Unofficial Portkey Archive

A/N: I used to be a smoker. I've gone a year and five months without cigarettes. Before that I'd been smoking since I was fifteen until December 2004, and between 1998 to 2003, I was smoking two packs a day. At this point, I still get cravings and I still wish I could pick up a cigarette to smoke, but I know I'd feel guilty, because I'd dream about smoking, and then I'd feel bad gave in. So… what I'm trying to say is, in this chapter, when it comes to smoking, I am not being preachy, because lord knows, I want a cigarette so bad right now I wish I was the guy in this fic.

Lots of emotional stuff going on in this chapter.

And oh, dear readers, you have many, many things to thank tome_raider for. Aside from doing a brilliant job beta-ing and editing, she convinced me to write a particular scene. You'll find out which scene, in the end. Thank you so much, tome_raider!

Okay, I realized that I haven't done this in a while: Standard disclaimers apply (as if anyone would believe I own Harry Potter).

Chapter rating: NC-17

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Chapter Thirty-First: Mole

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The Order of the Phoenix, once their worse wounds were properly treated, at least to first aid, immediately took themselves and the Death Eaters straight to the Ministry for processing. Gryffindor's staff was taken by Remus, and he was tasked to spirit it away to the Department of Mysteries where the Strigoi chamber was kept.

Harry and his party stayed a bit to talk to Viktor a final time before he and his children were sent off to their new, anonymous life the following day.

Unspeakables from the Ministry arrived to administer to Viktor's affairs. There were quite a few things to settle in terms of Viktor's properties, and once Viktor had the papers signed, they would all be forwarded to Gringotts until such time as he decided to return from exile. The rest of the matters concerning Viktor's new identity and home, though the necessary documentation had to be initially processed by the Ministry, could only be completed by Viktor and his secret keeper.

Harry was surprised when Viktor told them that he already chose a secret keeper, and that this person was someone he trusted unconditionally. That Hermione couldn't hide her own surprise was testament to the fact that she wasn't Viktor's secret keeper.

With that, they said their goodbyes to Viktor and his kids.

Jaroslav and Todor sat seat-belted in their strollers, blinking wide-eyed at the strange people while their cousins, Stefanya and Gavril, fussed over them. Stefanya and Gavril were still unaware of their parents' plight and it would be Viktor's burden to make them understand. Perhaps that was what the small wrinkle on his forehead was for.

Hermione crouched down to the babies' eye level to examine them. The boys stared at her, their hands reaching out curiously for her hair.

"Mai!" gurgled Jaroslav. "Mai!"

For a moment, Harry thought he was calling her by her name, but Hermione later explained to Harry that it was toddler Bulgarian for Mayka, which meant mother.

Hermione's eyebrow arched at Jaroslav's burble and she looked up at Viktor, smirking. "Your children need a mother, Viktor. You ought to get them one."

He smirked back. "Even Jaroslav knows that was the plan from the beginning."

Harry just pretended he didn't understand that last bit.

Lucien and Solomon looked everywhere but at Harry.

Ron was not so tactful, wincing openly and nudging him with an elbow. Harry shot Ron an annoyed glare.

Hermione took it better than the rest of them. She stood, planted her hands on her hips and cocked her gaze. "Plans change, da?"

He smiled wanly, the tender look in his eyes escaping no one, right before he wiped his eyes expressionless. "Da."

Seemingly satisfied with that, she nodded. "We have to go. Lots of things to do in London." She looked over her shoulder at Harry.

Harry found that he could stifle his feelings of irritation for Viktor Krum as he stepped forward and shook Viktor's hand, giving his goodbyes and sincere well-wishes.

Ron did the same, offering his left hand. His right one was still in a sling, though the potion he'd been given earlier was already beginning to heal it.

Solomon and Lucien, having mostly rid themselves of blood, looked extensively patched and bandaged, but they gave their goodbyes in the enthusiastic manner they did most things.

"I'll miss mooching off of you, Krum," said Solomon. "I think maybe those were the most comfortable six months of my life, living here. I'll never forget that."

Viktor looked terribly amused by this as he patted Solomon's back.

Lucien grinned toothily. "Maybe I'll go looking for you in twenty years or so. Stefanya ought to be old enough…"

Viktor did not look amused by this at all.

Solomon clapped a hand to his friend's shoulder and shook his head. "Lucien, I tell you this because I am your friend and I would not lie to you: that's just wrong."

Hermione glared at Lucien before turning to Viktor. She gave Viktor a fitful embrace and kissed his cheek one last time. "Dovisdhane, Viktor. Vnimavia."

He nodded, his wan smile softening his hard features.

She stepped back, squeezing his shoulders. "Az se gordeia s tebe."

He seemed surprised by what she said, and amidst his sad smile, something profound lit his eyes. "Blagodaria."

Hermione said goodbye to the children before they turned and left.

Their unregistered Portkey allowed them to leave from outside the wards of the Krum stronghold. Unlike their Portkey coming to Bulgaria, their departure from Bulgaria and their apparition point in London would be their choice. Given this flexibility, they didn't have to travel down the mountain to leave from there.

Walking a bit farther away from the Krum property, Harry realized that their departure from outside the Krum perimeter meant that they would be leaving the snow mobiles in the guardhouse shed.

Hermione had shrugged when Harry mentioned this. "It's just as well. Those snow mobiles were meant for me, Lucien and Solomon, for when we lived here and had to go to town every once in a while. Especially with Viktor gone, there's really no use for them, is there?"

"I hope not," he said, half jokingly.

She smirked.

Ron and her Shadow Kin walked ahead, trying to find a clearing through the trees where they could Portkey from.

Harry reached for her hand. "Does it hurt you that he chose someone else?"

She looked up at him, confused. "Sorry?"

"Viktor… and his secret keeper."

Understanding beset her gaze and she shrugged. "A little, but if I'm to be rational, which I am, it's completely logical he would choose someone more… secret. In retrospect, I'm kind of an obvious choice if the enemy got the notion to try and find him."

"So basically it's alright with you?" He wasn't sure why he needed to know. Vestiges of insecurity, he supposed. This relationship with Hermione was still something "new", even if they'd done it before. They were both different then, and now they were starting on a relatively clean slate. Besides, he felt no discomfort talking about these things with her; at least not anymore.

That Hermione spent six months with Viktor didn't sting as badly anymore as it first did, but there will always be that undeniable fact that one doesn't spend six months living with someone and not form certain unbreakable bonds. Even if Hermione and Viktor's bond hadn't been obvious all the time, it did show in the most profound moments, when it mattered, like when Viktor confessed his deception, and when Hermione said goodbye. Harry had felt very separate from her during these times, especially when they spoke in Bulgarian. It wasn't her fault, neither was it Viktor's, but it didn't change the fact that he wished things were different, that Hermione and Viktor didn't have their small little world that no one but them could penetrate.

He felt the pressure of her hand. That one motion was reassuring and he was reminded that he had a world with her all his own.

"More than just 'basically' alright," she said. "In a lot of ways, I'm glad I'm not his secret keeper, because that's one less secret I have to keep from you."

He smiled wanly. "Lots of them, is there?"

"Well," she said, grinning. "None you'd like to know right now, believe me."

"Oh."

"But some day I'll tell you about them," she said, pressing closer to him. "They're not big secrets. You know about my big secrets. They're little tiny ones about ex-boyfriends and mistakes and the things I've done that I'm ashamed of."

"You shouldn't ever have to be ashamed about anything with me."

"I know." She smiled. After a moment of silence, just before they got to the clearing, she said, "I told Viktor goodbye, and that he should be careful. I also told him I was proud of him, and he thanked me for it. I'm sorry you felt left out, but… I won't be seeing him for a very long time, probably never again, and he did take care of me during a very low point of my life... he deserves to have something of me to take with him. Something he knows is his alone."

He nodded, and he was grateful that she understood his feelings for what they were; that it wasn't just petty jealousy on his part, but something more profound.

"Oy, hurry up, you two," Ron yelled from the clearing, his voice breaking through Harry's thoughts. "It's not happiness to be freezing my bullocks off just because my best friends fancy themselves walking hand in hand in a park."

Solomon grinned. "Ron Weasley: the Anti-Romance."

"He's just jealous because he hasn't had sex in a while," Lucien said.

"Honestly, Lucien, do you have to turn everything into sex?" asked Ron.

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

Hermione pulled Harry along to get to the clearing.

Harry produced the Portkey, set the destination and held it out for everyone. The vamps touched first before Harry and Ron activated it, sending them back to London with a whoosh.

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They stopped by Grimmauld Place to clean up before heading to the Ministry, and as they stepped through the doors, Tonks met them, telling them that Remus was at the Ministry and that she had been waiting for them so she could help side-along the three vamps.

"Where's Cho?" Hermione asked as they trudged into the halls, hauling their overnight bags.

"Parents picked her up last night," Tonks replied. "She'll be fine-"

"Good riddance," said Hermione without pause, break or rest. She went straight for the dungeons.

Solomon cast Harry an apologetic look before he followed after Hermione and Lucien.

"Territorial, isn't she?" said Ron.

"Yeah," Harry muttered, reddening.

