I do not own the Harry Potter universe.

A year and a half ago, my good friend Kyra (aka Kyra4) requested the following:

A R/NC-17 DMHG fic with a spectacular Christmas fight (including ornament throwing) and hot monkey sex under the Christmas tree AFTER a misunderstanding which leads to dire consequences and the fear that one party is in danger. That last part is so Kyra. She also requested a confession of love or a proposal spoken through tears.

I’ve graduated from college, moved halfway around the world and read the Deathly Hallows since starting this story, so it’s been through a few changes.

I hope you like it, Kyra.

The prim, somewhat gawky teenage Muggle hugged Draco as tightly as she could round the middle. “Draco,” she said through a mouth full of braces. “I don’t want you to go.” She was about to break into sobs.

He patted her straight, dark hair. “It’s not as if I’m dying,” he said, trying to sound flippant. He regretted the offhanded comment immediately. There had been too much death and mention of death lately.

Rebecca didn’t seem to notice. Draco could feel her tears beginning to soak through his shirt. “You can stay!” she cried. “Nobody would mind.”

“I can’t hide from my world,” Draco answered, looking over Rebecca’s head to her parents, who had already said their goodbyes and were watching quietly, probably hating being back at Hartsfield-Jackson. Draco pulled her away. “There’s always email,” he said reassuringly.

Rebecca sniffled and nodded. “Just don’t forget about me,” she said, struggling to contain her tears.

Draco smirked. “Of course not.” Rebecca gave him a weak smile. “I’ll send you some cockroach clusters,” Draco said, preparing to turn away.

An incredulous look was the last thing he saw before going through airport security.

Once he had gotten through, he headed toward the nearest restroom. His chest thrummed. This was it. Finally. He only hoped he could manage without his wand. He entered one of the stalls. He waited, bursting with anticipation and nerves, until the Muggle at the urinal had finished taking a piss. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the man leave without washing up – it cut his commute time in half.

And then, for the first time in five years, he disapparated.

55555

Draco Malfoy strode into the Leaky Cauldron and slid into a comfortable seat. He looked around appreciatively. The place was nearly empty. A couple of wizards were discussing the Chudley Cannons success over malted mead. Otherwise, Draco was the only customer. His silver hair was distinctly out of place in the Cauldron. Even before the war, Malfoys had never been much for drinks at the Leaky Cauldron, but there Draco sat with a satisfied smirk.

Tom approached him warily, saying “Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy. Can I get you a glass of mead?”

As expected, Draco’s eyes settled on him coldly. “No, I’d like tea and the Daily Prophet, if you have one.” Tom lingered, as if the request (void of insult) tempted him to ask more questions, but then left Malfoy to himself. Draco could barely believe how little had changed. The Cauldron was dark as ever, a gloomy entrance to London’s greatest wizarding community. He unfastened his robes – he had forgotten how heavy they were – and threw them onto the booth. Tom was back with the tea and paper.

“Thank you,” Draco said, his eyes already fastened on the paper as he tossed Tom a few sickles. Tom stared, and then went away. As Draco took in the front page of the Prophet, he gaped in shock at the prominent photo of Hermione Granger, flanked by Ronald Weasley, Ron’s head nearly cropped off at the top. Things had changed. Since when had Potter’s sidekicks taken the spotlight? Granger, dressed formally, with all of her hair pinned back, was displaying a wide sheet of parchment. Weasley seemed bored, and his hand was placed absentmindedly on the small of Granger’s back.

Friday, June 13th, 2003.

Improved Rights for House Elves

After much campaigning, Hogwarts professor and leading Elf Rights activist Hermione Granger, pictured above with fellow activist Ronald Weasley, has finally gained the New Wizengamot’s approval for her Elfish Protection Acts. “After so many years promoting equal rights for these people,” Granger says exuberantly, “you have no idea what it feels like to have a success.”

Miss Granger’s interest in Elf rights extends back to the early years of her education at Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry….

The rest of the article was of little interest to Draco. He couldn’t understand why anyone would bother interviewing Hermione Granger, much less when it came to Elf rights. Who cared about elves? And Granger, with her prim smile and severe clothing, looked just as dry and annoying as she’d been at Hogwarts.

