willing to enlist the aid of a runner to gather any information on him that Draco desired. Amazing how the man just assumed that Draco had come home to pick up where Lucius had left off. He had politely declined the offer and sent the man on his way.

It was something to keep in mind, though. Charlesworth would hardly be the last person to think that he had come home solely to confront Harry. In point of fact, anyone assuming that would only be partially wrong. That was, indeed, one reason he had returned. Another was the pressing need to face what had happened, what he had done, and who and what he truly was.

Whether he liked it or not, he was a Malfoy down to his marrow. Along with the fortune and blood so blue it practically glowed came a resolve bred through dozens of generations. Setting the glass aside, he rubbed his eyes tiredly with the heels of his hands. He was counting on that resolve to help him. Facing who he truly was, along with who the world thought he was - that he could do.

Facing Harry was an entirely different matter.

He frowned once more at the fire, warmth finally starting to seep through a cold that seemed a part of his very being, and considered his options.

~*~

St. Mungo's was quite possibly the one place on Earth that could visibly affect Draco Malfoy. Walking slowly through the halls behind an orderly, he found the alternating wails and sudden silences from the rooms around him disturbing. So much so that he couldn't help thinking that if nothing else, his time away had meant not having to visit the place at all. And that, at least, had been good.

He supposed he should have felt guilty for even thinking it, but there were so many other things weighing on his mind that he simply didn't have the energy for guilt. He'd have to face planets enough of that later. For now, he concentrated on appearing bored and slightly put out for even having to put in an appearance - and repressing shudders with every random wail. He didn't understand it, the place was full of witches and wizards, could no one cast some sort of silencing charm? Perhaps those staffed in the place had gotten so used to it they didn't notice it anymore. If that was the case, bully for them. It still gave him the willies.

He shook his head and tried instead to focus on the echoing of his own footsteps off the stone walls. Perhaps if he just kept doing that, he could ignore his reason for being in the vile place altogether.

The orderly stopped in front of a door marked 712 and said, "Right in here, sir."

Or not. Draco nodded mutely and reached for the handle. "I'll be out shortly."

The orderly smiled kindly, making Draco immediately want to remove it from his face. The man had to know who Draco was, and he highly doubted he thought him deserving of any kindness whatsoever. "Take your time, sir, makes no difference to me how long you visit."

Draco gnashed his teeth together and bit out a 'Thank you' before turning his back on the man and walking into the room. It was small, but brightly lit by the sunlight streaming through a large window on the far wall. Seated in front of it, staring out at Merlin knew what, was the person he had come to see. He strode across the room and sat down delicately on the tidily made bed, situated only a few feet from the window.

"Hello, Mother."

As he spoke, she turned her head and looked at him briefly before returning her attention to the window. She looked different than she had the last time he had seen her. Older. There was a fair amount of grey streaked through her hair, which was definitely new. As were the fine lines etched around her mouth and eyes. He somehow doubted they were from laughter. She wasn't old enough to have grey hair and the beginnings of wrinkles, he mused. But then, she had never seemed like the kind of person who would have to be institutionalised, either. Things had a way of changing, and his lack of control over any of them was biting. He swore to himself softly.

"I'd tell you I'm home, but I rather think that would be stating the obvious, " he began, mentally berating himself. He really had no idea what to be saying. 'Golly, I'm sorry for running off on you,' seemed a bit trite, and years overdue. Beyond that, he wasn't positive it would make a bit of difference. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, going through all the things he could say. Finally, with a sigh, he settled on the truth.

"I have no idea why I'm even here." He said it heavily, unsure of whether or not she was even hearing him, and not sure that it mattered at all. "I have no idea whether or not you even know I'm here," he continued. "But I don't suppose that really matters. I suppose I've come to try and make everything all right, though I'm not even sure how to go about doing that. Even if I did, I don't have the faintest idea of what constitutes 'all right'," he laughed bitterly.

Narcissa remained silent and unmoving before him. He had expected that.

"I'm rather new at this. My whole life I've always been the one to damage things, I don't have the faintest idea how to go about fixing them," he smiled wryly. "But I seem to have the wholly unusual desire to do just that. And I thought, what better place to start than with you? A bit of practice, if you will, for when I go about it with Harry. Selfish of me, but there you have it."

Silence.

