Harry Potter 1. Chapter 1

**Title**: White as Snow  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 8,460 (this chapter)  
><strong>FandomPairing:** Harry Potter Fandom, Harry/Draco  
><strong>Summary:<strong> After so much death has touched his life, Harry has withdrawn from his own friends in an attempt to protect himself. Of course, nothing ever works out as we plan.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17 (overall)  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> All Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and her filthy rich agents. No copyright infringement is intended.  
><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> So, just over a year ago now, I started to write my first Harry/Draco fic. I never actually posted any of it, but I've shared many others in the time I've spent writing White as Snow. I never wanted this to be a rushed sort of story, or one that I felt needed to cater to everyone's different expectations as it posted, so, for the most part, I kept it to myself while working on it. I do have my two lovely betas, bookjunkie1975 and otta_ff, who read through this for me (ages ago), for which I am eternally grateful. Many thanks to my lovely friend, glitteratiglue, for double-checking that my Brit stuff wasn't too glaringly American.  
>Also, endless hearts to my One and Only, vampireisthenewblack. She knows why. She <em>always<em>knows why.

This is _not_ a oneshot. It's a chapter fic which I intend to update regularly. I have no super-crazy HP canon Nazi to check my shit, so if you feel that you qualify, and would like to take on that task, please drop me a line.

I hope you enjoy this little journey. As always, comments are greatly appreciated.

~1~

The snow beneath Harry's feet crunches as his footfalls break through the crusty top layer. He pulls tight the lapels of his coat as the chill of the winter night passes through him, sending with it a shudder in its wake. His breath twists and curls before him. In the distance, bright, colourful lights twinkle in and out of focus as Harry skirts the edge of town. Beside the church, the stained glass windows cast jewel tones onto the glittering snow as the lights shine through brightly from within.

This night is very much like his first visit to Godric's Hollow, and every Christmas Eve he's spent here since: ice cold, quiet but for the faint sounds of hymns being sung at the church nearby and whispering wind ghosting through the naked branches above his head. The main differences Harry notices are that Hermione is not with him, and that there is no longer anything to fear or hide from.

Save for himself.

The war is over now, has been for some years. Harry likes to allow himself to believe that he's lost track of time since then, but in actuality, he's noted every painful day of the last six years with agonising clarity.

He understands what he had lived and, ultimately, died for, but sometimes Harry has a hard time believing that he had ever truly returned from the empty echo of King's Cross Station on that fateful night. Duty, obligation, and compassion brought him back to finish the war and ensure the safety of the wizarding world. And though he had defeated Voldemort, freeing all from the evil that threatened their existence and the dread that lurked deep within their minds and hearts, Harry knew he would never himself be the same; a hollow shell of what could have been.

So many lives lost in the war. So many loved ones taken from this world and brought beyond the veil before their lives had even begun. Tonks and Lupin, leaving behind a new baby who will never know firsthand the amazing things his parents had done; Fred, the other half of a whole that will never again be so; Dobby, an elf who, despite his freedom, gave his life to save others, and countless more.

_And what's the point of it all?_ he wonders. 

With a flick of his wand, Harry transfigures a Christmas wreath out of barren fern branches he finds lying about on the way to his destination. He places it upon his father's grave before moving to his mother's. For her, Harry brings a bouquet of fresh cut holly, hellebores, and white and red poinsettias, the stems bound together by a thin gold ribbon that Harry had tied himself. With her dying breath, Lily Potter had conjured all the love and magic in her entire being in an attempt to protect her son. Because of this, Harry chooses not to use magic when he pays his respects to her. It's a small gesture, he knows. Meaningless to some, but it has always been important to Harry. Just as he had refused to use magic to dig Dobby's grave, so had he chosen to care for his mother's grave by way of physical effort—even the smallest amount. And when spring comes around again, Harry will return to care for the plot just as he always does.

Stepping back from the graves, Harry casts _Tergeo,_ vanishing the powdered snow and weather-caked dirt from the white marble, and admires the now-polished stone that marks the final resting place of his parents.

Beneath the names and dates marking the lives of Lily and James Potter are the words _The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death._

Harry almost smiles as he recalls a moment of ignorance six years ago when he had mistaken that last line for the thought of a Death Eater. It was Hermione who had explained to him that it simply meant life beyond death. Harry knows it to be true now; there really is more to existence than just life on earth. And one day, he will be reunited with those he's lost.

Harry allows his thoughts to wander in the quiet solitude of the cemetery. As is often the case of any time alone for him, he thinks of Hogwarts, the only place he's ever loved enough to call home. Harry wonders how it is that, despite the horrible events that took place during his years there, he still wishes more than anything else that he could just go back. If he had only had more time, or more knowledge, perhaps things would have turned out differently. Perhaps Harry could have stopped Voldemort from killing so many people and, in doing so, killing a part of Harry as well. Perhaps he wouldn't have lost the ability to care for others, ghosting through life afraid to allow himself to get close to anyone for fear of losing them as everyone he knew lost someone close to them. Harry has decidedly lost enough in his short lifetime and is quite content holding on to what little he has left.

The Ministry pays him levy for the duties he'd fulfilled before he was even able to decide for himself whether or not he wanted to. With that regular revenue, and the inheritance from both his parents and godfather, Harry has no need to work. His friends had tried to convince him that it would be a good idea after the war to carry on with life as it should be, but Harry hadn't much interest in life then, and that opinion hasn't changed much over the years. Ever the hero, the only thing that assures Harry will not take his own life is the fact that the people who care about him have already lost enough.

After the chaos of the war had settled, Harry withdrew into himself. What began as simply avoiding the prying eyes of reporters and gossipmongers soon became self-isolation. Physically, he was still there, available. He continued to visit the shops of Diagon Alley and occasionally meet with his friends for drinks or lunch. But emotionally, he was drained, no longer existent at all. He lived in a state of perpetual emptiness.

Thinking back on it now, Harry knows that that's how one would be after prolonged exposure to the Dementors of Azkaban. It pains him to think that that is what Sirius had gone through in his time there; empty and alone without the will to even care. The very thought is somewhat frightening and has Harry gripping his wand tightly in preparation of casting a Patronus if needed.

But of course it won't be. Harry's demons come from within his very own soul, determined to destroy him. Or perhaps they are merely protecting him. In any case, he has lost the ability to love. Of course there are those he cares about: Hermione, Ron, and all of the Weasleys, but even that is a weak version of emotion, having drawn away from even them over the years, maintaining just enough contact to assure them that he is still alive.

Harry's life is mundane. Despite his lack of need for monetary gain, he found himself recently agreeing to be a private consultant for the Ministry. It was no secret that Harry had spent a large majority of his time in various wizarding libraries scattered across the world studying Elemental and Metaphysical magic. Harry is by no means arrogant, but due to the fact that he has endless time and resources at his disposal, he doubts anyone can match his knowledge in either field. Apparently, Kingsley had a similar opinion. He ran into Harry in Diagon Alley during Ministry off hours and approached him with his proposal. Growing weary of constant travel and ready for a bit of a change, Harry agreed, but with his own set of terms. First and foremost, they were only to utilize his knowledge when necessary. He also refused to teach anyone how to perform any of the kind of magic he uses on the grounds that, without the full plethora of knowledge, that kind of power was dangerous. Finally, Harry insisted that any compensation that Kingsley had planned on paying Harry would instead be donated to a charitable organization. Perhaps Harry accepted as an excuse to exercise his magic beyond daily necessity, or perhaps his subconscious had finally convinced him that he needed to surround himself with people to maintain what sanity he has left. He had also decided it was a good way to keep some small amount of communication open with Ron, as he is an Auror now.

Harry thinks it's a satisfactory idea, indeed. He may not go out with Ron and Hermione regularly anymore, but now that they have their own family, he doesn't think it matters quite as much. As long as Ron sees him at the Ministry once or twice a week, perhaps he will convey to Molly and the rest of them that Harry is still alive and doing well. As well as can be expected, at least.

He idly wonders how different his life would be now if he'd gone back to Ginny after the war. Would it be he in Seamus' place right now? Happily married for four years with twin two-year-old daughters?

He feels like breaking down, falling to his knees and giving in to the grief and anguish that has haunted him for so long. But at the same time, he feels wrung dry, as though his tears have all been shed and the only thing that remains is a shadow of loss and sorrow.

From the corner of his eye, Harry detects a small amount of movement. Wand at the ready, he turns slowly, squinting into the dim, silver light of the moon. There's a tall figure nearly a hundred metres away, weaving gracefully in between headstones. Harry twists back into the shadows, quickly ducking behind a tombstone as he continues to watch the wizard—and it's definitely a wizard as Harry can feel the magic emanating from him even at this distance—make his way through the graveyard.

Harry creeps closer for a better look. The man is dressed in pale shades, a long wool coat of white that falls down mid-thigh and a pair of well-tailored trousers. His hair is equally light in colour and in the silver glow of celestial light that reflects off the snow, the man looks almost ethereal.

As Harry nears, sliding silently between tombstones and crouching behind a statue, he manages to lose track of the man. He scans the shadows for signs of movement and when he sees nothing, he wonders if his vision was, in fact, playing tricks on him. In all the years he's spent this holiday eve in the quiet desolation of this cemetery, he's yet to see another living soul here. And perhaps that's no coincidence. This graveyard is known to be haunted, and the mere thought of that is enough to keep most people away after nightfall. Harry decides that the figure he'd seen only moments ago, although incandescent in the moonlight, could not have been a ghost. His magic had sent vibrations through the ground beneath Harry's feet. No ghost whose magic had died along with them would be able to emanate such power. In any case, it seems the other wizard is gone now.

He lets out a sigh of relief, knowing that the man could have been watching him in the hopes of finding an interesting story to report back to the papers, and thankful that he seems to be wrong.

If the public knew where Harry spends his Christmas Eves, the graveyard would surely turn into a shrine similar to that of the fence surrounding the ruins of his parents' house. He likes that no one knows, although he suspects Hermione does. She never talks about it, though, continuing year after year to extend an invitation to Harry to spend Christmas with the family. He declines, grateful that no one seems willing to push the issue.

Harry stands from his place in the dark, dusting the flecks of snow from his trousers. Looking up at the sky, he notes that the stars have all gone dim as though a thin blanket has been draped over Godric's Hollow. Fresh snow begins to fall, dancing on the breeze as it makes its way to the ground.

Harry takes a moment to admire the snowflakes; beautiful and unique, yet indiscernible to the average observer. They blanket the landscape in their glistening beauty, making everything look fresh and clean, like gesso priming the canvas of the world in preparation for spring. Harry envies the snow its ability to serve its purpose and simply melt away when it's finished.

Harry rounds the side of the statue, making his way back to the icy path that winds around the graveyard. He's taken only a few steps when he realises he's walked right into the path of the pale, ghostly figure he now recognises to be none other than Draco Malfoy.

He hasn't seen the blond in over five years. They had made something akin to peace with one another after Malfoy's trial, but here tonight, Harry feels no need for civility. Without the thought of possible consequences, he raises his wand.

The man appears to be surprised; his grey eyes widen but show no signs of fear or indignation.

"Get the fuck out of here," Harry hisses between clenched teeth. He's exercising every ounce of self-control he can summon to keep from hexing Malfoy.

The other man doesn't even reach for his wand, but casts his cold stare upon Harry. His eyes look vacant and somehow more familiar than they should and Harry suppresses a shiver that threatens to rise up from within.

Malfoy makes no attempt to reply, and that only serves to anger Harry more.

"Get out of here!" he shouts. "What right do you have to be here?" Harry's wand is still raised, his hand steady. He hasn't a clue why Draco Malfoy would be in the cemetery at Godric's Hollow on Christmas Eve, but he imagines it has a lot to do with the fact that Harry himself is. Malfoy's hands are raised before him, palms out to show that he doesn't mean to fight. But Harry would rather not acknowledge the gesture, keeping his wand aimed at Malfoy's throat.

"Apparently not nearly as much right as the great _Harry Potter_," Malfoy says. He takes a step backward before turning on his heel and walking away.

Harry watches, frozen in stunned silence as Malfoy's retreating form disappears into the doors of the distant church. His first thought is to leave, to go home to the quiet confines of his flat and breathe in the familiar, musky air that fills the place, but he quickly finds that old habits die hard and morbid curiosity gets the better of him.