"Well, alphas tend to be like that," said Tonks cheerfully. "For instance, as Remus's Lupa, I'd trounce any female that tries to get their paws on him." She said this all with a toothy grin, like it was the most normal thing in the world to say. That was the thing with Tonks. A lot of the things she normally said weren't all that normal at all.

Draco emerged from the hallway, his gaze transfixed on something behind him. "Shite, what happened to Granger and her vamps? Got hit by a train or something?"

"Or something," Ron said, walking past him to get to the stairs.

"The lot of you look pretty awful, too… well, worse than usual."

Harry eyed Draco so suspiciously that it seemed to alert Tonks to trouble. She was the only one in the house, after all, who looked out for Draco's welfare. Harry knew it was her blood-relationship with Draco that compelled her, but knowing Tonks, who was relatively kinder than the rest of them (notwithstanding her need to "trounce" females on occasion), Harry had a feeling she'd grown to genuinely care for the bugger in the last few years like a real cousin.

"What?" asked Draco warily.

Harry figured going to the Ministry was first priority now and he didn't need to alert Draco to anything that might lead to him being more difficult. He cast restrictions on Draco's anklet and summoned Draco's wand.

"Oy!" Draco cried furiously. "What the hell, Potter?" He lunged at Harry to get his wand back and Harry put the wand away. He pushed Draco back with a mild spell, sending Draco stumbling to the floor on his ass.

"Harry!" Tonks cried. "What-"

"Let's talk, Tonks," Harry said, meeting Draco's angry glare as he left the room. Tonks followed, looking extremely agitated.

Draco did not show an inclination to make any further protests. In the five years he'd dealt with Harry's moods, he knew well enough that demanding the removal of restrictions from his anklet and yowling for his wand back would only make Harry more stubborn about it.

Harry entered the conservatory and Tonks stepped in after him, after which Harry closed them in and cast spells to make the walls and doors imperturbable.

Tonks glared at him. "What the hell is wrong with you, Harry? Even for Draco, that was totally uncalled for!"

Harry sighed, tossing Draco's wand to Tonks. She snatched it from the air but continued to stare daggers in Harry's direction.

"Might I remind you that he let Death Eaters into Hogwarts and that he tried to kill Dumbledore. Others have gone to Azkaban for less," he said.

Tonks looked livid. "Might I remind you that Draco let those Death Eaters through because Voldemort threatened to kill his parents if he didn't. All of us may think Lucius is a sick son of a bitch, but all Draco knew at the time was that he was saving his father and mother from death. His failure to kill Dumbledore might have caused him Narcissa's life-his mother's life, and by your admission, he failed because he couldn't kill."

"Is that what he tells you, Tonks?" Harry asked tiredly. "That he's a poor little rich boy who had no choice?"

"No. He never tells me anything. He never tells anybody anything. He just goes about his business, acting like an arsehole to everyone."

Harry sneered. "Well, of course not everyone, apparently."

Tonks smirked. "True. He doesn't spit in mine and Ginny's coffees…"

"Doesn't-ugh!" Harry hadn't needed to know that.

"I was never blind to the things he did, Harry," Tonks continued. "And I haven't forgotten anything he's done, or tried to do, but in the last five years, I've watched the lot of you bully him and push him around. He gets treated worse than a house elf by you, Ron and your friends. Look at him, Harry… he's trapped in this house, only going out for work in the worse Ministry job imaginable. He has to ask permission every time he goes to the loo at work and it takes him a month of red tape just to go to one store in Diagon Alley because nobody would care to buy anything for him when he requests it. And when he does get permission, he gets fifteen minutes of supervised time-"

Harry felt no compassion whatsoever. "Like I said… he should be so lucky. He should've been sent straight to Azkaban."

Tonks sighed tiredly. "He wasn't sent to Azkaban and he's been here for the last five years. In a trial, you don't consider what should have been, you consider the facts: what he's done, and what he could've done to make it worse but didn't. Malfoy began paying for his sins that day he save yours and Ron's life, and he's been paying for it ever since. He's no saint, Harry, but common decency-and Lord knows, his good behavior-should have at least earned him an explanation before you took his wand and placed those restrictions."

"And what if I told you I have reason to suspect that he's a mole planted by the Death Eaters?"

"Then haul him to the Ministry for questioning. I'm not going to stop you."

Harry plopped back on a sofa chair and expelled another breath. He winced as he landed on his bruised rear end. "I can't haul him in. I have no evidence to suggest he's a mole; only suspicion."

Tonks stared at Harry a moment. "But you'll question him, anyway, won't you? Off the record, I'd imagine."

"Yes."

Tonks's shoulders slumped. "I can't stop you, Harry, and between you and Malfoy, I still trust you more than I trust him, but you know… you can try asking him for answers before you clock him. I swear to you, Malfoy can be engaged in proper conversation… give or take a few insults."

"Oy… it's not as if Malfoy never hits first."

"Only when you call his mother names."

"And he's a really dirty fighter."

"Yes, well… that's true, but try my way first, then you can sock him when he's being a jerk, I suppose…"

Shaking his head and rolling his eyes, Harry rose from the chair. "Look, I always try to talk to him first, but then he says something underhanded-"

Tonks scoffed. "Well, he only gets worse the more you show that you're getting pissed. Cool it and he mellows… well, to a considerable degree, at least."

"Oh, is that all?"

"Yeah, and you might want to use magic as a last resort. He sort of clams up worse when you hex him…"

"Does he like his tea with milk? Is he a Biscotti man or does he prefer scones?"

"There's no need to be sarcastic. I'm giving you real advice."

"Okay, fine. Maybe I should have Hermione question him with me. She has a better handle on his snarkiness than I ever did. With her telling him off, there's less chance of me socking him in the face because she can be pretty damn funny about it…" He couldn't help snickering at the idea, even if he knew he wasn't going to push through with it.

"Fine, but make sure she doesn't go for the jugular. Know what I mean?"

He scowled, turning serious. "Well, you can tell him to cool it with the racial slurs."

Tonks sighed. "Look, it doesn't work that way with Malfoy. You can tell him not to call Hermione a Mudblood, or not to call you Scarhead, but it doesn't matter! He always finds a way to get someone's goat. I've no control over Draco's twisted mind, but you can control yourself, and if you're serious about having Hermione interrogate him, you can control her. You know you can, Potter."

"Whatever you do, don't ever let her hear you say that."

Tonks laughed. Harry frowned.

Her laughter dwindled as soon as she saw he was serious. "Look, I'm just trying to be helpful here, and perhaps I do feel some kind of compassion for the sarcastic little bugger. I'm the only one around here who gives a shit about him."

"That's for sure."

"Don't you give a shit? Just the tiniest bit? Just a teensy, weensy-"

"Hell will freeze over before I do."

Tonks sighed. "Oh, well… can't blame you for it, either."

"I'll interview him after we return from the Ministry."

She waved Draco's wand. "Should I give this back to him?"

"You may, if you wish, but I'd rather you didn't."

Tonks gave Harry Draco's wand. "See, Harry? I trust you more than I trust him."

"Thanks," said Harry with just the slightest hint of a smirk. Breaking the enchantments on the doors and walls, he let Tonks step out of the conservatory first before he followed.

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The Ministry was alive with Aurors, Hit Wizards, Ministry officials, and news reporters when Harry and his housemates arrived through the phone box elevator.

The reporters, who had been busy scrounging bits and pieces of detail from harried personnel, dropped whoever they were interviewing and rushed at him with frightening enthusiasm.

Notepads with Quick-Quill Quoters were shoved in his face and the reporters shouted unintelligible questions.

He cast a series of subtle crowd-control spells and pushed a path for them through the small herd.

Curious looks were cast at the hooded figures that followed Harry, Ron, and Tonks but no one seemed to take all that much interest in them. A Trivialis charm almost always took attention away from most things, but it worked best when there wasn't something shockingly interesting to begin with, so a Trivialis probably wouldn't work on Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, or on Hermione Granger, who was reported dead five years ago and was now a vampire, but a Trivialis could manage to dampen the oddity of three faceless, hooded figures.

When they reached the Auror department doors, they were let through before the doors were sealed shut once more.

Tonks sighed with relief, immediately separating herself from them to attend to her duties.

Seamus met them on their way to Harry's desk just as Hermione, Lucien and Solomon pushed off their cowls.

"Turner and Roberts are ready for you, Harry," said Seamus. "Who would you like to interrogate first?"

Harry gave it a brief thought. "I'll be by Roberts, first. Get the preliminaries out of the way."

Seamus nodded. He turned to the rest of Harry's companions. "Ron, can you lead everyone to the debriefing rooms?"

"Yeah, sure. Are Charlie and Ginny there yet?"

"They are. Listen, Hermione, a few of the Quill Pushers aren't keen about debriefing you vamps… they're sort of afraid that you'd rip their throats out in the middle of the interview,"

Hermione smirked, planting a hand to her hip. "We get that a lot."

"Er… yeah. What I'm trying to say is I think they'd feel more comfortable if Ron kept each of you company while you're being debriefed."

Ron rolled his eyes at this but said nothing.

Hermione shrugged a shoulder. "That's fine. Whatever."

"You're being unusually accommodating," said Seamus.

"Well," began Lucien. "She finally got laid, Cho's gone from Grimmauld Place, and armed combat always makes her a tad congenial."

