Bleeding Hearts

In three hundred years, the grounds of Malfoy Manor had not changed face, and had been kept up by the dual efforts of magic and house elves, of which the Malfoys always had an abundance.

As much as the entire Malfoy family hated Muggles and Mudbloods, Draco had always wondered what would happen if a Squib was born to his family. He was as good as that, without his wand, and he had to yank open the large doors by hand. They did not give way easily and Draco was exhausted by the time that he cracked it open far enough to squeeze through.

The halls weren't any different than what he had seen as a small child. It was still the cold, forbidding place that he had spent his early childhood in.

It made him sick to realize that it had been Potter who had gotten him a lessened sentence of...well, it was as good as he could get without kissing the right behinds, like his father had done. At this point, Draco could not remember if his father plead under the Imperius Curse or simply made a huge amount of donations to good causes to get out of Azkaban the first time Voldemort fell.

Didn't matter, anyhow, the old bastard was dead, and to tell the truth, Draco was damn glad of it. He had spent his life in his father's shadow, and it had started to piss him off. The only thing that had annoyed him about Lucius Malfoy's death at the time was that it had been at the senior (Arthur) Weasleys hand. The specific thing that had annoyed him about it was that Draco didn't get to finish Lucius off himself.

As soon as he had walked five steps into his childhood home, house elves converged around him and peppy, chattering voices began to ask where he had gone. He ignored them, and walked into the sitting room, a place no house elf was allowed except on explicit orders from himself, or from his father, when he had been alive, or from his mother, who had dissapeared.

When he heard some suspicious pattering behind him, he did not turn around and tell the offending house elf off. He didn't feel up to it, and besides, he knew which one it was. The sickening part was that this elf had taken better care of him than his own blasted parents. His mother was preoccupied with parties, and keeping up a social image around her husband's wives, and sending him treats during his school years.

His father, well, we all know what Lucius Malfoy had been up to. That went unspoken. Draco sighed and looked to the top of chair. The house elf looked down at him with large brown eyes and looked worried about him. Draco decied to put at least one person out of their misery and speak. "Hello, Kui," he said in a flat and emotionless voice. "Stayed out of trouble, I hope?"

Kui's head bobbed up and down. "Master Draco! You didn't come back for a long time!" Kui said angrilly. "And you never told me where you go!"

Draco did not answer and sunk further into the chair. "Yeah, sorry. Go find me some new robes and...just get something to eat for me." He did not have the energy to berate Kui like he normally did.

Kui soon returned with a cup of tea and a few sandwiches on a tray. A few minutes later a second house elf appeared and held up a well pressed robe. He changed robes, his own was dirty and ragged, and he had not changed since his initial removal from Malfoy Manor by Potter. One thing genuinely confused him, though. Potter said that he had taken him to the Burrow - that, apparently, was the name of the Weasley's residence - because they could not keep him in the Ministry for lack of anywhere to put him. Draco had run around the Ministry's cell blocks too many times as a child to even consider that to be the truth. His father's kissing up and playing the Ministry for a pack of fools had given him time to explore the nether regions of the supposedly pristine Ministry. Amazing what one could find in a dirty dungeon.

Above the fireplace was a large portrait of a very old man. Apparently this had been the Malfoy that had built the Manor house, his name was pretty much lost. The Unnamed Malfoy did not speak to the other portraits, although some of his relatives could be very gregarious...his Great-great-great aunt Mildred Malfoy was a fine example. Yap, yap, yap, every single chance she got. Rather rude, too.

Draco had never had much to do as a child and had decided once in the summer between first and second year to go on a personal grand tour for himself, dragging Kui along for the ride and bitching at her almost all of the way. He found a large hall that housed several hundred portraits in a row like a Muggle museum that he had seen in pictures in Muggle Studies at Hogwarts, and had been talked to for hours on end. He meant 'talked to' in the literal sense. Draco rarely said a word, he was reeling from the gin-and-tonic he'd made Kui fetch for him. God knows why Lucius never kept the liquor cabinet locked.

Draco was reminded of this vast hall and stood up, and turned to Kui. "Do you remember a hall you and I once found? A lot of portraits were there."