What is Draco Malfoy doing in Godric's Hollow on Christmas Eve? And if he is there simply to spy on Harry, why had he gone into the church rather than Disapparating after he'd been caught?

oOo

Harry waits near the steps at the front of the church and casts an umbrella charm when the snowfall becomes too heavy. He could go in, but he's sensible enough to realise that his anger and hostility need to be reined in before he confronts Malfoy again, especially if they're surrounded by people. His mind is buzzing with curiosity and barely-restrained anger and he hopes that by the time Malfoy comes out, the aforementioned curiosity will take the lead and Harry won't find himself drawing his wand in rage again. He'd like to try and be civil, to simply discuss the fact that he is here on very private and personal business and doesn't wish for it to be made public. He can't very well offer Malfoy money in exchange for his silence since he probably has less need for it than Harry does himself. He also doubts that he can appeal to Malfoy's softer side, since he's fairly certain the man was born without one.

Nevertheless, Harry must at least try and reason with him to keep his secret safe. It's over an hour later when the hymns finally cease and people begin to shuffle out into the cold. The chill has sobered Harry's thoughts and given him a chance to calm down a bit. The passersby smile at him, offering greetings of "Good evening" and "Happy Christmas." He forces a tight smile in return, thankful that none seem to recognize him, and ruffles his fringe over the scar on his forehead just for safe measure. Malfoy is among the last to exit the church, his gaze cast down at the buttons of his coat as he secures each one into its companion hole.

Harry waits until the man is at the bottom of the stairs before he draws attention to himself with a conspicuous clearing of his throat. He remembers the old Muggle adage about catching more flies with honey so, swallowing his pride, he offers the scowling blond an apologetic half-smile.

"I see you haven't outgrown your disturbing stalking habits," Malfoy says as he secures a scarf around his neck. His steel-grey eyes are locked directly on Harry's, but it feels as if he's looking through him.

Harry searches his gaze, trying to decipher where the man's thoughts might be so that he may have a better grasp of his intentions. Malfoy's eyes give nothing away, utter indifference.  
>Harry resists the urge to revert to a petulant child and snap back that he had been there first. Instead, he says: "Look, Malfoy. I don't know what the hell you're doing in Godric's Hollow tonight, but if you're looking for something–"<p>

"–I _was_ looking for something," Malfoy interrupts in a harsh tone before pushing his way by.

All of the carefully planned words that Harry had constructed within the last hour seem to have fled him and he finds himself fumbling for anything to say to get the man to hear him.

"Why did you come here, Malfoy?" he asks with an air of determination.

Malfoy laughs sardonically as he continues down the icy lane. Harry is anxious to keep up with him, but doesn't fancy slipping on the slick pavement. He scrambles nonetheless, alternating his focus from his feet to the man in front of him. He's exceedingly grateful that the blond now has his back to him so that he isn't witnessing this ungraceful flailing.

"It might do you good to remember that not everything concerns you, Potter. Perhaps you need a hobby."

Harry bites back yet another snide retort that coats his tongue. It's no secret that he and Malfoy had been less than friendly with one another during their years at Hogwarts, but after the war, after the Death Eater trials, something had shifted between them; the smallest cog in the machine of tolerance. Based on the things he had learned from Snape and Dumbledore, combined with what he himself had witnessed on the astronomy tower that fateful night, Harry knew that Malfoy had been acting out of obligation to his father and for the safety of his family rather than actual murderous intent.

There had been some amount of forgiveness and an even smaller amount of compassion, but a certain understanding had developed between them during those few months. And while Harry had no intentions of throwing him a victory party, he couldn't deny the relief he felt when Malfoy had only been sentenced to a year of magical restriction and community service. Harry had grown up knowing what it was to dream dark dreams, to feel hatred so deeply it seemed ingrained into his very being, to hear the screams of innocent people being tortured in his half-haze of sleep. He had seen more in his first seventeen years than anyone should have to in their entire lifetime. He'd had a direct link into the mind of evil, and Draco Malfoy was a blade of grass blowing in the breeze in comparison to Voldemort's violent tornado of serrated edges and poisonous wind. Malfoy's punishment was just.

"Malfoy," Harry says more sternly than he means to as he comes close to losing his footing. "I want to talk to you, damn it! Now listen," he demands. "I don't want this…me, I mean, being here tonight…to become public knowledge." He realises it isn't the most articulate statement, but he's glad to finally have it out. Malfoy's pace slows, but he doesn't stop, nor does he turn. "Fuck," Harry growls as his foot slips forward on the sheet of ice that was once a narrow lane.

Malfoy's hand shoots out, catching Harry by the arm and helping him to regain his balance. He huffs in irritation, casually waving his wand in the general direction of Harry's feet, casting a traction charm. Harry could kick himself for not having thought of that first.

"Quite distinguished vernacular you've developed, Potter. I'm impressed." Malfoy is still walking, and now Harry has no trouble keeping pace with him. "Anyway, you needn't worry about me talking to people. I wasn't here for you, and I certainly don't plan on mentioning it to anyone."

"Then why were you here?" Harry asks not for the first time.

"My business is my own, Potter." Malfoy stops abruptly turning to face Harry now. "And, like you, I wish to keep it that way." His icy gaze is chilling, and Harry doesn't miss the threat in his tone. He wants to assure Malfoy that he won't be mentioning it to anyone either, but the man Disapparates before he has the chance to say as much.

oOo

Harry's flat is cold when he arrives back home and he can't be arsed to turn on the heat as he staggers wearily down the hall to his bedroom. It's late, or early, rather, depending on which way you look at it. After Malfoy had left Godric's Hollow, Harry returned to the cemetery in search of something that would indicate why Malfoy had been there. He had known it really wasn't his business, but a pure blood Slytherin had little need to be in the birthplace of Godric Gryffindor, he thought. Upon searching the graveyard, Harry found nothing that could attribute to Malfoy's odd visit. And when a silvery, ghostly figure of a bloody woman crying a haunting moan appeared before him sending a chill straight to his bones, Harry had decided it was time to take his leave.

Reaching into his coat pocket, Harry pulls out the small, furry creature that he's come to almost rely on recently. Nola is actually a sugar glider that he had picked up when last he was in New Guinea; a small, grey marsupial that seems to prefer Harry's pocket to her own elaborately furnished habitat which takes up an entire bedroom of Harry's flat. He sets her on the perch atop his chest of drawers and she twists upside-down, watching him curiously with large, black eyes.

"Turn away, you," Harry says.

Dropping his clothing to the floor, he slips on his warmest flannel pyjama bottoms and slides under the thick blankets of his bed. Sleep takes him quickly.

After a few short and unrestful hours, Harry is awakened by a tapping at his window. Tossing the blankets over his head, he buries his face into his pillow, determined to ignore the unwelcome visitor—ignore the day altogether if he can at all help it. The incessant rapping continues and Harry finds his sleep-weary mind reciting the words of a poem Hermione had once read to him.

"Nevermore," he mumbles as he throws the bedclothes back and rises to greet the annoyance that awaits him.

The hinges creak as Harry pushes the window open and a gust of icy air accompanies the familiar grey owl as it hops inside, a piece of parchment tied to his leg with thin strings of festive red and green. Harry sighs, knowing that this is no different from the preceding years, and unties the note. The owl ruffles his feathers, hopping from one foot to the next before flying across the room to perch upon Harry's bedpost. Harry reaches to close the window he had left opened with the hopes that the owl would not be awaiting a response, but as he begins to pull, a loud shriek sounds and another owl comes swooping in, burdened with a thick brown package. He's reminded of the first letter he'd received from Hogwarts when he was just eleven, owls lining the rooftops of Privet Drive, and before he closes the window, he glances outside to make sure there are no more waiting.

When Harry turns to face his unwanted visitors, he notices that owl number two is actually owls number two and three, as it seems a very angry Pigwidgeon is desperately gripping the package that's easily five times his size with a fierce determination, a shrill sound emanating from him as if he's scolding the larger owl.

Harry watches in amusement for a moment before turning his attention to the small piece of parchment in his hand. As he unrolls it, flecks of silver glitter shake free, forming a shimmering cloud around the note. He knows it's from Hermione, as it is her owl who delivered it, but the glitter makes it apparent that she's sent the owl from the Burrow. Molly Weasley is never one to let go of traditions.

_Dear Harry,_

_Arthur tells us you've recently accepted a position at the ministry. I'm glad to hear that you'll be getting out and about more often, and I hope that means we will see you for Christmas dinner this afternoon at the Burrow. We're all here already, and everyone is anxious to see you._

_Do come, Harry. We miss you and it isn't healthy to lock yourself away. In any case, Happy Christmas._

_ Love,_

_ Hermione_

Harry groans in frustration as he crosses the room and shoos the fluffy snitch known as Pigwidgeon away from the package that the tiny owl seems to be guarding with his life. He unties the string carefully, not trusting Molly to leave out such festivities as exploding garland pops and enchanted carolling bells. The contents are safe, it seems. Harry unfolds his annual Christmas sweater and tosses it down upon the chair.

Moving over to his desk, he rifles around in the drawer until he finds a piece of scrap parchment and a quill. His inkpot is almost frozen and he has to cast a warming charm to thaw its contents. He almost feels ashamed of himself for declining her invitation yet again, but he consoles himself with the fact that it is no different than last year, or the one before that, and so on for six years now. He ties the note to Hermione's owl and scrawls out a response to Molly as well. He's grateful for the present, and that the family continues to think of him, and he lets her know as much in his reply note. He also hopes that she and Arthur enjoy the greenhouse he'd had sent over. It was enchanted to accommodate whatever they chose to plant in it, and also to keep out garden gnomes.

She had sent him a howler on Boxing Day two years ago for having sent a thestral carrousel for them to keep in their backyard for when the grandchildren came for a visit. It wasn't even necessarily the fact that it was dark and morbid that bothered Molly most—though that certainly was a contributing factor to her anger—it was the fact that Harry had, in her opinion, spent far too much money on such gifts year after year. He was more than happy to have it picked up and redesigned so that it wouldn't scare the children. The hippogriff model was much more child-friendly.

Molly has gotten used to Harry's gifts recently, and Harry thinks it helps to alleviate his own guilt for rarely visiting, though he usually chooses not to think about it at all.

Tying the note to owl number two, much to the dismay of a huffy Pigwidgeon, Harry opens the window to the biting cold once more and sends the parliament on its way. He had planned last night to return to Godric's Hollow in the light of day and continue his search, but now he can't quite remember why he'd wanted to in the first place. It's no concern of his what brought Draco Malfoy there, and as long as he holds to his word—which, if Harry is being honest with himself, he doesn't know why he would—then it really has nothing at all to do with Harry.

"Let it go, Harry," he mumbles to himself, pulling a shirt on as he exits the room. It's still cold inside, but not nearly as cold as it could be judging by the chill that still lingers on his skin from the brief time he had the window open.

When Harry reaches the living room, he turns the heat on by way of the device adhered to the wall. It hadn't been hard to find a flat in Muggle London without a fireplace. The last thing Harry wantsis a slew of people dropping by uninvited through the Floo network. Owl-harassment isquite enough. But he does find it difficult sometimes to refrain from transfiguring the temperamental, ancient radiator into a fireplace, especially during the chilly winter months.

Nola scampers into the kitchen after Harry, having come out of whatever nook she saw fit to hide herself in during the owl visit, and curls herself up into the teacup Harry sets on the counter. Harry's mind races as he puts his kettle on the stove. He still can't quite dispel the eerie feeling that washed through him when he looked into Malfoy's cold grey eyes last night. Harry decides that after he's had some breakfast, he'll go out to Diagon Alley and see if there's any place open to pick up The Daily Prophet. If Malfoy had been there to draw attention to Harry, surely it will be in the paper. Perhaps not until tomorrow, though, seeing as it's a holiday. Maybe the paper will run old columns about Christmases long ago and the spirit of giving and all that rubbish about families and togetherness. And of course there are always articles about cooking Christmas dinner and various recipes for roast parsnips and stuffing with gravy and bread sauce.

Harry's resolve is in question as his stomach rumbles thinking of Molly's cooking. Before he lets his appetite do the decision making and owls the Weasleys with a prompt retraction of his previous response, he pulls a pan out of his cupboard and cooks up his own breakfast as he dices fresh fruit for Nola.

oOo

Both the wizarding and Muggle worlds seem to return to normal around the third of January and Harry is both shocked and grateful that Malfoy seems to have kept his word. There hasn't been a single unusual mention of Harry in any of the newspapers. Harry still hasn't returned to Godric's Hollow, though it isn't lack of curiosity that's kept him away. A terrible storm had come in the morning after Christmas and Harry found himself occupied with reorganising his bookshelves while he ignored the fact that the heavy snow had covered all of London in an unexpectedly profound layer.

He places his cup of tea in its mismatched saucer on the floor beside him and adjusts his glasses as he stares thoughtfully at the last bookcase in his flat. Harry has a vast collection of literature; from fiction to text books to his own journals he's kept over the years to chronicle his thoughts and memories. It was an idea Hermione had seen fit to impose when Harry had refused to see a psychologist.