Hermione stepped on his foot. "Once again, why does everyone think my private life open for discussion?"

Solomon affected surprise. "What, didn't you get the memo?"

Seamus nudged Harry on the ribs and wiggled his eyebrows. "Oh-ho, Potter. You two back together, eh? Not entirely surprised, really."

Harry scowled. "There are a hoard of reporters outside who would kill for that sort of headline so if you don't mind, shut-it, alright? And that goes for you two, as well." He shot Lucien and Solomon piercing looks.

"Fine, oh alpha of our alpha," Lucien said.

Hermione scowled. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? He's not-"

Harry sighed exasperatedly, too harried to deal with the dysfunctional issues he and Hermione had amidst their budding relationship. He nudged Ron and Hermione towards the right direction. "Go already. I need for you to do what you came here to do. Help me out, alright? I have to work." He cast a pleading look at them.

Hermione rolled her eyes and let Ron gently usher her along, Lucien and Solomon following them.

"Well, you seem to have a handle on her," Seamus said when they were a fair distance away.

Harry felt the irritation in him well unbidden. He grimaced, sighed with annoyance and said, "Whatever you do, don't ever let her hear you say that!"

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Harry flipped through Roberts's personnel file as he glanced surreptitiously at Jeremy Roberts. Harry's first suspect was seated on the lone chair in the room, the back and arm rests of the chair leaving the man no choice but to face forward. The room was dimly lit but for the soft spotlight trained to the chair from above it. A marbleized sphere the size of a human head sat on a pedestal in one of the room's corners. There was no other furnishing or décor. There was no table. There were no windows. The door leading in and out of the room was nondescript, almost blending into the maddeningly plain beige of the walls. The chair faced the barest wall of all. Not a speck of dust clung to it. Not a single distinguishing mark marred its perfect surface.

Any Auror knew that that same wall was glamoured to appear solid. It was a one-way glamour, on the other side of which investigating Aurors and the head of the department, Kingsley Shacklebolt would be watching the interrogation taking place, assessing the situation to better break the suspect.

In the Wizarding world, suspects didn't get lawyers unless they asked for one. They were, of course, told that they could employ an attorney and have such attorney present in all interviews and meetings, but they could wave the right, and that was permissible under Wizarding law. Representation only became mandatory upon the onset of the Accused's trial. It wasn't a perfect system, but there weren't that many defense lawyers in the Wizarding world to begin with. The few who pursued careers in law were either amazingly brilliant or painfully incompetent. There wasn't a middle ground, or if there was, they were probably the incompetent ones grown better by experience, or as the case may be, by "Trial and error; more of the latter than the former." At any rate, Wizards didn't like lawyers in general. Lawyers had very Muggle roots, and for that alone, a lot of Wizards were wary about the concept of entrusting one's defense to someone else.

Roberts waved his right to representation.

Harry could see it wasn't helping Roberts that he knew what was behind that wall.

All Aurors were trained to hide their nervousness, and a good number seem to master the techniques involved, but a lot of these so-called masters had "tells" anyway, like how a poker player would have that barely discernible twitching of the eye, or a soft foot-tapping beneath the table. Some Aurors have tells more subtle than others. Roberts belonged to the "others".

Harry could make out the slightest twitching of Roberts's big toe under the cover of his boot. Harry would wager his wand arm that the man had a coin stuck beneath his big toe. It was a common enough technique, passed on from one Auror-in-training to another. The presence of the coin centered all nervous ticks on the big toe hidden by one's shoe. It was effective enough if the observer didn't know where to look.

Too bad for Roberts, Harry was really good at his job.

"How's it going, Roberts?" asked Harry, his tone calm and casual as he leaned back against the wall looking at Roberts's file.

Roberts's gaze shifted to him but he maintained his relatively relaxed posture.

Harry could see Roberts's tell twitching a bit more. The nervous tick didn't mean Roberts was guilty, of course. Most persons made to sit in the interrogation chair felt unnerved, whether they were guilty or not, but it was always to the interrogator's advantage when he knew his subject had a predisposition to crack.

"Fine, Mr. Potter," said Roberts.

Harry paused before cocking a tiny smile. "You don't have to call me Mr. Potter. You never did until today."

Roberts was only behind Harry in the academy by a few weeks and they had interacted a few times while in training. They practically left Auror training camp together. Harry knew Roberts looked at him with the same aggravating awe most Aurors in the department had, so Harry wasn't going to let anyone in the department get away with calling him "Mister."

A faint flush colored Roberts's cheeks. "Sorry. I just-I'm a little confused, is all. Why am I here? Have I done something wrong?"

Harry closed the folder in his hand and crossed his arms over his chest. He showed very little emotion beyond quiet anticipation. "Maybe. That's something I'm trying to find out, now."

Roberts frowned, withdrawing into thought, as if he was looking back on his own memories. Finally, after a moment's silence, he looked up. "I haven't done anything."

Harry gave a mild, one-shouldered shrug as he paced lightly across the room, glancing briefly at the one-way wall as he went. "You've conducted an interrogation before, Roberts. What do you think my first question will be?"

Roberts eyed him warily before replying. "You're going to ask me where I was and what I was doing on a given date and time."

Harry cracked another tiny smile and nodded. "Sixth of October, between three PM and your next shift the following day."

Roberts's brows furrowed, thinking. "I went to work… my shift was at two. I left a little after five…"

"Why the early leave?"

"I felt…" His brows furrowed again. "… odd. I think I had a temperature. I figured since my shift with Draco Malfoy was over, I'd go home."

Harry chose his words carefully. "And so you left in the middle of your shift without telling anyone?"

"I-yes. I forgot, I suppose. I was feeling really bad."

Harry pondered this a moment, keeping his eyes trained to Roberts thoughtfully. Under his ponderous stare, Roberts seemed to grow agitated. "Roberts, you have a rather excellent record here in the Ministry, and you didn't have bad marks in the academy, either. I looked your records over and I have no reason to believe that the favorable reviews by your colleagues are wrong. I've never seen you skip a day of work; I've seen you come in for work wounded from a previous night's raid; you have a reputation for being dependable; and quite frankly, you're about as strong as a bull. I'm finding it rather… hard to believe that you'd walk out of work barely four hours into your shift because you felt 'odd' and not tell anyone you're leaving. At the very least, you should have left a note with Shacklebolt's assistant."

"You're questing. You have nothing on me."

This was true, but Harry wasn't rattled. This was common enough during interrogations. Questions were built from answers, and answers were always one nudge closer to the truth. Harry's only just begun. He still had plenty of time.

"I'll give you a moment," Harry said calmly, heading for the door. "We've a long night ahead of us."

"Are they going to send in the bad cop now?" mumbled Roberts.

Harry chuckled. "I think it's going to take more than a bad cop to scare you, but in case you're wondering, I'm afraid I'm all you've got, boring as that may be. I'll see you in a while, Roberts."

Harry left the room and conferred with Shacklebolt, Moody and Seamus from the other side of the wall.

Roberts was still seated and he was frowning to himself. His eyes shifted to his left as he stared at the ground, his toe twitching more apparent now.

"Well?" Harry asked them.

"Either he's a really good liar or he's telling the truth." Seamus said.

Harry turned to Moody and Shacklebolt, staring at them inquiringly.

Shacklebolt glanced back at Roberts. "Hard to say at this stage, I suppose."

"I couldn't pin point what's wrong with him," Moody said, swaying on his wooden leg. "It seems like he's telling the truth but… there's something…"

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "Something. We'll give him some time to stew. Where's Turner?"

"Interrogation room F. Bloke's a nervous wreck. Been smoking nonstop," said Seamus.

"Smoking?"

"Cigarettes."

"Muggle cigarettes?"

"Yes."

"Cor. When did he find the time to pick up the habit? He's barely out of Hogwarts…"

"Said he got it from his mum."

They trouped to Turner's room and sure enough, when Harry entered the interrogation room, it was filled with cigarette smoke. The smoke raked up Harry's nostrils and irritated his nasal passages, causing his eyes to water. Harry had to cast a spell that would keep the smoke away from his face.

The room was exactly identical to that of Roberts's.

Turner held an ashtray gingerly in one hand and a cigarette in another. His pack of Marlboro lights and the tiny matchbook that accompanied it sat on the floor by his feet.

His cigarette was at its end, nearing the filter, and while his hands were relatively steady, the fact that he was smoking at all spoke volumes.

He set the ashtray down and took his pack from the floor. Flipping the pack over, he shook a stick out with a deft maneuver and took the highest protruding stick between his lips. He used the lit stub of his last cigarette to light the new one. Blowing the smoke out between his lips while still holding the cigarette in his mouth, he set his pack back down, picked up the ashtray and got rid of the fag.

Harry blinked the last remnants of smoke from his eyes. "Blimey."

"S-Sorry," said Turner. "Bad habit. I've tried to quit. The patch was working, I swear, but this… well, I thought I'd smoke again just this once."

Harry pushed his glasses up his nose, assessing Turner for a few seconds. Sometimes, the really fidgety and nervous ones were harder to decipher than the calm, quiet blokes. "My name's Harry Potter, we spoke briefly on the Hogwarts Express, after we were attacked-"

"Merlin knows you don't have to introduce yourself Mr. Potter-"

Harry cleared his throat. "It's just Potter, actually. Do you know why you're here, Turner?"