"I am sorry, you know, for leaving you there. What else could I do, though? It's not as though he would let both of us leave. It was surprising that I got away as easily as I did. You'd been handling him for years, I never thought it would come to - " he broke off. Rehashing what had happened would get him nowhere. Not that having a one-sided conversation with the zombie that had once been his mother was having any benefit. He sighed and forged on.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "For so many things. And the worst of it is that what I'm regretting the most has nothing to do with you. I should say something clichéd about how that makes me a horrible son, but I think we both already know that I am." He stared intently at her for a moment in thought. "Did it disappoint you, when you found out about me and Harry? It doesn't matter, really, in the end. But I am curious.

"I've come back to make things right there, you know. I don't think there's anything I can do for you, for us, but I can't help this nagging feeling that I can do that with him." He let out a shaky laugh. "The thought of even seeing him scares me to death, I can't even conceive of talking to him or trying to explain...of telling him exactly how he destroyed me." He paused, considering her again. "I don't suppose you have any motherly advice on the matter?"

Nothing.

"No, I thought not. Advice was never your strong suit, was it? What could you possibly tell me about dealing with guilt? Did you ever, in all the time you knew what Father was trying to shape me to be, feel even one iota of remorse for allowing it? Did you encourage him? Were you in on it the whole time? No no, don't answer that," he smiled sardonically, "I'm probably better off not knowing. I do wish you would answer one question though: how did you lve with yourself? I'm having difficulty with that one, you see. I thought that maybe if you told me I could learn to live with what I've done." He shook his head. "No?"

Still nothing.

"Ah, well, it's probably for the better. Drudging up the past wouldn't do either of us any good. The problem is, I have no idea what would be good for you." Pause. "I could take you home I suppose."

His mother stiffened abruptly, making him smile humourlessly again.

"No, I don't suppose you'd care for that at all. Can't say I blame you, really. I'm not very good company these days. This conversation being vivid proof of that."

He wondered briefly if he should sign up for a bed next to his mother. There had to be something wrong with a person willing to have a discussion with someone who was cognitively deficient. They sat in silence for a few minutes, she lost in a world outside the window, he in his thoughts. Perhaps coming here had been a mistake. It wouldn't be surprising. Very little Draco had done in his adult life hadn't been a mistake. He wanted desperately to rectify things, but this visit had proven, if nothing else, that that would be no simple task. One would think it would be easy talking things through with a catatonic person, and look at how well he was mucking that up.

He leaned forward and kissed his mother's cheek. "I'll visit next week," he informed her as he stood up to leave. "I know you'll be wanting to know how it's going with Harry, if at all," he drawled. She didn't say anything. She never did. She hadn't spoken a word since the bastard who had spawned him put her in that chair. According to the Doctors, she most likely never would.

Just another casualty of Draco's love life.

~*~

Draco was coming to the conclusion that the Manor was a downright dull place to inhabit. Nothing seemed to happen there. At least, nothing had happened since he'd returned. Being the sole occupant of a mansion (he hardly counted the house elves, as they made themselves visible to him as little as possible) was dreary, and he was bored out of his mind.

He stared at the candelabra situated in front of him and pondered his circumstances. The plate of food before him was untouched; he was too restless to eat. It was probably for the best. Dining alone was depressing. He had travelled alone while he was gone, but had always made a point of it to find someone to eat with. It had made him feel better.

He reached out a hand and absentmindedly brushed it through the flickering flame of one candle. Pain. Now there was something that was interesting at least. Not to mention, the more intense flickering made for some appealing shadows on the walls. He removed his hand, berating himself for his simple thoughts. He could do better than that.

He could, he supposed, at least consider what he was going to do with regard to Harry. He had been home now for close to a week. Sitting around the Manor had lost its appeal. The time had come to do something. That, he could admit. The fact that he didn't have the faintest idea what to do, he was slower to acknowledge.

He supposed it came down to what it was, exactly, that he wanted. He knew without reservation that he wanted - needed - to make things right with Harry. But did it stop there? He rubbed his eyes tiredly. That was the question, wasn't it?

He tried to recline in his incredibly stiff and uncomfortable chair and closed his eyes. It was time to be honest, at least with himself. Whether or not that honesty would show itself when he faced Harry was an entirely different matter.