This particular bookcase is filled with the latter and as Harry organizes the journals in sequential order, he realises that some are practically empty with only three or four pages filled in with random mutterings or drawings. Harry is reluctant to even touch the memory books whose spines are labelled from 1998 to 1999 and instead tucks the other years neatly in front of them. He thinks perhaps one day he'll feel differently and he'll be able to read through those entries, but he isn't in any hurry as his own memories are potent enough and he thinks he could do without the extra reminders.

oOo

On the first Thursday of the New Year, Harry awakens before the sun has risen. He wishes this has something to do with the fact that, for the first time in ages, he actually has somewhere to be, but in all actuality, he's rarely ever able to sleep beyond sunrise anymore. And so he finds his day beginning in much the same way as is typical for him. Harry slips out of from under his covers into the chilly air of his bedroom and pads into the adjoining bathroom to shower and shave before breakfast. He casts a warming charm on his waiting bathrobe before stepping under the spray of water.

When he's finished, Harry dresses slowly as he really is in no particular hurry. Today is the day that his unsanctioned employment begins at the Ministry and while he'd like to think that he is perfectly composed, his inner voice is telling him otherwise. Harry tries his best to steel himself in preparation of spending his day surrounded by old friends and acquaintances. It isn't as though he's never around people anymore. Quite the opposite, actually. He seems to find himself surrounded by Muggles more often than wizards, though, and Harry suspects this will be a trial of his self-imposed restrictions.

He leans against the counter, sipping his coffee and watching the colours of the sunrise as they paint the sky outside his kitchen window. A layer of pink fades into orange on the horizon and Harry can feel the energy of the world around him as it all comes to life for another day. His own flat sometimes seems foreign to him as he spends so much time away, but over the last few months he's done his best to stay put and it's finally starting to feel a bit more comfortable. Often Harry wonders if he'll ever return to Grimmauld Place. Sirius had despised the house when he was alive, viewing it more as a prison than a home. Harry would just as soon get rid of it altogether were it not for all the memories that haunt the halls. Sirius, Tonks, Lupin, Dumbledore, even Severus Snape had all graced that house with their presence, leaving an echo of themselves in the very essence of the place that Harry cannot bring himself to part with.

He feels them all there, in one capacity or another, and during the times that Harry is finding it exceptionally difficult to accept the solitary lifestyle he's chosen for himself, he makes his way to Grimmauld Place from whichever corner of the world he might be in. Walking up and down the halls, room to room, he drags his fingers over the walls as he conjures up memories of the voices he so longs to hear.

No, Harry cannot part with the home his godfather willed to him, painful as it sometimes is for him to even think about. He's had plans for quite some time now to renovate the place, change things around to make it different enough to bear being there, yet he's always afraid of losing the shadow of their presence that lingers there just out of his reach.

Finishing his coffee, he rinses the cup and gathers his things to leave. Harry doesn't want to be early, he doesn't even particularly want to be on time, but he thinks he's run out of reasons to delay any further—until a new idea occurs to him.

Harry decides to walk most of the way to the Ministry in the interest of getting some much needed exercise. It feels as though he's been in hibernation all season, lethargic and unmotivated. It isn't typical of him. He generally values any physical activity that will help keep him in shape, and while he certainly doesn't look bad after weeks lacking any strenuous workout, he'd rather not completely break the habit.

He slips his coat and scarf on, holding his pocket open for an anxious Nola to climb inside before putting on his gloves as well. Harry chooses not to cast an actual warming charm and draws instead off the earth itself to heat him. It probably isn't the best idea as the ground is rather cold and Harry finds himself reaching deep to locate the warmth that he knows is there somewhere. He is certain he'll be tired when he arrives for having used Elemental magic, but Harry likens a wizard's typical warming charm to cooking with a Muggle microwave. While it is admittedly easy, convenient, and, for the most part, efficient, it lacks the capability of the thorough job an actual oven can do, heating his body entirely rather than just his clothing or exposed skin.

Harry is only marginally tired upon arriving at his destination, a feeling that is quickly dispelled by the distraction of witches and wizards bustling about in their morning rush to get to wherever it is they need to be. Harry is promptly greeted by the Minister himself. Kingsley is standing by the fountain with a woman half his size beside him. He smiles warmly as Harry approaches, steeling himself for a possible onslaught of questioning and mindless small talk.

"I was starting to think you'd had second thoughts," the Minister says as he shakes Harry's hand.

"I'm sorry. I hope you haven't been waiting here long," replies Harry, feeling a bit guilty at the thought that the Minister has delayed starting his day while waiting for him.

"Not at all," Kingsley replies. "Andien here saw you approaching the checkpoint and alerted me of your arrival." The small witch at Kingsley's side smiles brightly and extends her own hand which Harry takes briefly. "I was actually just on my way downstairs for a moment. I have to make an appearance," Kingsley continues. "But Andien will show you to your office and you can get settled in."

Harry thanks him and follows the witch through the hall to the sign that reads SECURITY. After what feels like an hour, Harry accepts his wand back from the stern-faced registrar and passes into the Atrium. Glancing over her shoulder periodically to assure Harry hasn't fallen behind, Andien leads him to the far end of the Atrium and into another hall. When the golden grille of the lift closest to them slides open, Andien and Harry shuffle inside with several other waiting gentlemen.

Andien doesn't speak as they make their way down to level two, and Harry is grateful for this. He doesn't care for small talk with anyone, let alone strangers.

"Here we are, Mr Potter," she says as a voice announces the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. "Your office is just down the hall here and to the left."

Harry thinks it rather odd that he, a part time employee who sets his own terms, should be granted his own office. He has an aching suspicion that this whole consultant position had been created as a way of coaxing him back out into society. He wonders if it is actually Kingsley's doing, or if Hermione is somehow responsible. She's spent the last few years teaching both magical and Muggle literature at Hogwarts and is well on her way to becoming head of Gryffindor house, but with the greater part of the Weasley family now employed by the Ministry, he imagines she still has some sort of influence.

Andien, a few paces ahead of Harry, opens a door toward the end of the hall and gestures for him to enter. The woman smiles warmly as Harry nods his thanks and steps inside.

"The minister will be right with you, Mr Potter, to discuss your tasks. This will be your office and you're to do as you please with it. Make yourself comfortable."

Harry glances around the room, taking in the tall bookcases and oversized desk in rich mahogany. Two plush chairs sit beside the fireplace along the far wall and Harry can already see himself sitting there, warming his hands with the heat of a crackling fire. "Can I get you some coffee, Mr Potter? Or perhaps a cup of tea?"

"I'm fine, thank you," he assures the dark haired witch. She nods, stepping out and quietly closing the door behind her. In all truth, Harry probably could have done with a good, hot cup of coffee, but he doesn't fancy the idea of anyone doing things for him.

Nola scampers out of his pocket, drifting to the floor with her strange non-wings before scurrying off to explore the new area.

"Don't get lost," Harry warns her.

He removes his coat and gloves, draping them over the nearest chair, but doesn't move any further into the room as he continues to evaluate his surroundings. Two large windows on the wall behind the desk have been enchanted to reflect a sunny, warm day. Not bothering with his wand for such a small task, Harry reaches his hand out and pulls down the unwanted spell. He doesn't much care for window enchantments. They make him feel trapped and completely unaware of the world around him. It's dark and solemn in the underground world beyond the windows, a direct contradiction to the golden sunlight that shone through just moments before, but Harry is relieved to see it for exactly what it is without the mask of magic.

Scanning the bookcases, Harry notices many of the same titles he's got at home and wonders if that was done deliberately or if they'd had someone else in this position before him who happened to share his interests. There's a small decorative pot on the desk with several quills varying in size and colour. An odd looking plant sits at the opposite corner of the desk, purple veins running through small, mint green coloured leaves that appear to be fuzzy. Harry studies the plant curiously having never seen another quite like it. He takes a few steps closer, but as he approaches, the plant shifts positions in its pot, gathering along the edge farthest from Harry.

"It's a Fresh Air Fern."

Harry turns, startled by the sudden intrusion of words cutting through the silence, but not at all surprised that Kingsley was able to sneak up on him. Harry is skilled when it comes to sensing magic, able to feel the power of the wizard who possesses it even if they don't happen to be utilizing it to its full potential at the time. Even the simplest of spells carry a deep imprint of magical signature. But if one is not using their magic at all, Harry's own Metaphysical powers have nothing to reach out to. It seemed Kingsley had not used any magic at all to creep up on Harry, even opening the door without a single sound. A true testament of what had made him the perfect Auror years ago.

"It comes from a Brazilian rainforest. Its purpose is to give an area the illusion of space when needed. We–I thought that it would be beneficial to you given the fact that you aren't quite used to confined quarters."

Kingsley's slip does not escape Harry's notice, but rather than wondering who "we" may be, he simply laughs at his old friend's odd comment.

"Kingsley," he says when finally his laughter subsides. "Do you honestly think that I've spent the last six years of my life as a prisoner of agoraphobia?" Kingsley doesn't answer and Harry is reluctant to offer anymore denial of the condition his friends clearly assume he suffers from. "I appreciate the gesture, Minister, but I assure you, I'm quite capable."

"Well," Kingsley says with a glint of mischief in his eyes, "it's interesting to look at, in any case. But if you're uncomfortable with it, I can have it removed."

Harry shakes his head in response. He had been hoping that Kingsley, of all people, would understand that Harry isn't someone who has to be tiptoed around delicately. He simply does not want the life of war and hurt and loss he once had and finds it easier to keep his distance. He did, after all, accept this faux position when the Minister for Magic had offered it to him; a feat which Harry considers to be a huge leap forward on his part.

"I agree," Harry responds finally. "It _is _quite nice to look at. I think I'll keep it, if it's just the same to you."

Kingsley smiles. "I apologise for my delay. It's as if Weasley can't manage his way through a single meeting without a pat on the back." Harry bristles at mention of the name before his mind has a chance to reason that Kingsley most likely meant Percy and not Ron. Harry knows he'll be seeing his old friend, though. And based on the fact that Harry has been placed in an office on the same floor as the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he's sure it won't be long before the reunion takes place. Kingsley slides into the chair by the fireplace, gesturing for Harry to join him. "Don't be shy," he says. "This is your office, after all."

Harry nods once, taking a seat in the chair across from the Minister. He stares pensively into the flames as the fire crackles in its grate and he finds himself relaxing more than he thought possible. After a moment, Kingsley breaks the silence.

"How have you been, Harry?" His question is that which anyone might ask without the expectation of a truthful answer, but Harry does not miss the concern in Kingsley's voice. "We hardly hear from you at all anymore."

"I'm here now, aren't I?" Harry asks, not intending to be rude but likely coming across that way nonetheless.

Kingsley laughs dryly. "That you are," he says. "And I can't tell you how much we appreciate it. As I mentioned when last we spoke, there isn't a lot that I expect from you here. As you can imagine, we've got thousands of cold cases in the file cabinets of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Things that can't or won't ever be solved, but once in a while our Aurors run across something they find unusual. Based on their own training and limited experience, they just aren't able to come up with the answers they _know _are right under their noses though. This is where you're abilities will be most useful to us, Harry."

He should have suspected Kingsley wanted him to help the Aurors. After he'd decided not to become one himself all those years ago, his friend had been quite disappointed. Harry didn't see any harm in helping, so long as he wasn't a full time employee of the Ministry.

"I understand you won't be spending a lot of time here, Harry. But I want you to feel comfortable. If there's anything you need, just let Andien know and we'll see that it's taken care of. There's a set of Ministry issued robes in the top drawer of your desk. I know you aren't an actual Ministry employee, but at the very least, when walking the halls here, please do wear them."

Harry nods, having no problem with wearing the robes while he's in the Ministry and he finds it somewhat funny that Kingsley seems to have expected some argument. "Also, in case you're opposed to walking through the Atrium on the days you'll be here, you can connect your home to the Floo Network and isolate it to this office only."

Harry considers telling Kingsley that he hasn't actually got a fireplace, but decides that the clever wizard is likely fishing for any information he can get and instead opts to simply nod and thank the Minister. Kingsley takes his leave, informing Harry that someone will be back shortly with some files for him to go through, but that there's certainly no rush to dive in.

The day passes slowly and Harry finds that he honestly doesn't mind sitting in a warm, fire lit office at the Ministry of Magic, and that it's not much different than sitting at home organising shelves except that here, the hurried footsteps and muffled voices that carry through his office door offer some semblance of normalcy and comfort in his otherwise strange existence. He shuffles through stacks of old files that Kingsley's assistant had brought in, looking for anything unusual in the cold cases that may have been overlooked. Harry has no real idea what it is he's looking for and imagines it isn't much different than detention with Snape sorting through hundreds of Hogwarts files. If something stands out to him, he trusts he'll notice.