"No. How would I? No one's told me a bloody thing. They sent my friends over to my flat to pick me up in the dead of night. They said I'm a suspect and that they have to haul me in. They didn't even tell me what crime I'm being accused of!"

"You're not being accused yet," Harry said. He glanced at Turner's file. "You asked for representation."

Turner nodded, blowing out smoke.

"Are you afraid, Turner? Is that why you need an attorney?"

The marble at the corner of the room crackled slightly and spoke. "You don't have to answer that, Stuart."

Harry cracked a lopsided grin. "How's it going Macmillan?"

"Fine, Potter. You?"

"Perfect. I'll be right out to process your papers. Just give me a second."

"I'll be waiting."

Harry looked at Turner. "You've been implicated in the attack of the Hogwarts Express. That's why you're here."

Turner's eyes widened, his hand shaking slightly. "But I-I was on that train!"

"Yes, but that doesn't make you innocent. Not in the least."

"I still have nightmares about that assignment!"

"Potter," came Ernie Macmillan's voice. "That's enough for now, alright?"

Harry smirked slightly, turning to the door. "You understand, Turner, that I'll be harder on you because you have representation."

Turner said nothing as Harry left the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry stared at Roberts intently, watching the man's face as it once again fell into confusion.

An hour and a half had passed since Harry first asked Roberts where he was the night of the train attack, and while Roberts had stuck to his basic story, details were beginning to get a bit blurry between noon of October sixth to ten AM the following day, when he woke up with an almost blinding headache.

In any other instance, it would have been a strong indication of lying, but there was something about Roberts that was compelling Harry to actually think the confusion was not Roberts's doing.

Harry was beginning to get a sinking suspicion that Roberts had gotten used.

"How's your social life going, by the way?" Harry asked, predictably startling Roberts into a few seconds of silence.

"Alright," Roberts replied. Even if he probably thought that this was completely irrelevant to the interview, Harry could see that Roberts was thankful for the respite from restyled questions that asked the same thing over and over.

The new line of questioning wasn't random. Harry had a theory, and this was how he was going to pursue it. "Seeing anyone, lately?"

"Well I-no one steady, if that's what you're asking."

"Go out on a lot of dates, then?"

Roberts thought about it for a few seconds before he gave a soft, derisive chuckle. "I wouldn't say a lot… I'm not exactly reeling them in…"

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and gave a noncommittal shrug. "Works better that way, then. You remember every single one of their names?"

A flush colored Roberts's pale cheeks. "Of course."

"Who were most memorable to you?"

Roberts frowned. "Look here, that's perso-"

"Not in this room it isn't. Who were most memorable to you?"

Shooting Harry a daggered look, Roberts talked about Electra Swansea, Pippa Anderson and Lynette Moore.

Electra was an Antique books trader. Pippa was a dressmaker and Lynette was a Muggle physical trainer.

"How'd you meet them?" asked Harry.

Pippa was the dressmaker who mended his Auror robes, and having shown an interest in Aurors, Roberts had found the courage to ask her out for dinner. As it turned out, she was pleasant company. She was interesting, intelligent and he would have liked to see her again, but she had just gone through a bad relationship and was not so eager to jump back into another one. They were still "friends", but Roberts hadn't asked her out again, even though he wanted to.

Lynette, the physical trainer had approached him. She asked him out. She picked the place. She told him she didn't eat meat. She told him a whole lot of things. He had been a bit too overwhelmed to tell her anything. He felt that if he said anything, she would punch him on the jaw and knock him out.

"I swear, her arms were bigger than mine," Roberts said, blinking dazedly at the mere memory.

Harry pondered this. "My girlfriend could punch me on the jaw and knock me out. Heck, she can beat the crap out of half a dozen men with one hand tied behind her back…"

Roberts stared at him in surprise.

"Her arms aren't bigger than mine, though," Harry continued. "They're quite delicate, actually. So you forget that she can do that sort of thing."

"Umm, that's nice…"

"Yeah, real handy in a fight. How about Electra? You haven't told us about her."

At the mention of Electra's name, a deep flush rose in Roberts's cheeks. "The collector… well, she's-erm, what I mean to say is…"

"Best lay you've had in years?"

Roberts's eyes widened, as if amazed that Harry understood.

"I'm a bit partial to bookworms myself," Harry said nonchalantly. "How did you meet Electra?"

"B-Blind date."

"Ah… now we're getting somewhere. Who arranged the date for you?"

"Friend of mine."

"You have to be more specific than that, Roberts."

Roberts swallowed, growing quiet. "Umm… well…"

Harry waited.

Finally, Roberts looked resigned to the fact that unless he answered the question, neither of them was going to leave the room. "Turner. Stuart Turner."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Potter! Potter, put him down this instant!"

Harry could hear Ernie Macmillan's voice through the marbleized globe at the corner of the room, but it really didn't do much to intimidate him into putting Turner back down. He had hoisted Turner off his seat by casting a simple levitation spell by the collar of his shirt, but Turner was terrified and he wasn't doing anything to fight the spell off.

The floor was littered with cigarette ash, burnt out fags and the smoldering remains of Turner's last stick.

Harry wasn't going to hurt Turner. If he did, it would jeopardize any case they might have against him, but he could certainly scare the little twit if he had to.

Ernie was an excellent lawyer, and he would defend Turner to the best of his abilities, but the thing Harry liked most about Ernie was the man's understanding of the present situation; the war as it was happening around them. He was a lawyer, but he thought like a soldier, too. While Ernie wouldn't hesitate to slap charges on Harry for manhandling a suspect, nor would he compromise his client's chance for a case dismissal grounded on cruel and unnecessary force under detention, he was always willing to issue warnings before he did it.

"I swear to you, Potter!" Ernie said in a commanding tone. "If you don't set him down now, I'm going to have his case dismissed so fast that you'll be reeling from it until next week!"

Harry dropped Turner back into his seat. He didn't need to hurt Turner any more than he already has. Turner was ready to piss his pants.

Turner's hands were trembling and he struggled to get one of the last two cigarettes in his pack. He dropped the sliver twice and his matchbook was down to its final stick.

Harry lifted Turner's gaze with a subtle nudging spell. "Where did you meet Electra Swansea, Turner?" His intensely penetrating gaze had Turner blinking and desperate to pull away.

"E-Electra?"

"Come now, Turner. You can't seriously be thinking of denying you know the woman."

"I don't-I wasn't going to deny-I know Electra, but only by acquaintance, I swear! I know nothing about her!"

"You usually set your friends up with women you know nothing about, Turner? Rather mean of you, don't you think?"

"Set… oh! I-yes. I mean, no! I just-my girlfriend… well, she isn't my girlfriend… but I really fancy her-"

Harry shook his head. He swore that women were completely aware of the power they had over their men, and while many of them weren't so cruel as to abuse this power, they used it when they deemed it necessary, and men could only guard themselves against it to a certain extent. "You fancied Electra?"

"No!" Turner cried. "I fancy this girl, see. Her name's Brittany Watson. She works as a restorer for the British Museum's Magical Artifacts division and Electra's someone she'd been dealing with for quite some time, now… Electra sells and buys old books, see, and Brittany's… well, she and Electra talk every now and then. Electra happened to mention than she was single and looking…." At this, Turner's brows furrowed. "It wasn't like a conspiracy, Mr. Potter! Brittany had a friend, I had a friend… we thought we'd set them up! That's all! And from what Roberts has told me, it worked out pretty well… they went out a few more times after that…"

"It worked out well, alright," Harry grumbled. "She screwed all of you sideways. At any rate, you better be telling the truth, Turner. I'm going to confirm everything you said, I promise you."

Turner begged him to leave Brittany alone but Harry ignored him as he stormed out of the room. Slamming the door behind him, he told Seamus to haul in Ms. Brittany Watson and check up on Electra Swansea.

"I reckon it's not her true name or identity," Harry said. "But she might have left some kind of trail anyway."

Seamus nodded, taking off to do his work.

Ernie frowned. "I hate it when you push it, Potter. You know I do." With that, he stalked into the interrogation room to talk to Stuart who was trembling on his seat.

Shacklebolt and Moody engaged him in discussion.

"What's the theory, Potter?" Shacklebolt asked.

"Roberts is the key," Harry said. "I think his memory's been tampered with. He's quite sure about what he remembers of that that day, but there are gaps that even he couldn't quite puzzle out. That headache of his cinched it. All of it is common enough occurrences in memory alteration, isn't it?"

Moody nodded. "I thought as much."

"I'm thinking Roberts's was incapacitated around noon that day of the train attack; before he went to work. There are no signs of him being Imperiused and judging by his account, staying at home and in bed all night, I think they had him Stupefied from noon until ten AM the next day. When he woke up, they altered his memory from the time they Stupefied him up to that very moment he was awakened, and then they left him in his flat to go about the rest of his life as normal as he pleased."

There was hardly any question as to who "they" were.

"Feasible," Shacklebolt said. "But why let him keep memories about going to work? Why couldn't they have just let him call in sick?"

"Because they needed him to be at work."

"Then why Stupefy him in the first place?"