It didn't stop with wanting to make things right. Not by half. Draco wanted Harry back. Wanted the feeling he had only had when with Harry. The sniping and the laughing and the talking and, most importantly, the understanding that he had only ever gotten from Harry, who had never once asked Draco for more than he could give. Not once had he ever asked Draco to make any sort of choice, only trusted that when the time came he would make the right one. Draco had. He had, only it hadn't been a choice Harry had even known about.

And therein lay the problem.

He could hardly breeze back into Harry's life and expect to pick up where they had left off. There was too much hurt, on both their parts, to think that that was even a possibility. Beyond that, he wasn't positive he wanted it that way. He wanted Harry back, yes, but Draco wanted him to hurt for what he'd done. He wanted him to suffer as much as Draco himself had suffered. Oh, he was well aware that Harry had hurt, thinking Draco had betrayed him in the worst possible way. But he had been mistaken. Harry's was a hurt based in illusion. Draco's pain had been firmly planted in reality. If he had anything to say about it (and he swore he would), when they came together again it would be on equal footing.

It was, really, a question of when and not if. Draco was wholly used to getting what he wanted, with one exception. And he wanted Harry - to hurt, to explain, and to forgive. To love him again. He didn't doubt for even a minute that Harry had loved him; the boy had worn every emotion he had ever felt on his sleeve. Perhaps he had left that love behind him. Draco hadn't. And he refused to let Harry continue.

Again, this raised the question of what to do about it. Draco leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table and resting his chin in his hands, staring ahead of him at nothing and thinking. There were countless ways to confront Harry. It was simply a matter of choosing the right course of action. He supposed he could simply walk into that school of his and see what happened. However, it didn't seem like the wisest choice. Harry had already indicted him for enough; he didn't want to add the reckless endangerment of orphans to that list.

According to Charlesworth, Harry emerged from his self-imposed seclusion occasionally to attend various wizarding functions. Draco pondered merely showing up, invited or not, at one of those, but just as quickly decided against that due to the whole "endangering the innocent" thing again.

He exhaled sharply through his extended lower lip, sending tendrils of hair flying about his face. He was a Malfoy, dammit, conspiring against people was in his genetic makeup. He would formulate a plan. He took a deep breath and forced himself to really think. What was the best way to turn Harry's world on its ear? He contemplated it for a moment before a slow smile made its way across his features. He didn't know why he hadn't thought of it before. The best way to get to Harry had always been to provoke him when he least expected it. Juvenile, yes, but effective. Even better than that, was to do so when Harry was alone. An audience had always had the unfortunate ability to make Harry go all noble and heroic.

Alone, however, he had always been at his most vulnerable, both physically and emotionally.

That was it then: he would catch Harry when he was alone and would be least expecting it. Of course, it sounded a lot easier than it actually would be. Harry rarely left the Home, and when he did, it was hardly on a concrete schedule. Draco rubbed his chin in thought. How to find out in advance when Harry was planning an excursion on his own?

The answer came to him quickly and was almost humourous in its simplicity: he would spy on him. He hadn't employed that tack since he was twelve, but it would suffice. If nothing else, Draco had learned in his travels how to be invisible. He would use that to his advantage.

He wondered briefly if he should feel asinine for even thinking about doing so, but shrugged the thought off. He had waited too long to face Harry again. When he did, he would be prepared, and he would be damned sure to have the upper hand.

With a smile and a sudden sense of purpose, he stood from the table and called for his cloak. After all, there was no better time to start than the present.

~*~

Draco felt like an ass.

Standing alone, behind a tree of all things, and watching the house Harry shared with Ginny, he was beginning to rethink his plan. He had been planted behind said tree for at least an hour, and there had been no sign of Harry. He wondered briefly if Harry had somehow managed to leave the grounds undetected. Draco had been looking into the house through a large window, but there had been no evidence of any activity within whatsoever.

The night was lit fairly well by the full moon hanging overhead. Draco somehow doubted that if either of the house's occupants had come or gone that he would have missed it. Perhaps, then, he was watching the wrong building? He shook off the thought, it was well after nine and he couldn't fathom any reason for either of them to still be at the school.

So, then, where were they?

He scowled and pulled his cloak more tightly around him. The cold October air was refreshing and all, but when standing motionless in it, it was just that: cold. His frown deepened. What was he doing? It wasn't as though he could gain any useful knowledge of Harry from watching him from afar, unless Harry decided to post a list of any forthcoming activities on his front door. Draco's eyes strayed to the door. No such luck. It was incredibly uncooperative of Harry.