As he nurses his fifth paper cut of the day Harry wonders, not for the first time, why none of the highly educated research wizards have yet to come up with a way of isolating the interfering magic away from such clever Muggle devices as computers to use at the Ministry. A spreadsheet would be so useful right now. While magical methods also have their uses, Harry thinks this is one situation where he'd rather use electronics. Unfortunately, the smallest amounts of electro-static-discharge affect such electronics, and magic would quite certainly destroy a computer as quickly as it was installed. As he opens the file cabinet and tucks the stack inside neatly with the intention of adding order tomorrow, a soft knock sounds on his office door.

"Come in," Harry calls over his shoulder, fully expecting it to be another delivery of some kind from Andien. The woman seemed to have a wide variety of reasons to come knocking on Harry's door throughout the day, from coffee to files to switching out the hearth rug. Harry has not yet reached his breaking point, but he fears that if this is the way she plans to carry on throughout his time here, he'll certainly have to put a stop to her frequent visits. But as Harry turns, he's greeted with another familiar, and not entirely unwelcome, face that he didn't quite expect to see so soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and her filthy rich agents. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Author's Notes: **Thanks so much for the comments on the previous chapter, everyone. I tried to send individual replies, but FFn hates me almost as much as LJ tonight. Hopefully I can do it from my phone tomorrow. Schmoozles and gropage to bookjunkie1975 and otta_ff for all they do. Always. And, I'm not sure if my vamp read this chapter (since I wrote it so damn long ago), but even if she didn't, she still deserves all my love and kisses as well.

I hope you enjoy this.

* * *

><p><strong>~2~<strong>

Nola drifts down from the highest bookshelf, landing gracefully on Harry's shoulder before scurrying down the back of his shirt. She, like Harry, doesn't much like people, and the second Ron had come into the office, she had poked her head out of the Egyptian vase on the shelf, growling in concern.

"What the bloody hell is that thing," Ron asks by way of greeting.

Harry wriggles uncomfortably as the creature circles his waist, tickling every inch of his skin with her twitching tail. It's difficult to maintain a straight face and cool demeanour as Harry untucks his shirt, dropping Nola to the floor and shooing her away with his foot.

"That's Nola. My sugar glider," Harry answers finally.

"Is it a…squirrel, or chipmunk or something?" Ron's eyebrows are drawn down as he sceptically examines the animal from afar; a stern expression that Harry imagines is the result of years as an Auror.

"Sort of like a flying squirrel, I guess. But much smaller, and she's a marsupial." Nola climbs back up Harry's leg again, demonstrating his point by digging at his pocket for a place to hide. Scooping the creature up, Harry grabs his coat off the chair and gently places her inside the roomy interior pocket. "She's actually supposed to slow down quite a bit during the winter months, but they keep the Ministry a pretty comfortable temperature, so she's been having a field day exploring."

The professional Auror mask slips from Ron's expression. "Wicked," he exclaims with a crooked grin.

Harry wants to smile at his old friend, to relish in the idea that some things never change even after so many years, but he knows that's not true. Harry himself is ironclad proof that nothing is as it seems. On the outside, he knows he looks perfectly healthy and sound, possibly laden with a bit of age-old, pent up anger. But inside he aches, hurts, in fact, to the point that sometimes he wonders why it hasn't killed him.

"She's barely as long as your finger. How do you not lose her?"

Harry slips his coat on, offering a guarded smile to his old friend. "She really doesn't let me get far. I don't think I could lose her if I wanted to."

"Sort of like marriage," Ron adds darting a glance over his shoulder. "Not that I didn't want to see you, mate, but…Hermione and my mum, they'd have me strung up at the gallows if I didn't come by and check on you today. Everyone knew you'd be here." Harry is admittedly impressed with the way Ron has managed to segue from meaningless chit-chat with a friend he hasn't seen in months straight into a more significant conversation about the people who care about him.

He nods. "Understandable. Tell them I'm alive and send my regards." Harry is not impolite to his old friend, but he doesn't speak to him as such, either. With a nod, he slips by Ron, out of the office and into the hall. He doesn't bother turning around as he makes his way to the lift, he knows Ron isn't far behind. Harry silently chides himself for the lack of a fireplace now for the very reason he'd never wanted one. It would have been so much easier to avoid awkward confrontations if only he could have Flooed straight to his flat. Now, as he steps into the waiting lift, he senses Ron's presence close behind.

"Up, I assume?" Ron asks before pushing the button. Just as the doors begin to slide closed, another man steps inside.

Harry's jaw clenches as their eyes meet, and if he thought the ride up to the Atrium would be awkward with Ron, the feeling has very much just increased tenfold.

"Malfoy," Ron greets the other man with a tight nod as he pushes the button to close the doors again.

Their eyes lock for the briefest moment, in which Harry is sure he can almost see clouds of both confusion and challenge in the other man's that he is certain mirror his own. Harry's heart skips a beat as his mind flashes to that night at Godric's Hollow. It seems to be a terrible coincidence that he should see Draco Malfoy two times in as many weeks when he'd gone a good five and a half years without a single run in. He doubts Malfoy is an employee here, given his history and the fact that he is not dressed in Ministry robes. The latter Harry quickly deduces to mean very little as he himself is not wearing them either.

Malfoy moves away from the lift's doors and stands at an angle, making it obvious to Harry that he doesn't want his back to the other two men. He also is not turned toward them so much that it would seem he is intruding on any conversation they may have. It's the perfect angle for Harry to observe him without being noticed, and observe he does. He notes with interest that the young boy he knew with pale skin, white-blond hair and pointed features, has grown into a rather good looking man. In fact, were it not for the scowl on his face, Harry would think him to be quite attractive indeed—maybe even despite it. His hair, while still light, appears to have taken on a more golden undertone rather than the almost white colour of his father's. He isn't wearing a long coat as he was in Godric's Hollow and if this day hadn't already been packed full of bizarre little happenings here and there, Harry would have been surprised to see that Malfoy is dressed rather casually. His jeans and button-down shirt, leisurely though they may be, probably cost more than the entirety of Harry's outfit, pocketful of black-market sugar glider included.

As a teenager, Malfoy was lean and lithe, moving about with a predatory cat-like grace, and from what little Harry has seen of him recently, he can already tell that part hasn't changed much. Malfoy's muscles have filled out a bit, giving him a distinctly mature look that quite suits him. Harry turns his gaze down quickly before that train of thought has a chance to formulate any further.

He finds himself in serious need of that Fresh Air Fern now as he notes the lack of space in the lift that's occupied by his long time best friend and former nemesis. Ron doesn't seem to mind Malfoy's proximity, though. In fact, he seems to ignore him altogether as he turns back toward Harry.

"You should come over for dinner Saturday night," he says.

Harry sighs having known the invitation was coming, but not expecting it so quickly or outright. "Yeah, maybe," he replies with a tight nod. "I might actually be out of town for the weekend," he quickly adds. He doesn't plan on going anywhere, but given the choice between an awkward dinner of prodding questions and a useless trip to Manchester, he might as well choose the second option.

"Hermione's been experimenting with new recipes. She's killing me, mate. Honestly."

"Well, that certainly makes your invitation seem more appealing." Harry smiles.

"No, see, I have a plan. I think I can get her to agree to a nice, safe Spaghetti Bolognese if she knows we're having company." Ron smiles slyly, proud of the idea he's concocted. "Come on. We haven't seen you since your birthday, Harry. And that was only because we ambushed you."

_Not unlike now_, Harry thinks. "I'll see what I can do," he says, hoping that his tone is firm enough to end the conversation. Harry is absolutely certain there has never been a slower lift in the world and again he finds himself rethinking the office Floo connection. Perhaps he could link it to Grimmauld Place. He isn't there enough to have to worry about unexpected visitors anyway, and if he Floos there, he can Apparate home avoiding these sorts of insidious confrontations.

"Weasley," Draco cuts in, a frigid edge to his tone. "If the two of you are quite through discussing your domestic troubles, perhaps you could update me on the status of my case."

"You've know the status for a good bit of time now, Malfoy. Why do you even bother with this?" Ron responds sharply, piquing Harry's interest.

Draco laughs mirthlessly just as a voice sounds alerting them that they've reached the Atrium level. "Do you expect me to believe you'd be any different if our positions were reversed? Perhaps you should reconsider checking downstairs."

"They don't have anything to do with it. Don't you have other things to do? Shouldn't you be at home with your family rather than harassing my men day in and day out?"

Draco's expression remains cold and penetrating as he glares at Ron. "That's hilarious, Weasley. You're quite the comedian."

"Fuck," Ron whispers, running a hand down his face. "I meant…I'm sorry. Look, I told you, we'll let you know as soon as something breaks. We really are doing the best we can."

"Do better," Malfoy says through clenched teeth. He doesn't wait for Ron to respond this time before stepping out and walking away in a gracefully brisk manner that could only belong to a Malfoy.

Harry chances a glance at Ron whose eyes are narrowed as he watches Malfoy disappear around a corner. He considers asking what that exchange was about, but decides he'd rather not strike up a new conversation when he can actually see the light at the end of the tunnel.

"I'll see you later," says Harry as the two of them part ways.

"Right, let me know about dinner."

oOo

Fearing another appearance of his adolescent curiosity, Harry does not allow himself to consider the conversation between Ron and Malfoy as he makes his way home. It's clearly Ministry business and despite his new employment, does not concern him at all.

Harry stands at his kitchen counter, fresh fruit spread out upon the wooden chopping board as Nola observes his every move with great interest from over the rim of her teacup. Harry dices an apple into small cubes, tossing a few pieces into his own mouth as he pretends not to watch Nola watching him. She's an interesting creature, and Harry honestly isn't sure what he had done before he came to have her just a few short months ago. He likes having her around. Having actual responsibilities gives him something to wake up for each morning and if he's being entirely honest with himself, that's the main reason Kingsley was able to talk him into the job at the Ministry so easily. Nola is a pleasant interruption in Harry's regular, uninteresting life; the way she slips into the bathroom in the mornings to burrow into the pocket of his magically-warmed bathrobe while he's showering, the squeaky noises she makes when she's desperate for his attention, her strange, disapproving looks when he spends most of his free time at home without a shirt on. Of course, that isn't something he does very often during the chilly winter months, but if Nola doesn't have a pocket to hide in, she's certainly a bitter little creature. From the corner of his eye, Harry notices her perk up just a bit as he cuts a banana in half.

"What?" he asks. "Is this what you've been waiting so patiently for?" Harry slices a small piece of the banana into chunks before tossing the remainder in a separate bowl.

Banana bread sounds good to him. Harry decides to try his hand at baking again. He'd procured the recipe for the world's most moist, delicious banana bread by flirtatiously coercing it out of a gullible barista at a Muggle café in Ontario during one of his last excursions. While Harry has never been able to make his quite as good as the original, it's still a delicious facsimile. Harry lines the edge of a saucer with the freshly cut fruit before setting Nola's teacup in the centre. She offers him a callous glare with her ears pressed back against her tiny head as her cup is tilted and jostled, but quickly retracts her stern expression when she sees that it's dinner time.

As Harry measures and mashes and mixes his own ingredients together, he finally does allow himself to reflect on the short conversation in the lift. There must be a case open involving Malfoy, but it certainly couldn't be against him. Harry is sure that if the Ministry had a single excuse at all to lock up a former Death Eater—even one who had already served his sentence—they would have acted on it. From what was said, it seems that the situation has been in the hands of the Aurors in Ron's department for a while at any rate, which is another indication that Malfoy hasn't done anything worth being arrested over.

One thing Harry was certain of was the oddity of Ron's apology to Malfoy. He seemed sincere as he spoke the words with a hint of frustration aimed towards himself, and Harry was taken aback by it. The Ron he knows hates every molecule of Draco Malfoy's being and would love nothing greater than to rid the universe of his bloody presence.

Harry shakes his head, disappointed with himself for his own preconceived notions. He, more than anyone else, knows that it's more than possible for people to change. After all, Harry had once been sure of his own future with Ginny, certain that they would marry and be well on their way to having the large family that Harry had always wanted. Who would have thought that those desires would change in such a short period of time after the war? Harry had quickly decided that life with Ginny was not what he wanted at all. It was the idea of a stable family and home life that he'd so longed for. Ginny would have played a pertinent role in that situation, of course, but when Harry took the time to evaluate his life and the events surrounding the war, it became quite clear to him that he didn't actually want anyone that close. He didn't want to care about anyone or open himself up to anyone; he didn't want to be responsible for the safety and happiness of a family when he couldn't even provide those things for himself.

No, nothing is quite the same anymore, Harry thinks. Perhaps Ron has developed some kind of compassion for their former adversary. Or maybe he is simply good at his work and acting professionally, as he should.