"Because someone else was at work for him," Moody supplied.

Harry nodded. He knew Moody would catch on. He'd been the victim of the same ruse, after all.

"Polyjuiced," Moody continued. "They Polyjuiced him. Why the girl, though? They could have just taken a few hairs off him when they had him Stupefied."

Harry smiled slightly. "They needed to know about him; his schedule; his habits. If they were going to alter his memory, they needed it to be as familiar to him and everyone else as possible. They hadn't counted on Roberts getting assigned to something else that day… careless of them, but good for us, I suppose."

It was, perhaps, the one thing that bothered Harry. Everything else had seemed so carefully planned, yet whoever it was that had impersonated Roberts hadn't been meticulous enough to do a simple punch-out from work and leave a quickly scribbled note of "Feeling ill. Leaving work early. Signed, Roberts," with Shacklebolt's assistant.

Maybe he forgot in his hurry to get away…?

Or maybe not…

Harry frowned.

"You understand this means we have something on Draco Malfoy," Shacklebolt said gravely. "The only reason they would Polyjuice Roberts was to get to Malfoy, and seeing as Malfoy isn't dead, it's likely that he's working with them."

Harry thought as much and some part of him felt oddly… disappointed about the confirmation. "Yes, he ought to be questioned, but I'll do so in the capacity of the Order. If they've been using Draco as a mole, we might need him as bait, and I don't want to have to go through on-record red-tape to make him one. It's bad enough that we've been infiltrated in this manner. The more this is off-the-record, the better we can swing this, don't you agree?"

Shacklebolt and Moody looked at each other a moment before nodding.

"Very well then. I'll keep this off the records for now," Shacklebolt said. "But I'll have to keep Turner and Roberts detained until we're done using Draco."

"That's fine. They might have to know why they're being kept, though. If we're right about all this, they didn't do anything wrong."

"I'll take care of them," said Shacklebolt. "You do what you have to do, Potter."

Nodding, Harry headed back out to the floor. He checked his pocket watch. It was almost four in the morning. It would be sunup soon, but it was enough time for him to sneak in some minutes alone with Hermione before he went back to work.

He found her, Ron, Lucien and Solomon waiting for him at his desk. Nearby, Seamus was scribbling furiously on some forms and sending out inter-office paper airplanes to various people in the Ministry.

"How was the debriefing?" Harry asked Hermione, taking his desk seat as he stifled a weary sigh. She was leaning on the edge of his desk beside his seat, the proximity of her calming him already.

Solomon smirked. "Fine. The interviewer only wet his trousers once."

Lucien laughed.

Harry eyed them suspiciously. "You're serious?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "No. He's kidding. It went relatively well. The interviewer looked like he was going to hurl a couple of times-in terror, you understand, but he held his own admirably. He got through the entire thing in once piece. Hermione played nice."

Hermione frowned. "Of course I did! I don't toy with people, you know! Stop confusing me with Yasmin! I'm not like her!"

Harry could see that her aggravation were real, not affected. He rubbed the back of her thigh discreetly to sooth her. "We know you aren't. Ron was just teasing."

This seemed to calm her down, and the apologetic look Ron cast at her helped, too.

"It's almost sunrise," she said. "We should be heading back to Grimmauld Place if there's nothing else left to do here."

Harry nodded. "Let me just find Remus. I've a quick question for him, then we can go. Ron, think you can grab Tonks for a bit for the return trip?"

Ron glanced around the room and spotted Tonks a few desks away. "Be right back." He left to get Tonks.

"Everything alright, Harry?" Hermione asked as he rose to start looking for Remus.

Harry smiled wearily. "Yeah… I'm just-well, frankly I'm feeling rather out of sorts. Malfoy's just been implicated as the mole."

A twinge of pain passed across Lucien's face when he heard it, but he said nothing, his pale cheeks burning at the fresh memories.

Hermione seemed unmoved at first, then her gaze softened. "You'll tell me all about it later, when we get back to the house?"

"Yes. I see Remus right now. Give me a few minutes." He gave her hand a squeeze before leaving to meet Remus across the room.

They sought a relatively private area and Harry cast subtle wards around them.

"Is the staff in the Department of Mysteries?" Harry asked.

Remus nodded. "Yes. We need a few hours yet to make sure that the Strigoi is starving enough to want the essence in the staff. We'll probably destroy the staff sometime tomorrow afternoon."

"Whatever you do, don't open the case without me. The chamber will need special warding to contain the effects of the staff… this thing isn't like the others, Remus. It's alive and it's dangerous. Hermione said I neutralized it somehow when I… had my encounter with it, but it might have just been weakened, and it could have regained its strength between then and now."

"I understand. I'll let you know when it's ready."

"Thanks, Remus."

They separated, and by the time Harry got back to his desk, Tonks and Ron were already there.

Pulling their cowls back on, the three vampires fell into step behind Harry and they braved the press once more, reemerged in Muggle London and left from the nearest Apparating point.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As they filed back into the Grimmauld Place living room, Tonks turned to Harry pointedly.

"Are you still going to question Malfoy tonight?"

Harry cracked a tired, lopsided smile. "Yes. More than ever. He's been implicated."

Bitter disappointment flashed in Tonks's eyes. "I see. You going to tell me 'I told you so?'"

"It's not like that," Harry said, and he was surprised to note that he meant it. "I'm not glad that I might be right, Tonks."

She expelled a breath and nodded. "So you're still going to keep this inquisition off-the-record?"

"I have to." He didn't have to explain to Tonks why.

Tonks stared at him a moment before turning to head for the stairs. "Are you going to take my advice, Potter?"

"Maybe."

"Good enough. I'll be in Remus's study if anyone needs me." She left.

Ron's eyebrow arched. "Are you going to do this alone…?"

"Yeah."

Ron patted his shoulder on his way to the stairs. "Then I'll see you tomorrow, Harry. I'm turning in. Unlike some people, I like to sleep while the sun's still down."

Hermione bumped him gently with her shoulder as he passed her and he laughed softly before leaving. She told Solomon and Lucien to go ahead without her.

They obeyed without a word.

He remained silent for some time until Hermione stepped close and touched his jaw, eyeing his face appraisingly. He wondered if she was going to kiss him, and perhaps he was expecting it, because he was surprised when she took his hand and pulled him up the stairs. "Come on."

He pushed back the wave of anticipation her invitation caused him. "Hermione, we can't right now. I've loads of things to do-"

"Shut up, Potter. I'm not going to shag you. Well… not yet, at least. At this time, you need a shave, and I'm going to take care of that for you."

"What-"

"Hush."

He obeyed and he took a moment to be utterly amused by this idea. "I don't use those commercial, 'safety' razors, you know. It's not something readily available in Wizard Drugstores, if you know what I mean."

"I know that, Harry," she said, entering his room. "Now, please take that chair and bring it to the bathroom."

He laughed softly and did as he was told. He set the chair down in front of the full length mirror and began to remove the upper layers of his clothing, stripping down to his undershirt. Several moments later she came in with two face towels. She had loosened her blouse from her trousers and had popped a few more buttons open. If he looked a certain angle, he could see the slight swell of her breasts and the lace of her bra. She was barefoot and her toenails were painted red.

Lord, she's sexy…

Her eyebrow arched. "What?"

"Nothing. Just enjoying the view."

She smiled a bit sheepishly, letting her gaze go over him. "So am I."

Just a bit closer and I could grab her, then, oh, maybe… what's the word? Ravish her. Yes. Ravish would be a good way to describe what I want to do to her right NOW.

But perhaps she saw the look in his eyes and she smirked mischievously, keeping her distance as she primly folded the towels and placed them on the counter.

She opened the medicine cabinet and spotted the tub of shaving cream. She took it and gave it a quick examination.

She chuckled and held up the product. "Geo F. Trumper's rose?"

He cleared his throat, flushing as all lewd thought left him in his mild embarrassment. "It smells good."

"Oh, don't be embarrassed. I'm impressed, actually. It's a right classy brand. Makes you quite the English gentleman."

"Yes, well…"

She began to bustle about. She let the faucet on the sink run until the water was warm then she plugged up the basin, filling it a quarter to the brim. Taking the shaving brush, she soaked it in its warm bath for several seconds before taking it out and shaking it lightly of its excess water. Carefully, she took a fingertip's dollop of the cream and wiped it on the bristles of the brush.

"Splash some hot water on your face then sit back and relax," she said as she lathered the cream in a mug.

Grinning, he did as he was told and he sat himself down.

She stood in front of him, nudging his legs further apart so she could stand between them.

He placed his hands on her hips and tilted his gaze up to her. "You're amazing. Do you know that?"

She began to brush the shaving cream on his face with gentle circular motions. "No one's said it to me quite like that."

He could feel the brush strokes on the underside of his jaw. "Quite like how?"

"Just… like that. Like I can be doing the most ordinary thing and you'd be… saying it like you mean it."

He rubbed her hips. "I do mean it."

"I know. That's why it's so special."

On any other day, he would be wondering if she was being sarcastic, but at that moment, he detected the softness behind the ferocious rings of her eyes. He caught the tiniest smile just before she finished with the cream and turned away.

She went to the counter and set the brush and mug aside to pick up the ebony handle straight-edged razor. "Face forward, Potter."