And then he heard that voice – sharp with the confidence of knowing everything – approaching from behind. Draco knew she must see him. His hair was impossible to miss. She was droning on and on about – was it possible? – N.E.W.T.s. He almost laughed, but here she was, drawing level with him now, still in a tizzy over exams.

“…see no problem in reworking N.E.W.T. procedure, but they can’t expect us to wait around for a year. If they even give us feedback that quickly. Honestly, who’s to say whether they will stick to their word? Remember how long it was before….”

She had blown right past him.

It wasn’t as if he had expected her to stop and ask how he’d been doing since the last time she’d seen him (when he’d been chained and on trial in front of the Wizengamot), but her professorial diatribe hadn’t even faltered. He could see – now that she had passed him – that she was with Professor Vector, who glanced back at him briefly before disappearing into the alley behind Hermione.

Draco studied the dregs in the bottom of his tea cup. He’d rarely come across tea in America, and when he had, it had always been Lipton. He didn’t like the grade of tea leaves Tom used. They were nothing to the quality and tip proportion of those his mother had favored, but Draco suspected Tom’s leaves were much easier to find, and not nearly as costly. Good taste was expensive.

Draco needed to find a job. He’d given everything he’d earned in the States to Rebecca’s family. Now, he only had that bit of pocket change that he　had kept in the hidden pocket of his robes. Lucky it had been a sizable sum, for Lucius had only just given Draco another sack of gold a few days before the last battle. But it wouldn’t hold for long.　　Draco had big plans. He wanted to establish himself in the wizarding world, of course, but he also wanted to save enough to buy back Malfoy Manor from the Ministry.

He stood up and, folding his paper, hoped not to meet Hermione Granger on his trip through Diagon Alley. As he strode past the shops, Draco felt as if he were in a different world. Yes, he supposed much was the same, down to the very same ancient, invaluable books in Flourish and Blott’s. But he, at least, was different, even if no one would be able to tell. Five years separated him from frequent (sans school months) visits, following his father down this same street.

People were looking at him as if he were a Dementor; their heads turned almost preternaturally before he reached them, their faces stiff with fear and anger.

Turning the corner that led to Knockturn Alley, he slammed into – of all people! – Harry Potter. Draco instinctively screwed his face into a sneer. “Watch it, Potter.”

Harry’s face was a mixture of anger and surprise. He was at a loss for words. Draco started past him, into Knockturn Alley, and came to a sudden stop, as if he’d been stunned. Knockturn Alley was terribly different. It was literally falling apart. The shops were leaning against each other, graying as if they’d been abandoned for years. Absolutely no one was in sight. Draco slowly began walking again. “Where are you going, Malfoy?” Harry demanded, catching up with Draco.

“That’s none of your business,” Draco said, walking faster to try and shake him. Something wasn’t right. The old storefronts looked excessively dilapidated, and the windows were all obscured, either boarded up or blocked with curtains.

“Actually, it is my business,” Harry said, stepping in front of Draco abruptly.

It was then that Draco noticed the Ministry robes. “So you work for the Ministry now. Good for you, Potter,” Draco drawled snidely. Harry glared. “You know, I saw Granger a few minutes ago.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “And?”

“I’m amazed at you typical Gryffindors, still doing the same things you did in school. You, Potter, sticking your fat nose where it’s not wanted, as if you’re entitled. And Granger, well, she’s just as bushy-haired as ever, still in Hogwarts robes, no less. And what’s Weasley up to? Have you two lovers managed to stay together? Has he followed you to the Ministry? Do you two share a cozy studio?”

Harry stood stock-still and fuming through this speech. “You’re still a git.”

Draco glanced away. “Yeah, well, I’ve got to be off,” he said as he strode around Harry, leaving the spiky-haired man behind.

A few minutes later, he wound up in front of Borgin and Burke’s. It was bizarre, really, that this most obvious of dark magic shops was still open. The store carried cursed objects the likes of which had divined retribution on entire families in ancient times. Well, Borgin and Burke had always known how to handle their business. Their wealthy, well-connected customers, like Draco’s father, had protected them. Or perhaps the store had some ancient magic of its own, which was now keeping it open despite every other shop’s being boarded up.

He stepped inside, his entrance announced by a menacing jingle. Borgin snuck up, looking guarded, and not the least bit surprised by Draco’s return. “Draco,” he said, leadingly.