Harry's doorbell sounds, startling him out of his musings. Quickly, he dusts his hands off on a tea cloth before depositing the bread pan into his oven. Harry isn't really concerned about a visitor this time as he is almost positive it's no one magical. Witches and Wizards tend to owl first rather than arriving unannounced. Nevertheless, years of being sought out by Voldemort and his minions has laid a foundation of constant vigilance for Harry and, without even thinking about it, he grabs his wand from its place on the counter.

Harry cracks the door open just enough to peer out before closing it again to unfasten the chain.

"Good evening, Mrs Vero." Harry's neighbour, an elderly Muggle woman, had been known to lock herself out of her flat on more than one occasion. It didn't matter how many times Harry told her he didn't have a telephone, she would still ask if she could use it to ring her son. Harry only made the matter worse for himself by pretending to pick the lock once as he whispered _Alohomora_. Now the woman saw no need to bother asking anyone else in the building as long as Harry was home. "Did that horrid door lock you out again?"

"Oh, no. Not this time, dear. You mentioned starting new employment last time I spoke with you, so I brought you a little gift to brighten your office." She thrusts a box towards him with a plant spilling out the top. Harry had told her just last week that he would be starting a new government job. The woman was delighted to know he wouldn't be travelling so often—not that she minded keeping an eye on his door for him while he was away.

"Well, thank you very much," Harry says sincerely, making a mental note to bring her some banana bread tomorrow, and then choking back a laugh at the thought of him being so pleasant and neighbourly.

"Well, dear, I won't keep you. Smells like you're busy. Congratulations on the new job."

Harry thanks her again politely, watching her walk back down the hall as he slowly closes his door. He sets the box down and waits a few beats before opening it again to check that she made it inside.

The woman is shaking her head as she shuffles back towards Harry. "So sorry, dear. I'm afraid that door is at it again."

He smiles, holding back yet another laugh as he slips out into the hall to help her once more.

oOo

A music box tings out an almost eerie melody in the corner of Harry's flat as he lies on his living room floor for no reason other than he simply can. He finds that noise of any kind helps him to feel less alone and, when it's warmer, he leaves his window open so that the sounds of passing traffic on the streets below can carry inside and fill the aching silence. Harry stares up at the tiny cracks and fissures in the plaster of his ceiling and imagines they must be the result of years of strain, much lik the cracks and fissures that cover his soul. Regardless of the years he's spent on his own, acquainting himself with the world around, he somehow ends up back in London each time. He's thought so often about staying away, making a home for himself where no one knows the full extent of his history. Of course, the entire wizarding world has heard the name Harry Potter, but he used to think he'd have a better chance of starting fresh if he went someplace where they couldn't immediately put a face with the famous name.

It never seemed to work out that way, though. Harry has spent time on every continent, in dozens of different countries, visiting some far more often than the rest, but no matter what majestic beauty or serene peace he finds, London always calls him home. Foggy mornings and busy sidewalks and bitter cold winters of endless rain and jumbled streets of historical buildings that seemed to speak without the assistance of magic are all part of the allure that beckons him, but Harry knows it runs deeper than that as well.

It's something he's heard countless Muggles refer to as destiny or fate or one of the other words they use for magic without actually saying it, but Harry knows it to be the real thing. It's part of _his_ magic and that of the earth that brings him back here over and over again. And perhaps there is a greater reason for it, but for now, Harry is content believing that he simply needs London and London needs him—even if it _is _just because Harry fills a small bit of empty space in its great capacity. He supposes, in a way, the city helps to fill some of the empty spaces within him as well.

Nola peers down at Harry from her place upon his shelf, questioning him with her large black eyes as she tilts her head from side to side in search of a better angle.

"I'm not dying, Nola," he tells her, though he isn't entirely convinced of that. Harry often wonders exactly what it is he's living for if not death, simply counting down the hours and days until it's his time to move on.

Nola makes a disgruntled sound as she jumps off of the shelf, gliding down on her strange wings and landing somewhere near Harry's head. He doesn't bother turning to search her out as he knows her well enough to be certain that whatever incomprehensible noises she's about to make will reach him no matter where she might be.

Climbing up into Harry's messy hair, Nola begins her barrage of agitated grunts and shrill little squeaks that he knows to be her regular get-off-your-arse lecture. Ever since he began employment at the Ministry, Nola has taken it as her sole responsibility to make sure he goes every Thursday and Friday. She likes to explore and has even taken to venturing out of the office and down the hall a bit, a feat which Harry himself has yet to accomplish. Nola has taken a particular liking to standing guard on the top shelf of the highest bookcase and executing flawless aerial attacks on the interdepartmental memos that fly into Harry's office at all hours of the day—mostly from Ron or Arthur as no one else seems to want to disturb him.

Harry drags himself off the floor and down the hall to properly prepare for the day. When he arrives at the Ministry just over an hour later, he is greeted by the same friendly faces he's seen here regularly over the last two months now. Harry nods politely as he passes, but doesn't bother stopping to talk to anyone.

His office is comfortable to him now, almost as much as his own flat. The dark, rich colours of wooden furniture combined with the light shade of the carpet make for a soothing atmosphere. Aside from Andien, not many people bother him while he's here. Harry likes to feel that he has a purpose again, and though he hasn't solved nearly as many of the cases he originally hoped to as of yet, his keen eye for detail combined with his form of magic has worked wonders in reconstructing some of the missing evidence from several crime scenes.

When first he accepted this position, Harry told Kingsley that he wouldn't be using his magic unless absolutely pertinent, but when Ron came to him two weeks ago, asking for his assistance on a particularly difficult case he'd been assigned to, Harry didn't want to turn him down.

Metaphysical Magic is a powerful thing used by very few witches and wizards throughout history, only recently rediscovered by a German wizard who had been banished to the United States in the early part of the twentieth century for dabbling in magical physics and theories of relativity. It requires a great deal of study and concentration, but ultimately, if one is able to perfect this technique, they can rebuild damaged atoms of living and nonliving things. By simply understanding the greater abilities of the universe and connections between things that have no relation to one another, a person can begin to build or breakdown the molecular structure of things. People rarely take the time to learn even what this type of magic is because of what it entails. And if someone is dedicated enough to learn, and disciplined enough to be able to channel their focus entirely, there are still great risks to the Metaphysical Practitioner each time they call on that specific magic. If one is not focused entirely on that which he is altering, the caster's own mind and magical foundation will tear beyond repair. Even the practice leading up to the actual act risks such a thing, and because of this, practicing even the lowest levels ofMetaphysical Magic is against wizarding laws in most parts of the world. Once one is tried, tested, practiced and certified, then, and only then, does it become legal to use low levels of the magic.

When Harry first read of this type of power while studying Elemental magic in India, he had been warned that it was almost a suicide mission he was embarking upon to learn it all as a whole. Of course, he hadn't any desire to actually kill himself, but likewise, there was no real aspiration to continue existing. And what would his life be if he hadn't ever taken any risks?

Harry enjoys the rush of outside energy that flows through him when he summons this magic. It's almost as if, for those brief moments in which it travels through him, he doesn't have to be himself. He is small, fragmented pieces of everything surrounding him and thoroughly cocooned in peace and ease.

Harry sits at his desk filling missing information into the file of one Rathford Bardham, who had mysteriously gone missing just over a year ago. It was the case Ron needed assistance with, and while he told Harry he wouldn't ask him to do any of the closing paperwork, Harry assured Ron that he didn't mind at all. In fact, it gave him something to do while he was at his desk.

Harry was able to help Ron's team of Aurors locate the body of Rathford by using a few of the more complex spells he'd learned over the years. The forest near the man's home had carried a very faint echo of his magical essence once the disillusionment charms had been drawn out and stripped away. Figuring out the semantics was not Harry's part for this particular case, so the _whys_ and _hows_ would be left up to the Aurors, now that they could be certain the old wizard hadn't just up and left of his own accord.

It's still early in the day, just after three o'clock, but Harry sees no reason to stay any later. He had ordered a new book on medieval theories of physics through Flourish and Blotts and was told it should be in by the weekend. Tucking the finished paperwork back into the green file, Harry scribbles out a quick note to Ron and casts a sticking charm to adhere it to the cover. He still hasn't linked his office to any part of the Floo Network, so avoiding the afternoon crowd on his way out won't be possible. Harry is determined to evade Andien, though. She's a friendly woman, and certainly nice, but most of the time those traits weigh a little too heavily on the creepy side for Harry. He isn't one to be presumptuous, but it seems she might be coming on to him most of the time. He slips out of his office quietly, glancing both ways down the hall to make sure it's clear.

"AccioNola,"he whispers. A gentle tug on his inner pocket informs him that she's already with him, likely sleeping when the summoning spell found her. "Lazy rodent," he grumbles.

Inserting the file into Ron's receiving box, Harry turns and leaves for the day, relieved to not have to use again the excuse of an impromptu weekend away to avoid dinner with Ron and Hermione. He knows he can't put it off much longer, but for at least another five days, he won't have to worry about it at all.

oOo

The sun shines brightly, casting golden beams of false warmth on the city. It's a cold afternoon, but the lack of grey in the sky certainly suggests otherwise. Harry ducks down into his scarf as he makes his way down Charing Cross Road toward The Leaky Cauldron. He's never much liked Apparating, but this is one of the few days he's seen recently where he wishes he had rather than leaving the Ministry the Muggle way.

Thankfully, school is currently in session which leaves Hannah tending bar without Neville. Harry doesn't mind saying hello to either of them once in a while, but Neville is certainly more talkative than his wife. She greets him kindly as he walks in from the cold, offering him a butterbeer which he accepts gratefully. She asks him how he's doing, if things are working out for him at the Ministry and if he's dating anyone now that he seems to be settling into one place for a while. Harry doesn't try to hide his cringe at her blatant prying into his personal life. He answers politely but quickly, not wanting to leave himself open for further interrogation. Harry takes comfort in the faint buzz of magic that hums around him at such close proximity to Diagon Alley.

Setting down his empty mug and thanking Hannah, Harry turns toward the back of the pub to make his way through to the wizarding world when he notices a large shadow looming over him. It's as if all daylight is being eclipsed and Harry is in the centre of the darkness. He doesn't have to turn to know what the source of the shadow is.

"All right, Harry?" a large hand claps him upon the shoulder and he can't help but smile, for with the voice comes the accompanying memories of warm friendship and rock cakes and a slobbering Fang.

"Hagrid," Harry says as he turns to greet his old friend. He's unable to remove the smile from his lips again, and though he can't see one through the scruff of hair that covers Hagrid's face, the man's eyes suggest that he's smiling just as brightly, if not more so.

"Hermione tells me yer stayin' put in London now."

Harry nods. All of his old friends are equally surprised that The Boy Who Wanders has actually been in London for a few good months without running away.

"Seems so. For now, anyway," he replies.

"Well, I've six newly hatched pomadelo pups back at the school. Yeh should come out some time an' have a look. Terribly cute, they are. 'Specially at this age. All fuzz and no razor-sharp teeth yet."

Harry can't help the laugh that escapes him. Hagrid has always had the strangest misplaced affection for the creatures he cares for. Pomadelos, if Harry recalls correctly, are furry creatures about the size of a quaffle, with wide mouths full of razor teeth they use in order to defend themselves from predators. Their legs are short and stumpy, preventing them from running away and, like most of Hagrid's favourite creatures, they are extremely unpleasant toward people.

"Good to see you're still at it, Hagrid," Harry replies. "I might have a trip out to Hogsmeade soon. Maybe I could stop by then." Harry is starting to wonder if some sort of casual gathering of old friends might be a good idea. He could deal with all of the reunions in one fell swoop—one fell, drunken swoop.

"Be right nice if yeh did. Like ol' times. Cup o' tea by the fire," Hagrid taps his pink umbrella against the ground as if to emphasise the comment. "Maybe some o' them cakes I used ter make fer yeh."

"Sounds perfect," Harry says as he absentmindedly rubs at his jaw, the thought of the rock hard cakes sending a phantom ache through his teeth.

"Ah, I better be goin', Harry." Hagrid holds up a small, clear tub of wriggling bugs and slithering creatures. "Got ter feed the young summat 'fore they start eatin' their way through the side of their crate. They need ter be good an' full before I introduce them to the firs' years tomorrow."

"It's good to see you, Hagrid," Harry says honestly. "I'll be sure to come by soon."

oOo

People wave to him and lean into one another, speaking in hushed whispers as they watch him pass. Harry tries not to notice, keeping his head mostly down as he cuts through the crowd towards Flourish and Blotts. He's relieved to see there aren't many patrons inside the shop as he enters. Harry immediately finds great comfort in the smells of parchment, leather and ink that permeate the air. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and his tension slips away as he finds himself surrounded by the familiar comfort of thousands of books, millions of wise words written over time, hundreds of thousands of secrets waiting to be discovered.