He sighed to himself, resting a shoulder against the tree. He knew damned well what he was doing there - he wanted to see Harry. He wondered, not for the first time, how the years had affected him, how he looked in adulthood. His memories of Harry were crystalline, but they ended in adolescence. He'd purposely avoided anything to do with Harry after leaving, and therefore hadn't seen so much as a photograph since they had last seen one another.

Draco closed his eyes tiredly. Who needed photographs when the memory burned as bright as day? He could still see Harry in his mind's eye, as sharply as he always had. Harry, laughing at something Draco had said, chewing his lip in concentration (this had always been Draco's favourite quirk of Harry's), eyes alight with humour, darkened with desire, every feature contorted in pain and rage. Every expression Harry had every displayed was burned in Draco's mind, no matter how much he had wished it otherwise.

As much as he had wanted to just forget he had ever had anything to do with the Gryffindor, it hadn't been a possibility. Harry had been too important to him. Harry had been, in point of fact, everything. It just hadn't been in him to pretend it had ever been otherwise.

The sound of voices pulled him from his reverie. He opened his eyes to see two figures walking slowly up the path toward the house. Draco moved closer to the tree, not wanting to be seen. Though they were outside of the light cast through the window, shrouded in shadow, he couldn't be so sure he was as well hidden.

"Honestly, Harry, you can be so stubborn sometimes." Draco almost snorted to himself, he'd have recognized that voice, and especially the tone (as it had been used on him countless times) anywhere: Ginny. He found himself nodding in agreement with her and grinned. She was right though, Harry could be incredibly stubborn. It had both endeared him to Draco and made him want to pull his hair out at times. Not that he'd ever actually have followed through with the thought, he'd always been entirely too proud of his hair.

He watched as they neared the door, coming finally into the light. Harry stopped and turned to her, presenting his back to Draco. He held back a growl of frustration; he hadn't waited all bloody night just to get a stellar view of the back of Harry's head.

"Pot. Kettle. Black." Draco closed his eyes once more. He'd never expected to hear that voice again, and wasn't exactly thrilled with how much it affected him. He wrapped his arms around himself and concentrated on watching his former companions.

Ginny laughed happily, turning to Harry, finally giving Draco a clear view of her face. She looked much the same as he remembered her, but older of course. The last vestiges of girlishness were gone. She was, in all honesty, stunning. He'd always known she would be, though she had scoffed at him any time he'd had the audacity to suggest such a thing to her. She carried herself well, now, all traces of the old uncertainty gone. She was smiling brightly at Harry and actually punched him on the arm. Some things, it seemed, never changed. Draco smiled almost wistfully before catching himself. Though he had missed Ginny's friendship nearly as much as he had missed Harry, he hadn't come to the Home to think on it.

"Coming in?" she asked Harry, and he shook his head. The familiarity of the question prompted Draco to wonder if Harry stayed outside very often. He narrowed his eyes in concentration and continued watching. "Suit yourself," she smiled, and let herself into the house.

Harry turned, taking a few steps toward Draco, and sat heavily on the ground, sighing loudly. "Lumos," he commanded, and the tip of his wand lit, finally bringing his countenance into view. Draco sucked in a breath at the shock of suddenly seeing the face he had memorized. Harry had grown into manhood, in a word, well. Extremely well. His eyes were still hidden behind glasses, but Draco was glad to see he still wore them. They were as much a part of him as his scar, seeing Harry any other way would have seemed too foreign.

Harry tilted his head back to look, Draco could only assume, at the night sky. His hair was longer than it had been in school, but not by much, and was still as unkempt as ever. As his head moved back, his hair floated about his face ethereally. Draco had to quell the sudden urge to go to him, to run his fingers through it like he had hundreds of times before. He shook his head and continued his study of Harry.

Between the moonlight and the glow from his wand, Harry's features were well illuminated. His face still held a boyish quality to it, but the set of his chin and the crease created by his frown dispelled the illusion of boyhood. No, Harry was grown now.

He looked just that: a grown man, sitting and thinking. He was wearing what Draco had once dubbed his "pensive face", all concentration, complete with a mild frown that he never realized he even developed. He looked deep in thought, and terribly sad. Draco tried to remember if he had always looked like that. Harry had tried so hard in their time together to keep things light between them. He had been sad at times, yes, but would generally shrug the mood off and try his best to be jovial. It was just something he'd done, for them.