“Borgin,” Draco began directly, “Tell me, where can I find a job?” Draco took in the store appraisingly. “Do you have work?”

Borgin was almost able to take this into stride. “Well, I’ll – I don’t have work for you, Mr. Malfoy.” He looked Draco up and down. “Perhaps you should submit a resume to the Ministry.”

“No,” Draco said sharply. “The Ministry snatched away my family legacy, you know that. I’m sure you’ve managed to get your hands on many things which are rightfully mine.” Borgin kept his face passive. “Potter’s one of them now,” Draco added spitefully.

Borgin, intensely wary of Draco until this point, looked out the window, studying the alley outside. “Yes… Potter. Always lurking about, he is.”

“I bumped into him just now.” Draco waited, and Borgin answered his unspoken question.

“Potter got himself assigned to find Knockturn Alley,” Borgin said dryly.

“Find Knockturn Alley?”

“You didn’t think we’d just let them clean us out, did you?” Borgin gave Draco a wizened look. He had seen his store through two wars. Tom Riddle himself had worked for Borgin. Suddenly, Borgin’s left arm began shaking. He quieted it with his right. “Oh, that’s Caractacus. You know how he is.” Draco didn’t, in fact, know Caractacus Burke. They’d only been in the same room together once, during the war, but it was enough time to learn that Burke called the shots. “Let me show you the portal to downstairs,” Borgin said, turning away.

“What?”

“Downstairs, you know, just above the Muggle sewers.”

Draco’s lips pursed. He followed Borgin to the back room. There were boxes of all shapes and sizes shoved against the walls. A couple of them were open, exposing metamorph metals and a secrecy sensor. There was an inch of dust on almost every surface excepting the hardwood floor in the middle of the room.

Borgin flicked his wand and a trap door opened in the floor. “Well, go on,” he said as Draco hesitated. It looked dark and dirty.

“What’s down there?” Draco asked.

“There may be work for you,” Borgin said by way of explanation. “But I have my own work to do, so good luck, Mr. Malfoy.”

Slipping into the tunnels, he remembered the sweet, damp smell of earth from over five years ago, though this was a different section of the underground than before….

He was underneath the Weasley twins’ shop. There was a tunnel leading down here. Lucius said that war-plagued shop owners had dug the tunnels. They were rife deep under Diagon Alley and the surrounding area. Pansy or someone else at school had said the tunnels were sectioned off and abandoned by the goblins of Gringotts when a wizard broke through by accident.

Draco looked up at the ceiling of the tunnel. It was gray and moldy. For the seventh time, he verified his position. He was directly underneath the very center of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. He couldn’t help but snort. They were going to be blown away.

Draco was immensely proud of his creation. It was the perfect blend of a deck of Exploding Snap cards and Incendio! It had taken research and finesse, but the beguiled bomb would work perfectly. The pressure he’d had from the Dark Lord, along with the complete lack of other obligations now that he had run away from school, had inspired Draco’s work. The explosion would only be large enough to destroy the joke shop. The people in the surrounding buildings, some of them loyal to the Dark Lord, would merely feel the rumble and the heat.

“Goodbye Weasleys…” Draco said, smiling despite the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Behind the wreck of what was once Isabella’s Intoxications, Harry watched as Draco strolled out of Borgin and Burkes looking smugly satisfied. Harry seethed. Draco had disappeared into the back room with Borgin for well over an hour. Harry followed Draco at a considerable distance. They made their way out of Knockturn Alley and back up Diagon Alley. Harry waited a moment before slipping behind Draco into the Leaky Cauldron.

But the trail ended there. Out of sight, but still within earshot, Harry heard Draco asking for accommodations. “Your father had a favorite room when he chose to stay. Should I air out that one?” Tom asked.

“No,” Draco answered sharply. “Give me something simple. I’ll pay as I go along.”

“How long might you be staying, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Not long, hopefully.”

Harry waited until they had done and Draco could be heard stomping upstairs before he left. Just as he had in school years before, Harry was deeply curious to find out what Draco Malfoy was up to. But now, it was for a different reason; Harry had to discover where dark wizards gathered to exchange their wares and secrets.