He did and he saw that the cream was a thick opaque lather on his face and neck. Behind him, she draped the towel on her arm as she flipped the razor open. Gingerly, she encircled him with her arms, tilted his head back a bit, and began to shave the underside of his jaw. The feel of the blade against his skin was smooth and sure. She finished with the first pass, cleaned the blade off on the basin of water and wiped the razor dry on her towel deftly before running the blade over his skin again.

After the second pass, she gently pushed some hair off his forehead with her fingers. She looked at him through the mirror. "Are you going to talk to me or what?" she asked with a cock of her eyebrow.

He smiled slightly, taking her free hand and holding it lightly over his chest.

Harry felt that things were beginning to move faster now. There was hardly any time to waste talking about feelings, but there was something ineffably Hermione in the way she was going about it, easing him; showing him she cared very deeply. She was grooming him; it was a primal ritual, and the fact that he could sit there, his vampire girlfriend holding a razor in her hand, and trusting her unconditionally with it, was wicked, sexy and heart-wrenching all at once.

She cleaned the blade and continued to shave.

"All these years, I've never trusted Malfoy," he began wearily. "I always thought of him as some enemy, and that by keeping him close, I could watch him; make sure that he doesn't fuck it up for everyone. I never ever thought he could be redeemed. But I suppose… I suppose five years of close proximity with him had its effect on me, after all, much as I hate to admit it. Maybe some form of trust has… spawned in some dark, moldy corner of my mind…"

"It's not in your nature to foster hatred and distrust, Harry," she told him gently, tilting his head one way so she could shave the side of his face properly.

"Is that what it is, then?" he asked, cocking a wan grin. "I thought maybe it was my saving people thing… thought perhaps I could beat Draco into some kind of… well, I don't know, really. Everyone needs saving at some point. I just don't know from what with Draco."

"Perhaps you wanted to save him from himself," Hermione supplied, cleaning the blade off, drying it and proceeded to shave his other side.

He laughed softly. "Yeah, something like that. I guess you hear enough hero stories about yourself, you begin to believe the bullcrap…"

She clasped his shoulder then very carefully did his chin. "There's a lot more to it than just wanting to redeem Draco, Harry. Even if you wanted that, you aren't naïve enough to completely set your hopes on it. We all have a reason to want to make angels of demons. I do it because I believe that if I can look past people's faults, then everyone else is capable of looking past mine, and perhaps I can convince them and myself that I'm still human inside, even if I'm this way…"

"Hermione-"

"Let me finish," she said gently, working on his upper lip. "Your saving people thing, Harry… it's part of it, but there's something deeper that drives this particular situation with Draco and, as you mentioned before, Snape. Dumbledore believed in them. He believed in Draco and in Snape, and so you don't want Dumbledore to be wrong. You need for him to be right, because if he's right, then it's reassurance that all this, from the day Dumbledore died up to now… it's still part of Dumbledore's plans, and that he hasn't completely abandoned you just yet. You said so yourself, Harry… you sometimes think Dumbledore was begging Snape to kill him that night. If that's true, and Snape and Draco are trustworthy, then Dumbledore wouldn't have died in vain. He had a reason, and it's to help the right side win this war…"

Harry expelled a breath as he absorbed her words. He could say that it might have helped them better if Dumbledore had lived and stayed, but after all he'd been through, he knew that things weren't quite so black and white. "What am I going to do if Draco is a traitor? Does it mean all hope is lost?"

"You're made of stronger stuff than that, Harry." Her tone was scolding, mildly disdainful, and he couldn't miss the hardening of her gaze, just on the edge of disappointment in case he failed her by submitting to his insecurities.

He smiled sheepishly and nodded, properly chastised. "Yes, I am."

She squeezed his shoulder again and cleaned off the blade before pulling the plug on the sink to drain it of its dirty water. She turned the water on cold. "Clean up."

He did, and when all the cream was gone, she patted his face dry and coaxed him to sit back down. He did without protest.

This time she straddled him, sitting comfortably on his lap to gently massage moisturizing cream on his face. He closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of her gentle hands and the weight of her on him.

She finished her massage with a slow, languid kiss, her arms snaking possessively around his neck. Now he was really enjoying himself, and he realized that between stirring shaving cream and kissing him, she had worked something else into a fine lather.

A voice inside him was saying that he couldn't possibly do right by her. There were important things to accomplish. He wanted to give her the loving she deserved, when there was more time to give the loveliest parts of her the proper attention. He thought maybe he should stop; save it for another time; a better time, but the swirling of their tongues was wreaking havoc on his willpower.

His hand slid to her bum and he squeezed, eliciting a soft moan from her.

He couldn't possibly stop after that.

She pulled back, only to get pulled back in, his lips insistent on keeping contact.

"Bet you don't get this sort of thing at the barbershop," she said between kisses.

"I don't think I'd like this treatment quite as much from the stodgy old man who cuts my hair," he said, pulling her closer so she would be pressing on his hardness.

She gave a soft laugh, her hips rocking against him.

A guttural groan rose out of him involuntarily. He began to undo the buttons of her top while his lips traced the underside of her jaw. She made a soft sound of approval and her blouse fell open. Her black lacey bra was made of a thin, see-through material, and he loved it.

"We shouldn't be doing this, you know," he whispered whilst pressing his cheek and brushing his lips on her breasts. "I have responsibilities…"

"Well," she whispered back, biting his ear lightly. "So do I, the most important one being my responsibility to keep the leader of the Order sane and happy, at least in the next five minutes."

"Five minutes!" He laughed softly, sliding his fingers up her spine to undo the clasps of her bra. "That sounds dreadful. I know you want it to last a bit longer than that."

"Only if you want it to."

The clasp clicked free under his fingers. "Oh, baby, you know I want it to." The bra fell away and in the next few seconds, he was a bit too preoccupied with her breasts to speak.

The happy little sigh that escaped her was intensely stimulating, and he closed his eyes, letting sound and touch stir his desire. It didn't take much. He was just aching to fill her, his cock hard enough against her to make her know it.

She leaned back as she rocked to a sensual cadence.

"I don't think you're helping my sanity any," he said in a voice hoarse with need. He undid her belt, and with a quick spell, he loosened her knickers and trousers so she didn't have to move so far to get them off.

"Oh, but you're quite obviously happy," she breathed, eyeing the front of his trousers while slipping nimbly out of her trappings.

"Deliriously," he murmured as he pulled her back on his lap.

They shared an intensely heated kiss and he marveled at how perfect her skin was beneath his palms; how all traces of battle had disappeared. She was pale and flawless, like alabaster, but pressed against him, she was alive, soft, and yes, even warm.

She pushed away from him to coax him out of his shirt and he pulled his shirt over his head while her hands undid his belt and trousers.

He struggled a bit, pushing his trousers off, and she helped him. He'd only pushed his trousers down partway when she thrust her hips, taking him into her.

There was just no thinking about details after that.

She was moving so wonderfully against him, and he could do nothing but let her.

Hands to her hips, he trailed his lips and tongue along her neck and shoulders. She whispered encouragement in his ear as he whispered appreciation right back.

For several minutes, that was all they did. Whispering heated nothings to each other as he admired parts of her with the touch of his hands, lips and tongue.

She was lovely, and brilliant, and oh so wicked. He marveled at how this witch was his, and how glad he was that he was hers.

He shifted his hips, and the warmth surrounding his cock felt even more amazing.

Reaching between them, he made gentle circles on her clit. The sound that escaped her was so erotic that he touched her more insistently. The rhythm of her thrusts changed, and oh, how he loved it.

Her pheromones kicked in. She gasped his name, her hands gripping his shoulders.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer so that her breasts were pressed against him. He clamped his mouth on the side of her neck, rasping his teeth against the tender flesh then laving the spot with his tongue.

The moan that escaped her was a sound he lived for.

Looking over her shoulder as he sucked gently on her skin, he saw them on the mirror. It was beyond hot. The gentle ripple of feminine muscle and bone at her back, the sultry curls of her hair, the movement of her hips, and seeing full well exactly what it was they were doing was mind blowing.

His fingers worked faster in response and she gasped in approval.

Her next thrust had him pushing right back; once, twice and she tightened around him just when his own waves of pleasure rushed through his body in wonderful release.

The next few seconds passed in blissful recovery.

Coherent thought crept back into his mind and he began to make sense of her satiated purring as she sat slumped against him on the chair.

His breathing wasn't quite even yet, but it wasn't laborious. She had, after all, done most of the work, but judging by the placid smile on her face, she wasn't going to complain about it.

"Hmm. Wasn't that nice?" she said.

"Nice? Try amazing." He kissed her lips softly, running his fingers through the luscious strands of her curls.

She smiled between kisses. "That, too…"

They snogged lightly for a few more minutes before she finally pulled away.

The separation left him forlorn, but someone had to get a move on if they were going to get out of that chair at all.

He pulled his trousers back on as she dressed. When she was done, she looked wonderfully disheveled.

He helped her put away the shaving materials as they left to head out of his room. It was still dark out, but she hadn't forgotten that he still had things to do.

She stopped at the threshold of his door and gave him a gentle kiss. "Are you going to be alright?"

"Are you kidding? I feel like a million galleons right now."