Draco caught himself just as he was preparing to sigh. It wouldn't do to give himself away, after all. He didn't know how long he leaned against that tree, watching Harry watch the sky. He did know he was capable of doing so for hours. He'd missed watching Harry. To him, it was a pastime. It was innate. It was his heart beating. Breathing. To go for so long being unable to do so had been physically painful. Watching Harry had been his world, for one reason or another, since the day they had met.

To have that back suddenly was indescribable. Draco scowled. If simple scrutiny from afar was making him wax poetic, how would being within close proximity affect him? He didn't want to think about it, and so he didn't. He just continued to lean on that tree and watch.

After a while, Harry huffed (it was the only way Draco could think that described the sound he made) and lay back upon the grass, taking his face from clear view. Draco's eyes travelled the length of Harry's body, and never could he remember wishing so badly that robes weren't the clothing of choice in wizarding society. He wanted to know if the body had grown as well as the face. He couldn't imagine that it hadn't, but he felt a burning need for proof. He could barely register the fact that he was really seeing Harry after so long. He needed to really view everything to believe that it was real.

It was not to be, however. Harry sat up once more, shaking his head at Merlin knew what. He smiled wryly before standing up and dusting his robes off. With a quiet "nox" he turned, walked to the house and let himself in. When a minute or so had passed, Draco shoved away from his perch and followed.

He stood by the same window he had stared at earlier, making sure to stay out of view, and looked in. Ginny was curled up in a chair near the fire, a large calico cat sleeping in her lap. She was smiling at Harry, who was sprawled on the floor nearby. Draco felt a knot of something tighten in his belly, and again found himself feeling wistful for days long since past.

He looked away, considering. Ginny had been instrumental in bringing him and Harry together. He wondered if she could prove that useful again. If he could somehow convince her that his intentions were pure, would she aid him in getting back into Harry's good graces? He frowned and mulled it over for a few minutes.

When he returned his attention to the window, he immediately decided against it. Ginny had vacated her chair and was hugging Harry fiercely, stroking his hair and talking, with a look of pure protectiveness on her face. Draco brushed off a twinge of jealousy at the intimacy and wondered what had caused the sudden tension. Harry had always had such a large capacity for emotion that it had at times overwhelmed Draco. He'd never known what to do in the face of it. Ginny, it seemed, knew. After a few minutes, they both seemed to calm, though they remained on the floor, holding one another, for a long while. Finally, Harry pulled away and stood up. A moment later, he was gone.

Ginny stayed on the floor, staring in the direction Harry had gone for a moment, before burying her head in her hands. From the way her shoulders were shaking, it was apparent that she was either laughing or crying. Draco was betting on the latter.

When she stilled, she again looked out of the room and wiped her hands violently across her eyes. As she finished, her expression a mix of anger, hurt and determination, she swore vehemently. Draco was by no means an expert at reading lips, but the words 'bloody' and 'Malfoy' were easily identifiable. Merlin knew they had been used in his presence often enough.

No, he thought, he would never find an ally in Ginny Weasley.

With a heavy heart, he backed slowly from the window and headed away from the grounds, where he could apparate safely to the Manor.

~*~

Hours later, Draco was wide-awake. He briefly considered a sleeping draught, but discounted it as soon as he thought of it. He was well used to not sleeping and taking any sort of aid seemed like cheating. If he was troubled enough to lie awake, he could damned well deal with it. Besides, as far as his troubles were concerned, it was minor.

He smiled wryly and stared at the bed hangings that surrounded him. He had been half hoping that seeing Harry would free him of any wish to deal with him - that perhaps he would see him and feel nothing. It had been pure folly on his part.

Watching Harry had done nothing but reinforce what Draco had already known: that he was still in love with him, still wanted him, still needed him. He had nearly forgotten how powerfully Harry affected him. Time had done nothing to diminish that. If anything, it had strengthened it.

With a muttered curse, Draco sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He stood and walked across the carpet to one of the windows that dominated the room. His room. He hadn't had it in him to move into the master suite. The ghost of his father was still too prominent in the Manor for that. He had no desire to wrestle with that along with everything else that sat upon his shoulders.