Draco had been gone for five years. He was effectively an outsider. Yet he’d found something in Borgin’s shop that had entertained him for an hour. And he hadn’t left with any purchases that Harry could see. Harry knew Draco must hold the key, the secret to Knockturn Alley.

But Draco hadn’t exactly been warm. Harry needed to formulate the best approach.

After checking in with the Ministry and arriving at home, he was surprised to find Hermione alone, setting the table for three. “Hello, Harry.” She did not look happy. The hair she’d taken to tying back lately had come halfway undone.

“What’s up, Hermione?” he asked, feeling slightly uneasy.

“Oh, nothing,” she said airily. “Ron is at that Quidditch rubbish again.” A note of hostility laced her words.

Harry knew not to correct her about Quidditch, especially not when she began banging salad, potatoes, and salmon onto the table instead of using a simple swish and flick. “Well, I’ll just go and fetch him, then,” Harry said warily.

“Sit down, Harry,” Hermione said tersely. “He knows dinner is ready.” She began dishing food onto her plate and watched beadily as Harry did the same. Ron should have known not to be at Quidditch during the few nights Hermione was able to stay over. “So,” she said, spearing a small potato, “How was work?”

“Draco Malfoy’s back.”

Hermione’s lips thinned as she chewed thoughtfully. “I know. I saw him.”

“He saw you too, apparently.” Harry took a few pink hunks of fish.

“Harry,” Hermione said discerningly. “You didn’t start a fight with him, did you?” She pushed her hair back from her face and squinted at him.

He stared at her, a bit put off. “Why would you say that?”

Hermione rolled her eyes and at that moment, Ron burst into the flat, covered in mud and sporting a massive black eye. “Dinner. Lovely,” he said. He collapsed into his chair. Hermione watched Ron eat ravenously. “This is terrific, Hermione,” he said through a mouthful of spinach.

Hermione “hmph’d” and drew her wand. “Episkey,” she said, and the bruise on Ron’s face disappeared.

“Oh,” Ron said, touching his eye gingerly, “yeah, thanks, ‘mione.” She sniffed and rolled her eyes again.

“Draco Malfoy came back,” Harry announced once it was clear that Hermione wasn’t in a mood to hex Ron.

“No!” Ron said, shocked. A bit of potato fell off his fork.

“Well, we knew it would happen one day, now, didn’t we?” Hermione said irritably.

“He walked right in to Borgin and Burkes and didn’t come out from the back room for over an hour!” Harry added, his voice rising. The others knew Harry’s strong suspicions about the shop’s being the entrance to Knockturn Alley.

“Did you talk to him?” Ron demanded.

Harry frowned. “Not after he went in. I tailed him. He’s staying at The Leaky Cauldron.”

“”Do you reckon he went straight in, then? ” Ron asked.

“I’m sure of it, but I don’t have any evidence or any valid reason to question him. Borgin’s protected himself too well,” Harry muttered. “I can’t accuse Draco just because he was seen entering the shop.”

“Why don’t you just use Veritaserum to get it out of him?”

Harry scratched his head. “The Ministry doesn’t just hand that stuff out. You have to get a permit and the bureaucracy takes weeks, and that’s if you’re lucky.”

“Well, you’re lucky, aren’t you?” Ron asked. “You’re Harry Potter. They have to help you. You’re their number one man.” Then Ron started to smile, turning his attention to Hermione. “Unless…”

Hermione riled up immediately. “Oh, no. I’m not brewing any more illegal potions. There’s no reason for it!”

“What do you mean, ‘no reason?’” Ron demanded. He jabbed his fork into the air. “This is fighting crime, rescuing the innocent, upholding the law, marshalling dark wizards.”

“Maybe,” Hermione said, narrowing her eyes at Ron. “But until I see substantial damage caused by these dark wizards, there’s no validation for a school teacher such as myself to brew powerful potions outside the law.”

Ron looked disappointed. “Sometimes, I think you’re losing your edge.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Hermione said, glaring dangerously.

Ron shrugged. “Only that I remember when you used to love solving a mystery.”

Harry also couldn’t help but remember the many times Hermione had helped him solve his mysteries. He could use her help with this one. He had been trying to infiltrate Knockturn Alley for months and months. But Ron had tried her patience almost to breaking point. Harry could see her cheeks begin to flush. “Honestly, Ronald, just because you’ve cooked up some dodgy scheme I’m not willing to follow doesn’t mean I’ve lost my edge.”