If only Hermione knew him now. She'd be shocked at how much he's changed since school when she used to have to practically force Ron and him to stay in line with their studies.

As he approaches the counter, Harry notices another familiar scent that is almost as pleasant as that of the books. With a feigned appearance of insouciance, Harry pretends to scan the book titles on the nearest shelf as he searches out the source of the pleasing aroma. He feels his heart come to a skittering halt as his eyes and nose finally work in line with one another, bringing him to the stark realisation that the somehow appealing fragrance belongs to one Draco Malfoy.

The man stands with his back to Harry near a tall stack of books titled _The Monsters Under Your Bed_, delicately flipping through pages that seem to drip blood as they are turned.

Harry wants to curse in frustration. How is it possible that they frequent so many of the same places if Malfoy isn't actually following him like Harry had originally suspected?

"Mr Potter! Delightful to see you," exclaims the smiling man behind the counter, promptly drawing Harry's attention away from Malfoy, who hadn't even noticed he was being watched. "Your book has only just arrived. Such an interesting read." The man turns and runs his fingers down a stack of books as he scans the titles.

"Is it?" Harry asks curiously, wondering if the man has read the book.

"Well, interesting subject matter, certainly. So the rumours are true, then?" The old man's eyes sparkle with interest. "You really are a Metaphysical Practitioner."

Harry has never actually called himself that before, as he hasn't bothered to make an actual career out of his ability, but he nods nonetheless as he counts out three galleons and fourteen sickles to pay for his purchase. The shopkeeper is aware of Harry's unusual hobby in the same way the Minister for Magic had known about it. Harry doesn't speak of his knowledge or boast of this talent, but over the years, many journalists have followed him, many newspapers have printed articles about him and his travels; hundreds, in fact. He's sure of it, though he's only ever seen a handful. He had been surprised to see that, aside from The Prophet's exaggerated stories of Harry's ability to fly and bring people back from the dead, most of what had been reported was fairly accurate.

"A fine thing you're doing, working at the Ministry," the man says. "I'll bet those Aurors are glad to have someone with your abilities giving them a hand."

Harry considers telling the man that he really doesn't get to do all that much, but he decides to hold his tongue. He's sure it's merely Kinglsey honouring Harry's request to only call on him when absolutely necessary that is responsible for his lack of work over the last two weeks, but he's familiar with the old adage "be careful what you wish for," so he won't mention boredom in any form.

"Thank you, sir," Harry says as he accepts his book from the man.

"My pleasure, Mr Potter. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Actually, yes," Harry replies. "Have you got any books on non-magical creatures here? Small animals?" He's been wanting to find a few more books on sugar gliders to add to his limited collection.

"Hmm…" The man scratches his head as he peers off into the shop, squinting his eyes as if he can see all the books at once from this distance upon doing so. "We may have a copy of _Furry Muggles and Their Furry Friends_ around here somewhere." He scribbles the name of the book down onto a scrap of parchment. "I'm not sure if that'll be useful to you, but anything we don't have here, we can always order in. Mr Malfoy," the man calls and Harry feels his heart skip erratically in his chest again as Malfoy approaches. "Would you mind checking the stock room for this?" He hands Malfoy the slip of parchment.

Harry has to make a conscious effort to keep his mouth shut as shock and awareness wash over him. Draco Malfoy works at Flourish and Blotts? Draco Malfoy _works?_

Back when Malfoy was going through his trial just after the war, Harry had stayed in a room above the Leaky. Incidentally, Malfoy had decided it would be better to stay close to the Ministry for the time being rather than going back to Wiltshire between testimonies, so he'd procured a room there as well. His father had been locked away in Azkaban and his mother had gone to stay in Paris; away from the aftermath of the battle, away from the tangible memories, and away from her son. Malfoy hadn't seen it as her running away in cowardly abandonment as Harry had. He'd told Harry at the time that he simply excused it as good decision making on her part to keep her head above the water. She'd come back for her portion of his trial, but then promptly left again as soon as her testimony was out. Harry however, for reasons he couldn't begin to understand, made sure he stayed until the day of Malfoy's sentencing. He wanted to know that the other man wasn't going to be punished too harshly for crimes that were committed at the forceful hands of a madman.

During one of their few brief, but amicable conversations over dinner at the Leaky Cauldron, Malfoy had told Harry that it didn't matter whether his mother chose to come back or not. The manor was his to do with as he wished, as was his inheritance. Harry had been surprised at the lack of haughtiness when Malfoy spoke of his fortune. It wasn't as though he was boasting, but merely stating a fact. He had no need of employment or further education.

And that is precisely why Harry is so surprised to see him at the shop, searching a store room for a book Harry may not even need but is far too shocked to say as much.

Moments later, Malfoy returns empty handed. Harry expects him to address the gentleman at the counter to avoid having to speak directly to Harry, so when grey eyes meet his, he, once again, finds himself in a state of shock that he isn't at all accustomed to.

"Sorry, Potter." Malfoy's voice is low as if he's unwilling to disturb other customers in the shop, or perhaps he is pained to have to speak politely to Harry. "We don't seem to have that particular book. We can order it for you, if you'd like."

"That's all right," replies Harry as soon as he finds his voice again. "I'm more likely to come across something on sugar gliders in a Muggle shop in London. I'll stop by one on my way home. Thank you, though."

Harry wraps his scarf around his neck, hoping to hide in it if necessity arises. It's still bitter cold, and though he has no real reason to do anything but Apparate home, he decides to stroll down Diagon Alley instead.

It's been too long since he's been here just because he can. As Harry passes the many different shop windows, he reminisces about a time when he used to sit outside of Fortescue's doing homework while the man supplied him with endless amounts of ice cream. Harry wonders what's become of his favourite ice cream parlour since the old man had been killed by Death Eaters. Not a single thing in the wizarding world had been unaffected by the war.

Harry slows as he approaches the spot in which Florean Fortescue's shop once was. It appears someone has turned it into a confections shop now; the window display is alight with glowing sugar plums illuminating an array of charmed floating and twirling trays of cakes and pastries.

Harry steps inside, drawn to the delicious smells that have even Nola scrambling in his pocket to get closer to the treats. He doesn't have to look in the glass cases that represent the counter to know exactly what it is he wants. Harry orders a loaf of banana bread, barely able to contain a giddy smile as the young lady wraps it and charms his package to stay warm for him. He hands the woman thirteen sickles, thanking her kindly as he turns to leave. The sky outside is beginning to darken just a bit and Harry realises that, while he's run out of things to do in Diagon Alley, he really is in no hurry to get home. He takes a seat at a window table that offers him a perfect view of the street outside. The crowd is beginning to dwindle, though not as severely as dusk at Diagon Alley had been just before the war.

Harry is glad to see groups of people, smiling and laughing, carefree and joyous. There are couples holding mitten-clad hands and strolling along the cobblestone road, children skipping ahead of their parents and chasing after enchanted candy floss. The world seems to be at peace and, for the first time in years, Harry allows himself to enjoy at least the sight of contentment that is offered to him.

Breaking off a crumb of the treat, Harry drops it into his pocket for Nola before taking a great bite of his own. The moist bread falls apart the second it hits his tongue and, while it still isn't quite as good as the one he originally fell in love with in Canada, Harry is certain he'll never need to make another loaf of the mediocre bread that he's attempted time and again, so long as he can come here.

Harry continues to watch the people pass by in the dim light of the setting sun as he enjoys his warm bread. The bell above the door sounds and Harry feels a faint tingle of magic before he sees Malfoy step inside.

"You're following me," Harry accuses as the other man approaches his table. "I wondered before, but now there's no denying it."

Defying his typical air of propriety, Malfoy slides a chair out, confusing Harry further as he takes a seat across from him.

"I found something," he says, reaching into his inner coat pocket. He pulls out a small, burgundy-coloured, velvet bound book and slides it across the table to Harry.

_Professor Niecham's Book of Marsupials_

Part of his confusion and disbelief is replaced with something else that Harry can't quite name but is sure it's akin to suspicion and interest. Or, more specifically, curiosity; something that Harry has always attributed to Draco Malfoy because, in truth, over the years they had known each other, many feelings had manifested between them. From disdain to utter hate, wrath to pity, understanding to acceptance, Harry had always viewed the other man with an underlying foundation of curiosity for hundreds of different reasons.

"Didn't you need information on sugar gliders?" Malfoy asks, drawing Harry back into the present.

"Right. Thank you." Harry tries to exude confidence as he reaches out and takes the book. He isn't one to be easily intimidated by others, but the fact that a smartly dressed and pleasant smelling Draco Malfoy is sitting across from an unshaven, casually clothed Harry who has a pocket full of rodent and bread crumbs in a sweet shop isn't exactly the most settling scenario.

"You didn't track me down just to bring me a book," Harry says, not really sure if it's come out as a question.

"Perceptive as ever, Potter," Malfoy replies with only the slightest bit of arrogance in his tone. "No, you're right. I actually do have an ulterior motive."

Harry nods. He hasn't the slightest clue what Malfoy could possibly want from him, but ulterior motive is precisely what he expected. Crossing his arms over his chest, Harry sits back in his chair and fixes Malfoy with an intense glare as he waits for the man to continue.

"I understand you have a rather useful talent, Potter. I couldn't help but overhear the things Zane was saying to you back at Flourish and Blotts. And, if the rumours are true as to what exactly it is that you're doing for the Ministry these days, my case might just be passed along to you eventually, anyway."

Harry laughs mirthlessly. "You want my _help _with something?" He isn't sure if he means for his words to sound so cold, but nevertheless, he almost shivers from the chill that accompanies them.

Malfoy looks down at the tabletop, his lips parting as though he's about to speak but can't quite find the words. After several long moments, his gaze meets Harry's again.

"I know you don't owe me anything, Potter." Harry wants to respond to this—to tell Malfoy that he most certainly does _not _owe him anything, but something deep within him argues this point, suggesting otherwise, so he is grateful when Malfoy promptly continues. "And believe me when I say that I wouldn't ask you for anything if I had another choice."

"Get on with it, Malfoy."

"Right." Malfoy sits forward, folding his hands on the tabletop before him. "Ericson and Nott have been working on my case at the Ministry for two years now, and still I've got no answers...There was an accident a while ago, or so I'm told. My family...they're gone." Harry watches as Malfoy's eyes seem to go out of focus as he stares off at some distant place. "I don't even know what really happened to them."

When their eyes meet again, Harry notices a glimmer of something he hasn't seen in what feels like a hundred years. He's suddenly transported back in time to a day he'd much rather forget; a terrified Draco Malfoy gazing into his eyes, silently begging for help as his lips form shocking words of denial. _I can't be sure,_ he'd told his father, his false testimony buying them a few extra moments for which they were all grateful. It's been years since Harry had considered Malfoy to be one of the bad guys; he had simply been a misguided child. There is no evidence that he isn't still the same spoiled, confused person, though.

"I'm convinced the Ministry isn't doing all they can to solve the case. They've basically dismissed it as an accident and the only reason it hasn't been closed yet is because I've paid fortunes to attorneys to keep it open."

Harry finds his irritation building at Malfoy's insinuation that Ron and his team of Aurors are doing less than their required job, but more so that, even after all these years, Malfoy still insists on the belief that money should be able to get him anything he wants. It isn't Harry's concern that Lucius and Narcissa have gone missing, or died, for that matter—he isn't quite clear on the particulars, nor does he care. In fact, if he's being perfectly honest, the world is probably a better place without them—the former, at any rate, most certainly.

"Well, that's convenient for you then, isn't it? Have you considered the possibility that the Aurors actually _do_ know what they're doing, and perhaps it really _was_ an accident?" he asks, doing little to hide his impatience. He sweeps bread crumbs off the tabletop and begins to gather his few belongings, leaving the book where Malfoy placed it.

"Wait," Malfoy says, desperation lacing his tone as Harry prepares to leave. "You haven't even heard my case yet."

"Look, Malfoy. I'd love to play a round or two of _The White Rabbit_ with you, but I've got other things occupying my time right now. And, frankly, I think your prejudice against Ron is addling your mind. You're mental if you think he isn't dedicating himself to your case just as much as any other."

Malfoy's eyes narrow at the accusation. "I have no ill feelings toward Weasley anymore, Potter. While you were off on your six year holiday, the rest of us were here moving on from the war and putting the wizarding world back together. We've made our peace the best we can and left the past where it belongs."

Harry stands, nodding thankfully once more toward the woman at the counter who's been poorly pretending to not hear their conversation, and makes his way out of the shop. If, in fact, Malfoy's case is soon to be closed, it won't come through Harry's office at all. But, if the Aurors have reason to believe foul play, Harry will have it soon enough, in which case Malfoy is wasting both his time and breath asking for help now.