Kui looked up at him helplessly. "No," she chattered. "What room, Master Draco?"

"A very dark and long hall of portraits, Kui," Draco snapped impatiently. "Stupid elf...oh, hell. Never mind. I'll find it myself."

"Master Draco, you're still--" Kui began, but Draco turned around and at his frigid look, shut her mouth with a snap and he stalked off into the farthest halls.

It was raining at the Burrow, very hard. Harry had not left quite yet, he and Ron were talking about Voldemort's defeat. On the desk was Draco's wand, with the note underneath it.

"And the Death Eaters in the Americas?" Ron asked, glancing at Ginny, who was reading a letter from Hermione next to the hearth.

"The American Aurors can take care of them, if they dare go anywhere near Canada, Faith and Scott won't think twice about blasting them...their dragon might do the job before they do, though."

They both laughed and remembered how Faith had petted and cooed over the albino dragon called Snowball. It was supposed to be an eastern dragon, very snakelike and VERY big. But if the Death Eaters raised any ruckus, the Aurors would be the first line of defense. Harry had met a few American Aurors once a year or so ago when they took a transcontinental flight, and had thought them too stubborn and loud, but very friendly. More than one of the female Aurors thought his british accent was adorable, and Harry and Ron were cajoled into pointless conversations because of it.

All of this was before they learned that Harry was The Boy Who Lived. "But with Percy as the Minister of Magic...Percy won't make Fudge's mistakes?"

"Percy will believe someone if he thinks they're credible, especially if someone tells him that Voldemort has come back," Ron said. "You know Percy, he isn't one to muck around."

Harry sat back and nodded, shutting his eyes briefly, and then grabbed for Draco's wand, which he planned on dropping off at Malfoy Manor before taking off for his own home. He picked the wand up and held it up. It was scuffed up and was in need of repolishing. It was also older than Draco himself, that was apparent at first glance. "I'd best be off," Harry said and smiled at Ron. "Bye Ginny," he said and slipped out the door.

Ginny's face was blushing again, and she looked up at the cieling. "Bye, Harry, come and visit some time soon," she said and Ron left the room. Finally, she thought with a grin, they're gone so I can take the chairs, which are a lot more comfortable than the ground! She got up and sat down where Harry had been sitting, and she instantly felt very good.

She set Hermione's letter up on the table and drew her legs up onto the chair. Hermione had said hello, and that she and Viktor were having a great time. Hullo, what's this? Ginny picked up a large peice of parchment with fancy scrolling on the top and scratchy, angular handwriting. "Is this Malfoy's handwriting?" she asked herself and decided to read it.

Ron came back in. "Hey, Gin, d'you want a glass of...butterbeer..."

Ginny looked up at him silently and set down the note, got up silently, and walked up the stairs. A few minutes later there was a faint 'wham.'

Draco had not managed to find the hall of portraits, but he had found his way to a tower he had never seen before. It was early morning, and while the sound of chirping birds was something he hated, he ignored it.

He had climbed up to sit up on the roof of this tower, and was watching the sunrise, or rather watching nothing in particular, but that was where his eyes were pointed.

He was drunk as hell, and around him on the steeply conical, shingled roof a variety of alcoholic bottles lay strewn about. He had not gotten drunk because he was lamenting about Ginny, or even because he had to live with all that he'd done, but simply because he had had nothing better to do than to get drunk and go wandering about the halls of his house.

Contrary to popular belief, his father had never been a drunk, nor had he ever actually beaten Draco or his wife, but even Draco had to admit his father did seem the type. He just had never cared enough to do anything about Draco or Narcissa if it didn't have something to do with social image, he had Death Eater crap to keep up with.

His head tilted back and his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his breath came in long, soft, wheezes. His hair was sticking to his forehead and face, and with an unsteady hand he raked it away. "Damn you!" he slurred and slung an arm out. "Fuck...you..." He stood up, and half stumbled, half crawled to the spire at the top of the tower, and clutched it as he stood up against it. He broke out into maniacal laughter and slumped down. His feet slipped and he went tumbling over the edge of the roof, still laughing. "Oh shit!" he said and started to giggle once he got the vaguest hint that he was plummeting to the ground.