“Well what do you suggest then?” Ron asked, looking slightly chastised.

“Harry could ask Malfoy about Kockturn Alley,” Hermione returned.

“Ask Malfoy?”

“Why not?” Hermione shot back, with more spite than conviction. “It’s worth a try. Sometimes the simplest plan is the most effective.”

“And the battiest,” Ron said skeptically.

“Harry, what do you think?” Hermione asked. “Any chance you could get Malfoy to talk?”

Harry balked for a moment. He sincerely doubted that Malfoy would just tell him everything he wanted to know. “Malfoy’s changed,” Harry said thoughtfully. “But not that much. He’s just a useless prat.”

Hermione frowned. “What do you mean ‘he’s changed?’”

“I don’t know exactly,” Harry considered. “I can’t tell exactly what he’s up to. He’s staying at the Leaky Cauldron, and from what I overheard, he doesn’t have a lot of money. I don’t know what happened in Borgin and Burke’s, but before he went in, I talked to him for a minute. He shot his fat mouth off, but he seemed distracted, like he really just wanted to get away. He used to put he had everything into insulting me.”

Hermione sat for a moment, slowly sipping a glass of water. “You should just talk to him, ask him a few questions.”

“What? Should I invite him for dinner?” Harry asked incredulously, laughing. Ron snorted through a bite of potato.

“Well, maybe not dinner, but why not?” Hermione questioned. “It’s not as if he poses a threat. If you were nice to him, maybe you could get some information out of him.”

“I don’t know if my powers of persuasion are quite equal to yours,” Harry said evasively.

“Maybe you should talk to him, Hermione,” Ron goaded.

“Yeah,” Harry clapped Ron on the back. “If you were able to get Ron to date you –”

“Honestly, Harry,” Hermione huffed.

“Thanks, mate. Yeah, I’m still wondering how she managed it,” Ron said, grinning at Hermione.

“It wasn’t that hard,” Hermione said, straight-faced, “I fed you.” Then she sighed exaggeratedly, “Fine, if you don’t think you can get the truth out, Harry, I’ll try. You’d be amazed what my students will fess up to once I sit them down outside of –”

“All’s settled then!” Ron said, throwing down his silverware. “So Harry, you’ll invite the royal git over for dinner and Hermione, you’ll get him to talk. What’s for dessert?”

4444

Lucius had never allowed Draco into Mariah’s. It had been a vast, rambunctious tavern with more than a few tricks and enchantments that made it almost impossible for newcomers to find.

Mariah’s now sat at the end of the largest of the underground tunnels which made up the new Knockturn Alley. The metallic door – which was out of place among the underground, earthen aspect of the rest of Knockturn Alley – had been beckoning to Draco from the beginning. Finally walking through that door was like coming back home to a place he’d never known. The room through the metallic door was very large, but the stadium-like layout was made inviting with well-placed tables and chairs set at varying levels around the stage in the middle. Everything was made of metal, but instead of looking modern and bright, it was dark, soothing and somehow watchful.

Draco looked around in awe. He had never imagined that so many dark, guilty faces could have survived the war. And here they were, gathered in one place! Draco smirked. Potter would have a field day. Jugson, Yaxley, Travers, Rowle, Nott, Selwynn, Mulciber and Draco wasn’t certain, be he thought he caught a glimpse of the infamous Dolohov who had injured Hermione Granger during the Battle of the Department of Mysteries.

They had all noticed his entrance, he was sure, but they appeared to be deep in conversation at their various tables, or else busy with food and drink. Draco noticed a game of mahjong being played across from him, but on a lower tier. And nearby, a few greasy-looking wizards were playing Exploding Snap. There were serious bets being made.

A strong, well-groomed witch approached Draco. “Draco Malfoy, I presume? I’m Mariah. The show’s about to start. Let’s find you a seat.”

333

A few days later, Harry sat in a meeting in the Minister’s large office. There were a handful of other officials and – because of the war in Iraq – much business to discuss, but the Minister’s attention turned toward Harry sooner than he would have liked.

“Harry,” Scrimgeour said, using Harry’s first name to try to project a closer relationship than they actually had. “How are your conversations with the Iraqis going?”