He let his head fall forward to rest against the glass. It was cool and comforting against his forehead, and he closed his eyes. What was he getting himself into? Nothing, yet, a small voice in the back of his mind offered. You could walk away. He probably wants nothing to do with you anyway. Better to bow out before you make a fool of yourself. Easier.

Draco shook his head. He'd taken the easy road once and it had been the wrong choice. Had he just stayed, had he just weathered the storm, maybe things wouldn't be so incredibly messed up. Or maybe they would, that voice piped up again, making Draco wonder if even his conscience was determined to see him fail. You have no way of knowing whether or not he would listen to you, whether or not he would forgive you. Perhaps you would, had you taken Divination...

Draco growled and thumped his head against the window. It wasn't the most intelligent response, but it made him feel better. No, he had no way of knowing what would have happened had he just stayed. He had no way of knowing what would happen if he followed through with his plan. Dwelling on what-ifs, however, was counterproductive.

Regardless of what happened, he wanted this. He needed to at least try. If in the end he failed miserably, so be it. He would at least have the knowledge that he had made the attempt. He could walk away from that and, if the Powers That Be were kind, be at peace at last. Maybe, even and for once, get a full night's sleep.

He could and would do anything within his power to keep that from happening, however, with the exception of finally sleeping. That, he hoped, could just as easily be the result of a positive outcome. He also hoped that Harry would initially be receptive. He was willing to work at it, yes, but he was aristocracy. He wanted to work as little as possible.

Harry had changed physically in their time apart, as was to be expected, but he still looked like the Harry he had known. Perhaps that sameness extended to his personality as well. Harry may well have been the world-at-large's saviour, but he had also been one of the biggest pushovers that Draco had ever met. He had been ridiculously trusting, and with one exception that Draco could recall, entirely too willing to forgive past grievances. He could only hope that that was still the case.

It didn't seem likely, however, given the scene he had witnessed earlier. If that was any indication, his wounds were still as raw and bloodied as Draco's were. That, of course, did not bode well. Harry had, indeed, been easily won over once upon a time, but he also had had a stringent sense of right and wrong. Draco knew full well that Harry believed himself to have been wronged in the worst possible way. His morality may not let him see past it, may not even allow Draco the opportunity to explain, to tell him why.

He wasn't even certain the "why" mattered to Harry.

He wasn't certain of anything other than the fact that he wanted the chance.

It wasn't a pleasant feeling. He drummed his fingers on the glass and frowned. He had devoted entirely too much time thinking about it. Not that he had the least bit of control over his train of thought. He could tell himself not to think about it until the end of time and it would do him little to no good. The more he attempted to wash Harry from his mind, the more he would end up thinking about him. The universe was twisted like that.

He sighed and made his way back to his bed, shoving the curtains aside and falling into it heavily. Standing around aimlessly was doing nothing but raising questions that had no answers. He pulled the hangings closed angrily and buried his face in his pillow. Perhaps, if he lay very still, he could pretend to at least get some rest. The pillow was cool against his face, and provided total darkness, which was at least comforting.

He decided he'd take what he could get.

AN: I think this chapter was one of the most difficult I have ever written. Draco is a lot harder for me to write, as I identify with Harry (the way I write him) a lot better. Not to mention, I tend to tell stories better through dialogue, and got almost no chance to use it here. It also made it a bit shorter than I would have liked, but Draco train of thought is tiring. Not that I'm bitter, or anything, it being my own fault and all. So, this chapter took me a lot longer to finish than I am hoping the rest will.

The song quote at the beginning of the chapter is taken from the song "Saints and Sailors". You may recognize a definite Dashboard Confessional trend in this story. I can't help it, though, Chris Carabba writes some amazingly angsty lyrics, and they just fit this story entirely to well.

Thanks to my betas: Lissa, Ben, and Ash (my new UK expert, woohoo!). I don't know what I'd do without you guys.

Many thanks and huge glomps to Kimby, Aurora Malfoy, MiniMe and ariesfire for reviewing the first chapter, and your kind words in doing so. To answer a question that was raised, in case anyone else is curious, yes, all the gory details of The Scandal will be explained later on in the story.

This chapter is dedicated to all the splendiferous people at the SAA Message Boards (they know who they are). Many of them aren't H/D fans and don't read much fanfic as far as I know (one has never even read the Harry books) but they all flocked here to read the last chapter just because I was so excited about it being posted, and then told me it was good. They get a gold star for kissing up to their leader.