She chuckled softly. "Then I'll see you tomorrow."

He nodded.

They stared at one another for a few more indulgent moments before she bid him a good morning and left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Draco was understandably scowling something fierce when he opened the door to his bedroom.

Harry barged right in, shooting Draco a warning look as he went. He held a bottle of Ogden's and two shot glasses. He went to the tea table by the window and sat on one of the chairs.

Why Draco bothered to have a set like it in his room, Harry never bothered to find out, but now that he was there, he had to ask.

"What's with this tea table, Malfoy?"

"What's it to you?"

"I'm just curious."

Draco did not stop scowling. "It was there when I got here, Potter. And frankly, I could've had a pink canopied bed and I still wouldn't give a shit. This house is a temporary arrangement for me. I don't care if I stay here another ten years. It will keep on being a temporary arrangement for me, so I don't bloody care what the décor is."

"Better here than Azkaban, don't you think?"

Draco snorted. "I don't know about that. If I had been put away in Azakaban, I would've escaped by now."

Harry gave a soft, derisive chuckle. "Azkaban may not have any Dementors anymore, but it's a dismal place, Malfoy. You're kept alone in a cell for years and years, with no one to talk to; not even the guards. You don't hear who's in the next cell, or whether there's somebody there at all. Your whole stay there, they'll make you think you're all alone in that miserable, dank, dirty rock. Believe me, Malfoy… there are worse things in this world than Dementors."

Draco stared at him for several seconds before his gaze shifted to the Ogden's. "If you came here for another drinking game, then you can bloody well take your whiskey and shove it up your arse. I'm sorry if Granger isn't fucking you-no wait, that's changed, hasn't it?"

Harry was going to pretend he didn't hear that. "Sit your lily-white arse down and stop whining. I have every reason to grab you by the neck and strangle you right now, but I'm not going to do that. Tonks asked me not to and the lady doesn't ask for much, after all."

Draco snorted. "Tonks ain't no lady."

Harry glared at him and Draco raised his arms, palms out.

"Her words, not mine."

Somehow, Harry could believe that, but that didn't get Draco off the hook. "Sit."

Shaking his head in resignation, Draco did. He eyed the bottle of firewhiskey distastefully, nudging it slightly away. "What do you want from me, Potter?"

"I'll ask you questions and I want you to answer them truthfully."

"I already told you… I've never had to lie for anything."

"Good. Then tell me everything that happened on the sixth of October."

"Sixth of October?"

"You know… the day we left for Hogwarts."

At that, Draco's gaze hardened before it went completely and utterly cold. "What do you think happened?"

Harry chuckled derisively and shook his head. "Don't give me that bullshit, Malfoy. I'm tired and I'm at the edge of my limit. I could be with Hermione right now instead of being stuck here with you, listening to your Slytherin drivel and not being able to hex you for it because I promised Tonks I'd try to talk to you first before I start beating you for answers with a bludger."

Draco sneered. "How magnanimous of you."

"I'm not planning to try very hard."

Perhaps Draco saw that it wasn't a bluff. "I went to work then I went straight back to Grimmauld Place. We had dinner together. You know I couldn't have gone elsewhere."

"What happened at work?"

Harry saw the flicker of uncertainty and guilt in Draco's gaze, and it struck Harry as incredible.

Teeth gritted, he stood so suddenly that it knocked his chair back and he reached across the table to grab Draco by the collar of his pajama top.

Draco gave a yell as Harry slammed him back against the wall.

"Don't pretend you feel guilty about it, Draco, because you feel nothing. You're a cold, cruel son of a bitch who told the enemy that we were on that train. How did you know? Who told you where we were going and how we were going to get there?"

Draco seemed even more surprised at what Harry had said. He blinked several times before struggling to remove himself from Harry's clutches. "G-Get off me!"

"You knew where we were going even before I did. Who told you, Malfoy?"

"Nobody told me!" Draco yelled. "I-I just knew alright?"

"What do you mean by that? How can you just know? Who the fuck told you-"

"I SAID NOBODY DID! Goddammit, Potter, let me go!"

"How can you know and not have someone tell you?

"I just know things, alright!"

"How the hell-"

"I just do! I know what to say to hurt a person when they think nothing can hurt them again. I know it when a man is cheating on his wife or that his wife is fucking the gardener. I know you were shoved in a cupboard under the stairs as a child-"

Harry slammed him back against the wall, probably to shut him up, and at that point, Harry felt he wanted to say something, but he wasn't sure what.

"I see secrets, Potter," Draco said. "Not all the time, and not when you're really, really good at keeping them, neither can I do it consciously, but secrets jump at me from people's subconscious minds. It's how I can take a knife and twist it into a person's heart. How do you think I got so good at baiting you and idiot Weasley? How do you-"

"Shut up. Shut up, Malfoy!"

Draco did and Harry had to gather his bearings. He let Draco go and he stepped back. He didn't even realize he was breathing deeply until he took a moment to calm down.

"You hear secrets…" Harry said in shocked disbelief. "I've read about Wizards like you. It's a rare gift. Almost believed to be a myth. You're an Inaudio."

"Yeah, and I feel so special." Draco sounded anything but. "I suck at it, apparently. I can't ever reach out and get them, but often, secrets weigh too heavy on some people's minds, and the mind couldn't resist relieving itself of some of its burden. People keep some secrets under a tight lid, but there are some secrets that couldn't be contained. It sees me coming and the secret jumps me. I rarely get the full story, though. It's usually just an image accompanied by a name, and the rest of it is worked out by my twisted, fucked-up mind. Lovely, isn't it?"

"Who did you get the secret from, then? About the meeting? And the train?"

Draco swallowed before he replied. "Remus. He was thinking about it all morning that day."

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to let the colossal implications of Draco's "gift" swallow him whole.

So many secrets. So many…

"All this time…" Harry began, quietly. "All these five fucking years, you son of a-"

"Oy, I could have used those secrets to buy back the favor of your enemies, Potter!" Draco yelled. "But I didn't do it! I may be a lot of things, Potter, but I'm not stupid. You're the only thing that stands between me and certain death. Your enemies became my enemies the day I failed to kill Albus Dumbledore, and I believe that the only reason my father is still alive is because he offered up my life in exchange for his."

"But with the power you have, you'll be more useful to them alive."

"Well, they have to know about the gift, first."

Harry puzzled out what Draco meant for the next two seconds. "You never told your father."

Draco snorted. "If he knew, he'd be on me so fast… well, I'm not going to be anybody's cosmic Extendable Ears, if you get what I mean. I rather like keeping this… well, secret. I didn't tell mum, either, but that's only because dad would've found out from her. It's not as if I was born with the gift, you see… well, maybe I was, but it only began to manifest itself in spurts when I was thirteen… lucky thirteen. It… developed in the last year, but still, it's not something I do well."

Harry paused to consider his words. "You could use your talent to gain back the trust of the Death Eaters."

Draco eyed him for a moment. "You don't get it, do you? Why do you think I've never told anyone about this? People don't want their secrets known. Even the most honorable Gryffindor has secrets they'd rather not let the light of day see. Sure, I could be useful to Voldemort now, but one day, he's going to have a secret he wouldn't want anyone knowing about, and because he sees the sighted world through his fucked-up, one-eyed view, he'll think I could use that secret against him, and he'll kill me. You don't have to be Voldemort to think that way, either. If it's not Voldemort, it's someone else. So where does that leave me? Constantly kissing someone's arse for protection? It's not a life I particularly desire, as you might understand."

"Well, right now, they want you killed anyway."

Draco shrugged. "That's a damn shame, but it's their loss, not mine. I don't owe them any favors. I work for myself, now. I stopped being loyal to the Dark Lord the moment he wanted me killed and frankly, the only reason I haven't turned you over to him is because you're my best chance at living through this fucking war. That and the fact that Granger will slice my head off if I even try."

Harry felt his anger bubble up his chest. His eyes must have been blazing, because Draco paused, watching him warily.

"Who did you tell about Hogwarts?" asked Harry.

Draco stared him straight in the eyes. "I don't know."

"You know one thing and then you don't another. Convenient."

"I'm telling you Potter, I don't know. I don't even know if I told anyone, for that matter. All I can remember is going to work and-and feeling odd. I lost a minute. Maybe two. That's all I know."

Harry hated that he saw truth from Draco's eyes. Things might have been simpler if Draco were lying. But no; things were never that easy for him. He stepped towards Draco and pressed his hand to Draco's forehead.

"Potter, what are you-"

"If you don't want to get killed, Malfoy, you're going to shut up and let me have a look."

Draco expelled a trembling breath and Harry closed his eyes, concentrating hard and reeling in his Legilimens just so he didn't liquefy Draco's mind in the process.

Harry's mental magic crept along the edges of Draco's conscious thoughts before he reached out, touching ever so lightly.

The gentle contact opened Draco's memories wide open. Harry peered in, not daring to step past the boundaries of Draco's mind lest he step on something that could damage Draco forever. The veils draped all around swayed back and forth. And then Harry saw it, lightly floating just within Harry's reach. It was a familiar worn and tattered potions book: Advanced Potion Making by Libatius Borage. As it turned over lazily, he saw, scribbled along the bottom of the back cover in small, cramped handwriting: This Book is the Property of the Half-Blood Prince.