“All right,” Harry answered.

“Are they still complaining about magical interference?”

Harry shifted in his seat. “Less so than before,” he answered.

Mafalda Hopkirk, from the Improper Use of Magic Office, asked “Have there been fewer cases, then?”

“Not exactly,” Harry said grudgingly.

“We suspect they are now being provided with magical help,” said Alastor Gumboil, who led the Magical Law Enforcement Squad and had been working with Harry during these discussions with Iraq.

The Minister raised his eyebrows. “Do you have any thoughts as to where this aid may be coming from?”

“No idea,” Gumboil said, and then added, “as of yet.”

“Could it be from Knockturn Alley?” asked Scrimgeour. His attention turned back to Harry. “Any luck there, Potter?”

Harry took his time in answering. “As you know, there’s no legal way of penetrating any of the businesses. None of the old shopkeepers let anything on. Borgin and Burkes remains open but none of their products have appeared in the wrong places.”

The Minister looked grim. “Nothing new to report, eh?”

Harry took even longer in answering. “Well… I saw Draco Malfoy there earlier this week.”

“He’s back?” asked Perkins, from Misuse of Muggle Artifacts.

“And already been spotted in Knockturn Alley?” continued Gumboil.

“The point being…?” led the Minister.

“He may know whether the old shops are still in business,” said Harry. “I’m going to question him about where they’re located and who they’re selling to.”

“You’re going to convince Draco Malfoy to give away the secrets of Knockturn Alley?” Scrimgeour asked, reiterating.

“If possible,” Harry concluded.

Scrimgeour shook his head slowly. “If I remember correctly, you weren’t exactly the best of friends during your days at Hogwarts.”

“It’s been a long time since Hogwarts,” Harry said.

“And since then, Malfoy has no doubt learned many valuable lessons, but Malfoys have never been apt to forgive and forget. We can’t afford to administer truth serum on him. We’re in a reign of peace. The Ministry no longer has ultimate power. There are people out there who would resent an invasion of his privacy.” Scrimgeour’s scowl proved he was rather resentful of this change.

“I won’t use any unapproved tactics,” Harry stated. “I’ll just see whether he might be convinced to give us information.”

“You?” the Minister laughed. “You’ve never been one for subtlety, Potter. How can you expect to glean any intelligence?”

“I have no solid expectations as of yet,” Harry admitted. “But I will, at the very least, attempt to coerce the information out of him. Hermione has agreed to help.”

“And what might she do? Draco Malfoy’s a smart man, as he proved during his trial. Professor Granger may be beautiful, but I doubt he would succumb to her charms.”

Harry couldn’t repress his expression of disgust and annoyance. “Hermione won’t use charms or potions. She’s smarter than that.”

If he was chagrined, the Minister did not show it. “Then what is your plan?”

Harry didn’t have an answer. Not yet.

22

The next time Harry saw Draco was during another patrol of Knockturn Alley. Draco was carrying a large bundle under his arm as he entered Borgin and Burkes. When he left again, about ten minutes later, he was empty-handed. Harry stepped forward and picked up Draco’s brisk pace. “What do you want, Potter?” Draco sneered when he saw Harry.

Harry considered flat-out demanding that Draco give him an answer to where all the notably dark ex-shop keepers spent their time and to how that unauthorized Time-Turner had managed to find its way into the hands of Hermione’s student at Hogwarts. The look on Draco’s face, however, stopped him. His mouth was pinched sourly at the sight of Harry, his expression closed and guarded. He was all disdain. “Do you eat, Malfoy, or do you just suck the blood from unsuspecting children?”

“What are you on about?”

Harry released a frustrated breath. He knew Draco wouldn’t give Hermione any information, but maybe if he let her have a go, and she failed, she’d brew Veritaserum. “Dinner tonight, I’ll meet you at the Leaky Cauldron at six.”

“Are you hitting on me, Scarface?” Draco stared at Harry, openly disgusted.

Harry gave a short laugh. “You’re deluded.”

“Why should I go to your dinner, then?” Draco asked. “What’s in it for me? More importantly, what’s in it for you?” He looked at Harry discerningly.

“I get to make sure you’re not planning a hostile takeover and you get to try Hermione’s spaghetti and meatballs,” Harry said flatly.