He hears the door of the shop chime behind him, indicating that the other man doesn't intend to give up his quest so easily.

"Potter, wait," he calls as he follows close behind. Harry is reminded of Christmas Eve in Godric's Hollow, where he slipped and skated across the icy lane in an attempt to catch up to Malfoy. The memory only serves to fuel Harry's irritation, though, as he recalls Malfoy's flippant attitude toward him. "I know what you can do. I know you can help me."

"I seem to have run out of give-a-fuck for the time being, Malfoy. Perhaps you should try again some other day." Harry mentally slaps himself for his last words. He doesn't want to give Malfoy the impression that asking again later would earn him different results.

"The kind of magic you possess is powerful, Potter." Even in the tone of his voice, Harry can tell that Malfoy's pretence of polite patience is wearing thin. "I'll pay you. Anything you want. Name your price."

Harry turns to face Malfoy, wearing an expression of blatant astonishment and exasperation.

"You think any of the things I do are for money, Malfoy? I don't need it from you or anyone else," he snaps.

"You're a spectacular waste of magic, Potter," Malfoy sneers.

Harry doesn't respond verbally, and with an unchanging expression, he silently conjures up the strength of the wind around them and sifts through, quickly pulling out the earth's magic. With the tiniest flick of his fingers in Malfoy's direction, Harry sends the man hurling backwards six feet and landing unceremoniously on his arse.

Harry cocks a challenging eyebrow at the now-shocked blond, who is staring up at him in complete perplexity, turns and walks away.

"What was that?" Malfoy asks as he rushes to catch up to Harry.

"That," Harry replies venomously, "was me wasting magic."


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **White as Snow  
><strong>Word Count:<strong>4,824 (this chapter)  
><strong>Summary:<strong> After so much death has touched his life, Harry has withdrawn from his own friends in an attempt to protect himself. Of course, nothing ever works out as we plan.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17 (overall)  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> All Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and her filthy rich agents. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter Warning: **This chapter contains what some (most?) may perceive to be sensitive subject matter; though, it isn't depicted in great detail. Please be advised that this is necessary to plot development, and I don't drag my poor [borrowed] characters through crap for crap's sake.  
><strong>AN:**All my love to vampthenewblack, bookjunkie1975, and otta_ff, as always.

* * *

><p><strong>White as Snow: Chapter 3<strong>

Angry thunderclouds roll in the morning sky, reflecting the sunrise and taking on the semblance of pink bellied dragons. When the first crackle of lightning tears holes in the clouds and rain begins to fall, Harry steps through the front door into the dry, stale air of the house.

The resounding echo of footsteps against wood floors is a sombre reminder of the emptiness of Grimmauld Place. If he tries hard, he can nearly hear the stifled laughter of Fred and George as they tested out their Extendable Ears, listening in on conversations they were all too young to be part of.

Harry takes a moment to reacquaint himself with the house, as if he's forgotten it. He walks from one room to the next, not necessarily going inside them all—not willing to trudge up memories he may have shoved to the back of his mind just yet—but opening doors, and occasionally drapes to let in the morning light. Even that doesn't seem to help drive away the sombre shadows of this place. When he comes to the doors of the drawing room, Harry pauses, pressing a palm to the solid oak. He can almost feel the hands of his godfather on his shoulders as he spoke to him in that very room all those years ago. With a sigh, Harry lets his hand drop, clenching into a fist at his side, and turns away, following Nola into the sitting room. He'll save that space for another day, he decides.

Reaching a hand out, he delicately trails his fingers along the edge of a dusty book case. The air is thicker in Grimmauld Place, pungent with the stench of emptiness. With the flick of his wand, he banishes the dust and cobwebs before oiling a rag to wipe the surface of the shelf, polishing the dullness away from the old oak.

Harry has put off being here long enough. A thick layer of dust has settled over all the furnishings and window dressings, and he can't help but wonder if sending Kreacher to Hogwarts all those years ago had really been the best thing to do. The House Elf never really was much for domestic duties, though, and after his betrayal of The Order, Hogwarts really was the only humane option.

Having no other book cases to organise or walls to clean at his own flat, Harry sets about casting several of the most powerful cleaning charms that Molly Weasley had taught him, before filling a bucket full of soapy water. Sometimes, magic just won't suffice.

Hours pass in which Harry only makes a small dent in the great list of chores needing to be done at Grimmauld Place. The sitting room and kitchen are at least sufficiently cleaned and sparkling. Harry smiles, admiring his work.

"I think that's enough for one day," he says to no one in particular, though Nola does squeak in response from her place in a small, empty urn. "You like that, do you?" Harry asks. "Well, I think it's a bit morbid if you ask me. We aren't bringing it home with us."

Harry sweeps the foyer, careful not to disturb the tattered, moth-eaten curtains that cover the portrait of Walburga Black. After Vanishing the pile of dust and rubbish, he calls for Kreacher, deciding that he certainly can use as much help as he can get. For long moments there's no sign of the elf and Harry wonders if perhaps, over the years, his loyalties have managed to shift to Hogwarts entirely. A loud pop within the kitchen, followed by muffled grumblings of displeasure and hatred, quickly dispel that thought.

"Kreacher," Harry snaps with authority, effectively stifling any further insults. "Get this place cleaned up. Don't remove anything, and don't _hide _anything," he says sternly. "You're not to leave here except to go back to Hogwarts this evening, do you understand?"

The elf nods grimly but, to Harry's surprise, says nothing as he turns and heads into the dining room.

He replaces the lid on Nola's urn, confining her to her cosy new space, and scoops it up before exiting Grimmauld Place.

oOo

Harry shifts uncomfortably on his barstool. He's already had two snifters of Bucklebee Brandy more than he had intended and, by all reason, his arse should be sufficiently numb by now. It isn't, yet somehow a simple cushioning charm seems to have escaped him.

A thatch of thick red hair catches his eye and Harry turns to greet his friend just as Ron sidles up onto the stool beside him.

"I didn't think you'd come," he says, allowing a smile to creep over his face. "Good to see you, mate."

Harry returns his friend's smile, genuinely pleased to have a chance to visit with him outside of the expectant company of the rest of the family.

"You didn't bring Hermione along?"

Ron shakes his head a little too enthusiastically. "Believe me, she'd want to see you. Thankfully, she was stuck at work late."

"Thankfully?" Harry asks with a bit of a laugh.

"I think she's gone completely mental lately. We're trying to have another baby."

"Congratulations," Harry says, smiling brightly. He knew they had always wanted to have a large family, and Harry couldn't think of two people better fit to be parents. With Ron's devoted nature and playful demeanour and Hermione's protective nurturing, they were sure to be the most well cared-for children in all the world. "That's really great."

"Yeah, well, the process I don't much mind." Ron smiles deviously. "It's the rest of it that's getting to me. She's got books on everything from diet and exercise to ideal positions."

At this, Harry can't help but snort into his brandy. "Maybe she thinks you could use a few pointers."

"I wish it were as simple as that. And even _that _isn't the worst part. She's been cramming loads of folic acid and fibre into every meal, which means my usual Tuesday night roast and boiled potatoes has turned into liver and okra." Ron sighs pitifully, peeking into his bottle of ale as if wishing for it to refill itself. "Okra, Harry. I didn't even know what that was until a month ago. It isn't right to do that to a bloke."

Harry nods in agreement. Were it not for the months he'd spent in Africa, he probably would have no idea what it was, either. Nevertheless, he laughs at his friend's dramatic outlook on the situation.

Much to Harry's relief, they seem to fall easily back into the routine of comfortable conversation and playful jibes. The two of them talk well into the evening, reminiscing on their school days and holidays spent at the Burrow, all the while avoiding more sensitive subjects, such as war and death. Harry supposes that Ron would rather try and focus his energy on remembering the lighter aspects of his adolescence.

At half past midnight, boisterous laughter draws Harry's attention to the other side of the bar. There, seated on a stool just across from him is, once again, Draco Malfoy. Several people are seated beside him, engaged in what seems to be a rather amusing story. Harry rolls his eyes and groans audibly, inadvertently alerting Ron to his annoyance.

Ron's smile seems sad as he looks back at Harry, shrugging one shoulder and taking another healthy swig of his ale.

"I guess I should just get used to the idea that we're sharing the same city now, shouldn't I?" Harry asks, knowing he doesn't need to elaborate.

Ron nods. "Probably a good idea. He is sort of a constant presence."

Harry groans again and theatrically drops his forehead to the bar, resting it against the slightly sticky resin surface. Drawing several long, calming breaths, he sits upright once more, and finds Ron staring at him with an amused expression on his face. It's obvious he's holding back a laugh, and Harry wishes he wouldn't. Better to be laughed at than to be thought genuinely insane, he's sure.

"I thought you two got on all right after the war."

"We were civil. Not best mates, by any means." Harry remembers a time, be it brief, when he actually thought they could be friends. A few long months of coexisting at The Leaky Cauldron had born a mutual understanding of one another, but it wasn't long after that Harry had left the country. Harry didn't need any more friends. He had already begun the process of shutting out the ones he did have. "I seem to somehow be in all the wrong places at all the wrong times. Maybe I should stick to Muggle London to avoid anymore run-ins. I'm sure he wouldn't be caught dead there." Harry picks up his drink, inhaling the bitter-sweet scent of aged oak and berries, before taking a sip.

"Don't be so hard on him," Ron says, casting a sympathetic glance across the bar before turning his eyes back to Harry. "A lot of things have changed since the war, mate."

"Obviously. But Malfoy's still a wanker."

"You're probably right." Ron sets his bottle of ale down. "But there are two sides to every story, you know."

Harry watches his friend closely from over the rim of his glass as he chugs the remainder of its contents.

"You must be pissed," Harry says, setting his own glass down and eyeing Ron's half-empty bottle. "There's no fucking way the Ron Weasley I know would ever take to defending a Malfoy."

Ron offers Harry a wry smile and raised eyebrow. "I swore an oath to treat each person I come across with compassion and understanding to the best of my ability," he says as if he's reading directly from the Auror Code of Ethics. "Even if he _is_ a git." They both snort with laughter for a healthy measure of time before Ron continues. "It's my job to see the grey areas where I used to only see black and white."

Harry doesn't know quite how to respond to that. Many things have changed in the years since the war, some more significantly than others, but Ron's complete shift in attitude concerning Draco Malfoy is one thing Harry would have never in a million years imagined possible. He's oddly proud of his friend's ability to put school age animosity behind him and Harry wonders why he himself can't follow suit.

"So, what's his story, then? Or is that against that code of yours to share?" Harry asks. He knows he probably shouldn't concern himself with such things that could be inferred as gossip, but the brandy seems to have loosened his grip on reason.

Ron shakes his hair out of his eyes before gesturing for the barkeep to bring another round.

"His case isn't mine. I know about as much as the next guy. The purebloods had a hard time after the war, believe it or not. They tried to stick to traditions while incorporating a few..._new _things."

"Such as?" Harry's interest is certainly piqued. Centuries old prejudices proven unjust in the light of the war would surely lead to varying levels of frustration and anger among the older pureblood families. He wonders what the Malfoys would have possibly bent their own rules for.

"Well, I think most were pretty determined to convince what was left of the wizarding world that they didn't want to discriminate anymore. Purebloods were married into well-to-do Muggle-born and half-blood families. I think it made a lot of them sick to even consider it."

Harry accepts his drink from the crinkle-eyed man who casts him a disapproving look but says nothing. Harry knows he's likely had more than the barkeep typically allows, but he isn't being loud or belligerent, and he certainly isn't causing any problems. The tingling of his teeth and fuzzy feeling on his tongue tell him that this will be the last round, at any rate.

He swirls his brandy in the snifter before taking another sip. "Don't tell me Malfoy there was one of them," Harry says derisively.

"Actually," Ron begins. Harry's disbelieving eyes snap up to meet his friends. "His dad was sent to Azkaban, his mum had no choice but to try and scrape together what was left of their lives. He was married to a pretty girl who had Muggle parents...anyway, the personal parts aren't relevant, I guess. His wife and son got into an accident in Muggle London two years back. Neither of them made it."

Harry's gaze—which had been on Malfoy throughout the better part of Ron's brief explanation—snaps back to his friend again. "You must be joking."

Ron cocks an eyebrow. "Does that sound like a joke, mate?"

"No," Harry says, rubbing his hands over his face before letting out a long sigh. "No. I'm sorry. It's just...hard to believe."

"Malfoy there," Ron gestures with his chin to the blond man on the other side of the bar. "He refuses to believe that they're gone. There's nothing to say where the bodies were laid to rest, or even when the funeral took place. But the coroners, they saw them. Hell, even Malfoy himself saw them...he just doesn't remember."

