Glasgow, 6 Months Later

She wrapped her coat more tightly around her as she stepped out into the biting Spring breeze. Goddamn Scotland. No matter how warm the air was, how bright the sun, that perverse and perseverant wind was always there to remind her where she was. She remembered standing atop a hill outside of her Gran's house when she was little and used to come up North for holidays. She'd laugh at the wind as it leaked through the weave her woolen jumper to chill her skin, and she'd run back to the door with ruddy, chapped cheeks at her Mum's call.

It didn't feel like the same wind from her childhood now. Now that ever present Scottish wind spoke to her of nothing good, nothing but her time North.

She hadn't returned back home to Manchester afterwards. Once she got her voice back, she'd found a phone and called her mother. To let her know she was alive. To assure her, trying to cover the lie in her voice, the apathy, that she was OK. It didn't work, she knew. 300 Miles south her Mother was dying with worry. But she didn't have it in her to go home and to assuage these worries, to take care of her. She couldn't face it. She couldn't even begin to explain it.

She 'd been numb. She was still numb. It's just she realized that she couldn't be so numb that she couldn't walk, couldn't speak, couldn't work. It killed her that first night that she sought a free meal and a soft place to sleep, but she knew that she couldn't survive long otherwise. And she was sick of holding onto life by a tattered and tenuous thread. She had survived. She had leaned about herself that she would let nothing stand in her way of that. But thriving? She knew that, for now, that was perfectly, simply unfeasible. For now living was enough.

So she went through the motions, woodenly finding her way first into a temp office, then into a two room apartment, and now, somehow, it was six months later, and she was walking down the street towards the office block that she started at last Monday. She started towards the newsstand just down the block from her bus stop, like she had a few times before. Usually a short man, dark and hairy, sold her her paper. But today she didn't see him. There was a tall slender figure, his face hidden in a Hello Magazine.

She swallowed. Speaking to anyone was difficult. Even these small daily exchanges. She thought about forgetting it, getting one tonight, waiting for the hairy man who, in two weeks had already become a constant in her life. Change as most certainly bad. She palmed her keys inside of her purse, feeling them unwontedly lift above her palm, float into the empty space inside of the bag. She couldn't control it, this stange power... well that was almost true. More and more she was beginning to realize that she could, maybe, just a bit.

She was just at the newsstand when they levitated directly out of her purse and onto the sidewalk. The man behind the booth leaned out, presumably to help, but she had already picked them up and was prepared to thank him anyway and continue on her way.

She looked up and her heart stopped. She knew this face. She'd seen it's sharp curves and it's cold grey eyes far to closely, she'd had that white blonde hair stuck with sweat to her neck, her back.

But he looked at her with a sort of well-mannered concern, and she realized that she was mistaken. But something about it was still familiar.

"Can I get you anything?"

She had barely regained her feet, and her heart was in her throat.

"Times, please."

Did she know him, or was it just an unfortunate resemblance?

And then it hit her, he had been there on the last day. She had seen him. But she had almost convinced herself that that day had never happened. It would have been easier if that damned knife weren't tucked in a drawer with her kitchen towels at home.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?"

He handed her her paper.

"Don't think so. Draco Malfoy. Nice to meet you."

She reached out and took his hand.