"Wake up, you insufferable bastard!"

Draco's eyes opened instantly and he clenched them shut again, his head pounding out every single beat and rhythm his body produced in deep bass. He groaned and reached up to clutch his head.

"Did you drink every drop of the stuff in the world, Malfoy?" a familiar voice asked and Draco's eyes shot open with a start, and he sat up quickly.

"POTTER!" he snarled but threw himself back again, clutching at his aching head and mentally cursing himself for yelling, which made his head pound harder. "What stuff?" he asked under his breath. Any louder and he would be punished with an agonizing pound of the head. Draco made a sworn pact with himself to never TOUCH a drop of alcohol again in his life.

"You know, port, whiskey, rum, gin," Potter replied and smiled, his smile definitely reaching his bright green eyes.

Even Draco's and Harry's eyes were different. Harry's were vibrant green and emotion easily flowed in them, Draco's were cold, gray, and emotionless. "Fuck off, Potter," Draco muttered, catching the intended joke. "What happened?"

"You nearly killed yourself, that's what, if I hadn't caught you, you'd be dead," Harry replied.

"What?" Draco murmured. "Just what the fuck did I do now?"

"Got drunk and fell off of the tower in the farthest part of this house," Harry replied. "You were absolutly stone-dead drunk," he added. "Don't worry, though, you're okay now. Safe in bed."

"I don't need your damn help, Potter," Draco snapped, and felt no remorse telling Harry off for helping him. "Maybe I wanted to die," he said.

"I don't think so," Harry said and got up. "You've got a fever, you're going to be in that bed for a while."

"Potter!" Draco snapped and winced, his shut eyes opening and focused on the blurry blurb with black hair. "What the hell are you doing here?"

The blur held something up. "Returning your wand, Malfoy," he said, and turned to the door. "Get well soon, Malfoy," he said and dissapeared through the door without another word.

Draco sneered at the cieling and shut his eyes, slipping into the land of the dreamers without having to wait a second more.

Several days later, Ginny was reading a letter brought by Scott's tawny owl, called Vader, talking about Malfoy getting drunk and almost getting himself killed if Harry hadn't saved him at nearly the last second. "Malfoy nearly got killed!" Ginny cried out suddenly and Ron nearly dropped his teacup he was so startled.

"Yeah, so?" he asked shortly. "Too bad Harry's too nice to let him just die," Ron said and sipped at his tea. He had been introduced to it by American Aurors, who were more than a little startled that he didn't drink it. 'But you're english!' they said, and made him try something called 'chai' tea, which was most definitely not british tea, but was still tea. He flipped the pages of the Daily Prophet.

"Come on, he's sick!" Ginny said.

"Why do you care?" Ron asked suddenly, getting to his feet and glaring at her point blank. "Go and help the git if you want, Ginny!" he ordered.

Ginny stepped backwards and raised her hands slightly. "Calm down, Ron, come with me!" she said and her brother looked ill at the very thought. "Harry said we should give him a second chance."

"That second chance, if I recall correctly, had nothing to do with helping an undeserving, stupid, arrogant, snobby, little, PRAT!" Ron yelled, he was visibly shaking with the emotion.

Ginny looked down at the ground for a moment and took a medium breath. "Ronald Weasley, you are going with me to Malfoy's house if I have to make you!" she said and crossed her arms. "There is no way you are getting out of it! I'm not going anywhere near that place without somebody else with me! And you're that person!"

"I do not want to go to Malfoy's damn house, Gin! I hate that prat! You go on your own! Why do you want to go, anyway?!"

"Because he's sick, and he's already tried to kill himself once!" Ginny replied.

"I won't--"

"You will!" Ginny yelled and turned on her heel. "Now get upstairs and pack your bags!" She turned and smiled, she knew this one would get Ron to come with her no matter what. "Or I'll go on my own and let Malfoy have his wicked way with me!"

There was a split second in between when Ron stared at her in mortification at the bottom of the stairwell, and when he was upstairs, digging in his room for his suitcase.