Harry feels an icy chill pass through his soul. No record of where they were laid to rest could very well mean that Malfoy was telling the truth that night in Godric's Hollow; he really _was _looking for something. And to think, when Malfoy had told Harry his family was gone, Harry thought he had meant his parents. Nothing could have prepared him for this.

"It's an open and closed case. Except that it isn't closed...We have no leads, nothing to suggest foul play." Ron shakes his head. "I've heard of it happening hundreds of times, though—mostly to Muggles—where someone experiences trauma and their brain sort of shuts out certain parts."

"Like amnesia?" Harry asks with genuine curiosity.

Ron nods. "Something like that. More selective, though, I think. At first he didn't remember anything at all. He didn't even know that he had a family beyond his mum and dad. Then he came across an old Prophet article in some library archives one day. There was a picture of the accident. He started trying to piece things together, kept coming in to the Ministry demanding more information." Ron shakes his head in disbelief and downs the remnants of his drink. "Hermione says it's some form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder."

"Certainly could be," Harry puts in. "I mean, it affected us all a bit differently."

He can't take his eyes off the other man across the bar now, and when Draco's gaze lifts and meets Harry's, suddenly it's clear why those eyes looked so familiar that first night Harry had seen him in Godric's Hollow. Grey irises are clouded with sorrow, desperation, and lost hope that Harry recognises from his own reflection in the mirror each morning.

oOo

"I swore an oath to treat everyone blah-blah..." Harry mocks half-heartedly as he flips through the file on his desk.

Nola peers down at him worriedly from within her urn atop the shelf. He doesn't want to admit that he's jealous of Ron, but it would be foolish to not acknowledge it. He definitely wishes it were him who had managed, in spite of everything, to grow up so well-rounded.

Malfoy is a right arsehole, there are no two ways about it, but since the conversation with Ron at the pub last week, Harry can't help but think that perhaps he _should _be helping the other man.

Harry, after all, knows perfectly well what it feels like to lose people you care about. Try as he might to compare their situations, to weigh their losses against one another, he still can't even begin to imagine the pains of losing a child. Ink pools on the parchment where the tip of Harry's quill rests unmoving and forgotten as his mind wanders. He thinks of his mother and how desperate she was to save him, even at the cost of her own life. While he has been told—and shown—numerous times the strength and power of that magnitude of devotion, it's still something so far beyond comprehension to one who has no one to love so deeply. A vivid image flickers through his mind of a devastated Molly Weasley, cradling the lifeless body of her son, and Harry's heart aches for them. All of them.

Which is precisely the reason he has pushed people away all these years. Harry knows what loss is. He knows the feeling of failure when you can't save everyone around you, when the people who care about you die fighting for you. And when he thinks about it, which he often does, he knows that all of the people in his past who have died have done so for him in one capacity or another.

With a sigh, Harry closes the file and slips it into his desk drawer to be looked over with a clearer mind tomorrow. It's been a long day, after all, and it only just occurred to him that he hadn't even stopped for lunch. After some thought, Harry scribbles a note onto a piece of parchment to be sent off with one of the Ministry owls, and sets off for the day.

Andien looks up from her desk across the hall, swiping her fringe out of her eyes and smiling cheerfully when she sees him.

"Good evening, Mr Potter. I was beginning to think you'd never surface for air." She grabs a tin from within her desk drawer and pops the lid off. "Biscuit? You must be starving."

"Actually, I hadn't thought much about it until just now," Harry says, taking a couple of the treats.

"I made them myself," says Andien, with a hint of pride as she replaces the lid and sets the tin back in its place.

Harry thanks her, not one to forget his manners, and promptly drops the biscuits into his coat pocket as soon as he is certain he's out of her sight. He realises that he's no longer a teenager, but the memory of a determined Romilda Vain stands fresh in his thoughts and he'd rather not take any risks. Besides, Hell hath no fury like a Nola who has missed lunch.

oOo

Even with the assistance of modern technology, it's still taken hours. Harry lacks the proper know-how when it comes to some of these Muggle conveniences. He supposes perhaps the Ministry doesn't need a new filing system after all, if it would be anything like searching through what must be thousands of microfilms and newspaper archives as he has for the last two hours. His wrists ache from the angle at which he's been typing on the keyboard and his head is beginning to throb as his eyes scan the screen for relevant information but, at last, he's found something:

**Fatal Accident Blocks Tower Bridge; 3 Dead**

**Traffic was backed up on Tower Bridge early evening Saturday due to a fatal crash involving three vehicles. Officials say that a waste disposal lorry was sideswiped when a car, operated by Thomas Ludlow, swerved unexpectedly into oncoming traffic, causing the lorry to overturn onto a vehicle beside it.**

**Ludlow was taken to The Lister Hospital in critical condition where he was later pronounced dead. Occupants of the third vehicle involved, Farraline Fenwick-Malfoy, 22, and her infant son, Arius Daniel Malfoy, 9 months, were both killed instantly upon impact.**

**Police say that the driver of the vehicle which lost control was not under the influence of alcohol, and it was simply a matter of unfortunate circumstances.**

No other information is given. Harry wants to be sick. Even if he isn't particularly fond of Malfoy, no one deserves to lose a child, a baby. With some difficulty, Harry prints the article and accompanying pages surrounding the date of the incident in the hopes of finding more information.

Accepting the papers and picking up Nola's urn, Harry thanks the librarian, who is giving him a decidedly odd look, and makes his way home.

When he arrives back at his flat, Hermione's owl is tapping impatiently on his kitchen window. He isn't sure how long it's been waiting out in the cold, but the sharp nip to his wrist as she enters informs him that it's been too long for her liking.

The letter is a response from Hermione informing Harry of Malfoy's wife's name. Attached are several articles similar to the one Harry himself had found, none of which mention the name "Malfoy" at all, which explains why it was difficult for Harry to find anything. None of the papers Hermione has sent say anything differently than what Harry has already read for himself.

oOo

"Mr Potter?" Andien's voice is soft and gentle as though after these months, she's still under the impression that Harry is easily startled. "Draco Malfoy wishes to speak with you if you've got time," she says, the expression on her face both apologetic and enigmatic at once.

Harry suddenly feels as though a hand has reached into his head, gripping his brain with the strength of a cave troll. He had been expecting Malfoy since he'd sent a note a week ago, but he thought the other man would have responded more promptly. After all, he knows Malfoy spends a great deal of time stalking the halls of the Ministry for Harry to run into him so often during his own scarce hours here.

Still, he would rather kiss the arse of a Hungarian Horntail than have a conversation with Malfoy in confined quarters with no witnesses present to stop either of them hexing each other. Unable to think of a reason to put it off, Harry nods his consent before signing the sheet of parchment and filing it away.

When Malfoy steps into Harry's office, he's wearing the same sort of expensive yet casual clothing that Harry often sees him in, and a frustratingly impassive expression. In his hand, he holds a file similar to those that Harry has looked at dozens of times. A faint hum of magic passes through the room as the door clicks closed behind Malfoy. The ministry performs inspections and registrations on each wand carried into the building, but Harry learned that anyone with a criminal record must leave theirs at the security check point before being admitted beyond the Atrium. He wondered how Malfoy was able to hand his off so willingly each time he came here. Now it was a bit clearer. Harry narrows a glance at him, impressed that the other man is able to perform wandless magic, but, of course, not willing to say so.

From the shelf above, Nola peers down at the intruder, a barely-audible growl vibrating through her. Harry eyes her curiously, wondering if she'd dare perform her aerial attack on anything that wasn't a piece of parchment folded into an aeroplane her same size.

"Please tell your squirrel to stand down," Draco says as he moves farther into the room.

"I don't actually speak squirrel," Harry answers before he's had the chance to consider his words. "And she isn't a squirrel," he qualifies. He'd also like to ask how Malfoy is even aware of Nola's existence as every time the two men have run into one another, she has been safely stowed away in one of Harry's warm pockets, but instead, he waits for Malfoy to speak.

Not wanting to be rude, Harry offers the other man a seat. Malfoy takes a worn slip of parchment from his pocket and tosses it down on the desk before sliding into the chair. It's the note Harry had sent him which simply read: _Malfoy, I'd like to speak with you, when you have time._

"I hope this means you've reconsidered," he says.

"Actually, I have."

Glancing up, Malfoy side-eyes Nola who ducks down into her urn with her ears back as she watches him.

"What made you change your mind?" he asks.

Harry isn't sure he wants to betray Ron's secret, so rather than telling Malfoy where he heard the story, he simply shrugs and replies, "I did some investigating."

"Let me guess. You found nothing suspicious." Malfoy's tone does not seem at all shocked. Simply accepting. "Cold facts in Muggle newspapers. I know how this goes, Potter. It isn't new to me. I'm aware of the fact that no respectable journalist in wizarding London would care to report this type of incident–"

"Why not?" Harry cuts in, curious to know how someone once so proud of the wizarding world seems to hold ill feelings toward it now.

Malfoy laughs dryly. "Because, Potter, my wife's family wasn't part of the wizarding world. She was Muggle-born...I'm sure that amuses you."

"I'm surprised, I admit. Few things actually amuse me, though," Harry says, leaning back and twisting his wand around in his hand.

Malfoy rubs at the back of his neck, gazing down at the desktop between them. "I don't really know where to start," he says, after a few long moments of silence. He looks up at Harry again, his eyes shining in the dim light of the office. "None of this seems like my life at all...none of it." His voice sounds far away, as if he isn't even speaking to Harry at all. "Her father was a well-known surgeon, her mother an attorney. I had to rebuild my family name after the war. Had to prove that I was worthy, redeemable."

"Sort of a cowardly way to do it, don't you think?" Harry is so used to the snide back-and-forth bickering of their past that the words fall from his lips before he even has a chance to consider them.

Malfoy doesn't lose his temper or snap back at him like his school-aged self certainly would have, though. "Yes," he says, matter-of-factly. "It would have been, if that were the only thing I'd done to prove myself." His eyes flash with determination as he glares at Harry. "But it wasn't."

Harry doesn't need to question him further to know that he's telling the truth. He remembers the letters from Hermione over the years following the war. He knows the work Malfoy did to rebuild Hogwarts, even without the assistance of magic. The restriction imposed by the ministry was just. Malfoy had spent his life knowing only the convenience of magic. To live without it for a year was a fitting punishment for him. Harry would have liked to see for himself the work Malfoy had done without it, the physical labour of rebuilding a castle and everything else that had been destroyed.

"I don't know that there's anything I can do to help you, Malfoy. But I'm willing to try. You understand that if they're gone, they're gone. There isn't anything that can be done to change that." Harry isn't sure exactly what Malfoy's extent of knowledge is concerning metaphysical magic, but he certainly hopes the other man doesn't expect him to be able to bring people back from the dead.

"I do understand. I just...I need to know that he's really gone."

_He, _not _they. _Harry wants to ask the meaning behind that, but he thinks now is not the time.

"And if there is nothing else?" he asks instead. "If it isn't some scheme against you? What then?"

Malfoy shakes his head slowly, his eyes scanning the office as if he's trying not to look directly at Harry. "I don't know. I'll have closure, I suppose. I just...I wish I could remember. I can't remember anything, Harry."

The sudden use of his first name sends a slight shock through Harry. During the time they'd stayed together at The Leaky, they had eventually lost the formality of calling each other by their surnames, but Harry had forgotten about that until just this moment.

"What do you mean you can't remember anything?" he asks, though he knows full-well what Malfoy means. He still doesn't want to let on that Ron gave him any information at all.

"I didn't even know I had a family at all until I came across an article in a Muggle newspaper. The names weren't at all familiar to me but, of course, Malfoy was. I did some checking around, spoke with people I hadn't seen since the war. No one knew anything. It was as if I'd gone away from the wizarding world entirely. The Aurors, my mother...they knew. They said it was a car accident and that I was too traumatised to remember." Draco scoffs. "As if I hadn't been through enough in my lifetime? Why won't _those _memories disappear? Why this? Then I started to suspect that someone had altered my memory deliberately."

Harry has no good answer to offer. No comforting words or easy solutions. All he can do is listen. Malfoy does have a point. If he'd gone through his teenage years living in a house with Voldemort and his clan of Death Eaters, Harry is certain he would have suffered through plenty of traumatic experiences.

"I thought, if only I could remember. If only I knew what he looked like, perhaps I could help to find him. What if he really _is _out there somewhere, alive and well? I've had world renowned healers try to reinstate my memory, and over time, bits have come back, but I still can't recall everything. They can't restore all of it without destroying my mind entirely."

Harry nods in understanding. He's certain the Aurors would have checked into the possibility that Malfoy had been Obliviated, but that's definitely what seems to have happened.


End file.