“How can I trust they won’t be poisoned?” Draco asked suspiciously. “And what makes you think I want to try Granger’s meatballs in the first place?”

Harry grimaced. “Just don’t be late,” he said, and left Draco to head in the opposite direction.

Strange as it was for Harry to head to the Cauldron later that day in order to meet Draco Malfoy, it was stranger still to actually find him there. “Malfoy,” Harry said, approaching him from behind. Draco was completely at ease, reading the Prophet over a cup a tea. “Follow me,” Harry grunted, and strode over to the fireplace. Tossing a handful of powder, he said “Number Twenty-Nine, Laughlin.”

Draco appeared seconds after Harry. For a moment it seemed the others had not received Harry’s message, but then Ron and Hermione both came into the living room with curious, suspicious expressions. Ron was glowering, actually, and his face darkened even more when Hermione stepped forward, offering her hand. “Malfoy,” she said simply.

To Harry’s surprise, Draco’s mouth twitched upward. “Good to see you out of school robes for once, Granger.”

Hermione looked taken aback and fidgeted a bit with her plain brown sweater, but she shook Draco’s hand anyway. Ron did too, grudgingly, once Hermione nudged him on. “Right, food!” Hermione said in a squeaky voice.

Harry watched as Draco stood, awkward for just a moment, and then slunk into the chair least used by the three of them. He was taking in his surroundings carefully. There wasn’t much to see in the small apartment. There was a beige sofa and a couple of comfortable armchairs in the living area. The dining area stood closer to the kitchen. There were only three chairs at the table, aside from the one where Draco sat. Draco’s curiosity seemed to wane quickly after examining the cozy, well-lit room.

Harry couldn’t understand why Draco had agreed to come here. He took a seat next to the blond. “I’m surprised you followed me,” Harry admitted.

“You know,” Draco began, still gazing about the room, “I’ve never seen so much done with so little.”

Harry could see Ron (through the window between the kitchen and the dining area) turn red. Harry cleared his throat, but before he could say anything, Hermione came out with a tray of pasta. “Where have you been, Malfoy?” she asked directly.

“Atlanta,” Draco said shortly. “And what subject do you teach, Professor?”

“Potions,” Hermione said, taking her seat.

“She started teaching right away,” Ron said, stalking behind Draco with a plate of garlic bread. Harry almost laughed at the way Draco’s face soured when he knew Ron was standing just behind him. “Youngest teacher in twenty years, of course,” Ron moved to stand behind Hermione next, placing a large, freckled hand on her shoulder, “she had so much practical experience after the potions she brewed to help those injured in the war.” Ron gave Draco a meaningful glare.

Draco stared blank-faced back at Ron. Harry wondered whether Ron’s agression would remain as subtle for the entire evening. Hermione sighed. “Thank you, Ron. Would you like to sit down?” When they were all seated, Hermione served Draco first and then began to eat. Draco studied his food warily, making certain that each of the others were eating before he joined in.

When Harry glanced around at Ron’s face, he realized – but he knew this would happen all along – that Ron had only been gearing up before. “So why are you here, Malfoy?”

“Potter invited me. Why don’t you ask him?” Draco looked deep and hard into his drink, watched Hermione take a sip, and took a very small sip of his own.

Ron pursed his lips. Hermione was looking at him pleadingly, but he just wasn’t capable of holding it in. It was a quality Harry valued in Ron, no matter how much trouble it caused. “I’m just surprised you don’t have a schedule to keep. You know, blowing people up, that sort of thing,” he stared at Draco intently, his hatred emanating throughout the room.

Draco turned to address Harry. “Is this why I’m here?” he asked. Without waiting for a response, he turned back to Ron. “What do you want, Weasley? An apology?” he drawled. “Because you won’t be getting one. You weren’t there, were you?”

“My brothers, they –”

“They are still alive and well today,” Draco picked up his fork, shifting his attention to the pasta.

“No thanks to you, you shameless, vile bastard,” Ron was rigid with anger.

Draco sat back in his chair and dropped his fork. “Yes, I was amazed they had survived the explosion.” His face was remarkably empty, but he was watching Ron’s every move.

“So you admit you intended to kill them?” Ron stood up, shoving his chair back behind him. “You took away their livelihood, blew their shop to smithereens, but that wasn’t supposed to be all, was it?”

“You were at my trial, Weasley. You have these answers already,” Draco said coolly.

“There’s one answer I don’t have,” Ron said, gritting his teeth. “Was your punishment what it ought to have been? Did you suffer? I know you don’t have any money,” there was a triumphant gleam in Ron’s eye. “How does it feel to lose it all?”

Draco took a deep breath and looked at Harry, then Hermione. His lips grew thin. “The Ministry had every right to inflict the worst kind of punishment.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and Hermione gasped softly. Ron looked puzzled, but slightly mollified. He took his seat again. “Just remember, Malfoy, no one trusts you for a second.”

Hermione glanced worriedly across the table at Harry. “There’s plenty more food, if anyone wants it.”

“No thanks,” Draco said quietly. “Self-righteous lectures make me lose my appetite.”

A large brown owl came screeching into the dining room, diffusing the awkward tension. It landed in the middle of the table. Ron’s name was printed smartly across an orange envelope. His demeanor changed instantaneously. He leapt out of his seat and tore the parchment off. Without a word, he took the letter to the couch, his cheeks draining of color. “What is it, Ron?” Hermione asked, following him to the sofa.

Harry followed as well, leaving Draco by himself at the table. “I didn’t tell you,” Ron said, his voice almost a whisper. Harry finally caught a good look at the seal as Ron began to rip it open. The letter was from the Chudley Cannons.

“What haven’t you told us?” Hermione asked, sounding a little scared.

“Ron went out for the team,” Harry guessed, feeling awestruck.

“The Cannons?” Hermione looked from Harry to Ron in wonder. “Well, did you make it?” she asked. The letter was open. “It’s from the manager, Ragmar Dorkins, himself.” Ron read, his face pale and freckles standing out.

“They want me for second string.” Ron’s voice was subdued. He looked up at them, suddenly breaking into a great grin. “I’m going to practice with the team and everything!”

“You sure kept quiet about this one, mate,” Harry smiled. “Congratulations!”

“Yes…that’s really good, Ron,” Hermione joined in, frowning.

“I always said you were the king, Weasley,” came a sarcastic voice from behind Harry. Draco still hadn’t moved from his seat at the table.

“So glad you could be here,” Ron quipped.

“Er…what does this mean, Ron?” Hermione asked, sitting down next to Ron.

“Five months training, six days a week, and then three months of matches. Professional Quidditch players live for the game.” Ron was looking lovingly at his acceptance letter. He had not yet looked at Hermione.

“So I guess that puts you on the back burner, Granger,” Draco said. He appeared vaguely amused by the whole scenario.

Ron glowered. “That’s it. You’ve eaten. We’ve got things to discuss that don’t involve you, Malfoy. Harry, would you show your guest the door?”

Harry set his jaw, obviously disliking this suggestion, but turned to Draco.

Draco read the look on Harry’s face. “What? That’s it? Just because that diva says so?” Draco looked downright astonished. “What about my interrogation? Weren’t you going to ask me some questions? Put me under a spotlight in a dark room?”

Ron and Hermione, over on the other side of the room, exchanged looks. Ron’s was bemused. Hermione’s was surprised. Harry looked down at Draco, still seated, and asked “How did you know?”

Draco smirked and stood up. “C’mon, Wonderboy, it’s not as if anything you do is a secret.” He strode toward the fireplace and helped himself to a handful of floo powder. “I’ll be on my way then. Good luck, Weasel Breath.

“The Leaky Cauldron.”

1

He was dreaming again, about the last time he’d seen Michael.

“STOP IT, MICHAEL, STOP!” Rebecca screamed.

Michael didn’t stop. Michael had been wanting to do this for years. Draco could see the blind fury in his eyes, the terrible satisfaction in his smile. Draco felt as if he were back at the final battle, as if he were Harry, and Michael was him. More blood spurted with the freshest blow, obscuring Draco’s vision.

Rebecca kept trying to pull Michael away, but Michael kept shoving her back, using the wide bulk of his shoulders as a barrier. “I said STOP IT!” Rebecca shrieked, frantic.

He could sense the desperation in her voice, but it was getting harder to hear. He was blacking out….