Harry found what he was looking for.

~~

"Oh, it's you," Draco grumbled at the sight of Roberts. He's had Roberts guard him before. The man was about as interesting as Professor Binns's History class. He turned back to cataloguing the pile of books at his feet, wondering when he was going to get a chance to see Elizabeth McQuillen again. He could do with a quick shag.

Sometimes, being an Inaudio had its advantages. When he found out Elizabeth McQuillen had slept with her husband's brother, he had been quick to use the information for his benefit. He never exchanged his silence for a shag, of course. A shag was cheap currency. He made her his gopher. Everything he needed buying outside of his prison, he asked Elizabeth to fetch. It was an easy enough task for her. He never asked her to buy anything illegal. They were just everyday essentials, really. Lotions, a new blouse, hair gel, that neat new book about wines, éclairs… the shagging she chose to give, herself.

It was no skin off his back, anyway. Who was he to turn her down? Besides, she was pretty good at what she did. Draco found it extremely amusing that she wasn't content with her husband's brother; that she had to shag the Ministry prisoner, too. He doubted that she stopped with him, either. He recalled being called "John" in the throes of her ecstasy, and that was neither the name of her husband nor his brother's.

What a nympho… and Merlin bless her.

He looked at his pocket watch. Just two more hours before he left this dump for Grimmauld Place.

God, it must be a bad day, if I look forward to going back to that depressing house…

He couldn't wait for this war to end. He couldn't wait for that day he could cash in on his "good behavior" and be set free when he could take his sizable trust fund and run away to some quaint, high-brow town in Tuscany, set up a vineyard and live like a gentleman. He wouldn't have to put up with plebes like Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, nor would he have to listen to the Weaslette's incessant scolding. If he had to hear her speech about "reforming" one more time…

Fuck. Me. The way she talks… does she think I don't like myself? I love myself just fine, thank you very much!

"The way you keep to that ledger… one would think you actually like this job," said Roberts in an oddly silky tone.

Draco cast him an annoyed look. "It's the fucking career of my dreams."

"Such language, Mr. Malfoy. It almost makes me want to deduct house points from you."

There was something definitely odd about Roberts today, and something unmistakably familiar.

Drawn by instinct, Draco's hand crept to his wand underneath his robe. "Too bad we're not in Hogwarts…"

"Indeed. There were too many things in Hogwarts that you could have learned if you had stayed for your seventh year. You had great potential. However desperate your attempts to let Death Eaters in, but I have to admit… that closet was ingenious."

This is not Roberts. Draco whipped out his wand, a hex on his lips, but his wand jumped out of his hand before he could yell out an incantation.

Moving purely on survival mode, Draco dove for his wand, knocking books, chairs, and quill-stand in the process. As he was buried under a pile of tomes and as ink stained his shirt and trousers, he felt the effect of a hex fall heavy on his body.

He stiffened, unable to move. He had been paralyzed, and for a brief moment, Draco was terrified of what might befall him.

All these years, growing more secure of his safety every day, thinking that he was one day closer to freedom, only to find himself dying in this Merlin-forsaken archive where most people have forgotten there was even such a room in the Ministry…

Harry Potter and Seamus Finnigan will write off my murder as: Died of Boredom.

The books were being removed from him, and the chair was moved aside.

Roberts, or the one impersonating him, flicked the quills off with the tip of his wand. He stared distastefully at the splotch of ink on Draco's clothes before Scourgifying it.

"I never pegged you as paranoid, Mr. Malfoy," Roberts said with a frown. "Desperate, yes, but since when have you become Wand Happy? I think you've been spending too much time with Potter and Weasley."

The diction was unmistakable, even with Roberts's grainy voice.

It's getting more ironic by the minute! I'm going to be killed while working the most boring job in the world and my murderer is the man who saved my arse from Azakaban in the first place! It's so hilarious I could slit my throat!

Well, I couldn't right now… but if I could, I would.

"Ever the sarcastic one, aren't you?"

Oh, Legilimens, is it? Well, read this: Bugger you, Snape. And bugger your boss, you oily son of a bitch!

Severus Snape's eyebrow arched while he plucked Draco's wand from beneath the pile. He slipped the wand into his pocket and stepped back, away from Draco's body. "I'm going to release you from your bindings, Mr. Malfoy, but I advise you not to make a fool of yourself by jumping about and screaming like a hoyden. Agreed?"

Now, let me just nod… but oh! I can't nod, can I? Because I'm fucking paralyzed!

Snape tutted and ended the incantation.

Draco growled and sat up as the spell left his limbs. In his irritation, he picked up a book and flung it across the room. It collided with the wall and it fell with a splat.

"Would you care to throw a tantrum for a few minutes? I'll wait until you're done," Snape said.

Draco glared at him. "What are you doing here? What do you want from me? If you're going to kill me, just get it the hell over with."

"That last bit sounded as stupid as a Weasley."

Draco ran a hand through his hair, growing more annoyed by the second. "So you're not here to kill me. What are you doing here, then?"

Snape smirked. "Saving your life, as usual."

"Last time you did that, you abandoned me in a sodding cave with leftover beef jerky."

"The Dark Lord wanted you killed, Mr. Malfoy."

"Woopedy-doo, I'm in league with Harry Potter… tell me something I don't know, Professor."

"Are you even listening to me, boy? He wanted you killed. Wanted. Past tense."

"You are a grammar God."

Snape sniffed disdainfully.

Draco rolled his eyes. "What changed then? Did my father beg for my life?"

A sneer curled Snape's lips. "I'm afraid it's nothing as warm and fuzzy as that. I told the Dark Lord that instead of killing you, we should use you… as a spy. I told him you live in Harry Potter's house, and that you're just biding your time, waiting for the opportunity to use that to your advantage. It took some convincing, but the only reason he sent me and not Bellatrix was because I managed to make him believe that you're useful."

Draco wrapped his mind around Snape's words before he began to laugh. At first the laughter was quiet; a private joke meant to be shared with no one, then his laughter jumped out of his gut and he began to roll on the floor, arms to his stomach.

Predictably, Snape did not join him in his glee.

He laughed for several minutes until the last vestiges of hilarity left him. Snape was patiently waiting for him to calm down, and when he did, he began to explain.

"Ho man… the irony of my life. My father and my aunt want me killed. I'm being sheltered by the people I hate. I'm a fucking librarian of forgotten books and now my former professor is telling me that I could be a super secret spy against the very ones who are sheltering me! Oh, the choices I'm given! Fuck one or fuck the other, in the end, either side would fuck you right back! The devil has it in for me, doesn't he? I bet you're going to tell me that my mother's sleeping with him."

"Your mother is dead, Draco. The Dark Lord killed her when you failed to kill Albus Dumbledore."

Draco felt his mirth leave him, cold grief rushing through him in waves. Overwhelming sadness like he'd never felt before pulsed through his veins, and for a moment, he thought he was going to pass out. He had always thought that was a possibility, but to have it confirmed was something else entirely.

Mum's dead.

He never realized that finding out that the last person on earth who ever loved you was dead could be so crippling. He never knew how horribly empty the thought of no one left alive to love him felt. He never realized that thinking his mother was alive actually made him feel like he wasn't alone. Never, until now.

He felt the sting in his eyes, and it was becoming unbearable.

No. Not in front of Snape. Anything but that.

He steeled himself, and the pain wrenched in his gut, but he bore it. He'd borne quite a few things in the last five years, and all of it had been practice for this moment. He could not show weakness. Not now.

"That's too bad," he said, only the slightest quaver in his voice.

He picked himself off the floor and began to rearrange the books. The tedium of it was suddenly comforting, something he could do without thinking, and not-thinking was good right now. Not-thinking could translate to not-feeling, sometimes. Block everything out.

After a silence that seemed to stretch to eternity, Snape began to speak again.

"The Dark Lord will want information on Harry Potter's whereabouts. He will need to know when and how Harry Potter can be captured. The Dark Lord wants him alive, so you'll do nothing so foolish as to try and kill him yourself. Do you understand this, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco didn't even know he was clenching his fists so hard until the sting of broken skin pierced through his rage. He turned his murderous glare at Snape, his lips trembling with fury. "What makes you think I would help your precious Dark Lord, Professor? What makes you think that I would start sucking his cock now, when he's taken everything away from me? In what UNIVERSE do you think I'd turn into Saint Draco and service the man who nailed me to the fucking, cheap-arse, rotting wooden cross?! I would never do his bidding again. He could kiss my pureblood arse or torture me insane for all I care. I'm NOT going to be V-Voldemort's monkey again!"

Snape gave him a narrow-eyed stare. "Are you afraid that Harry Potter will find out-"

"Frankly, YES! But in case you misunderstand, it's not him I'm afraid of. Oh, no. After you fuck with the Dark Lord and stare down the eyes of a vampire bitch, you don't scare that easily anymore. I need to have a place to live without having to worry about getting stabbed in my sleep, Professor. Grimmauld Place, however pathetic my existence there is, actually gives me a peaceful night's sleep. Do you understand that much? I need-I need to live through this goddamn war, so I can-I'm going to live in Tuscany and buy a vineyard with my trust fund and make wine!"

Snape's lips pursed. He looked more constipated than usual. "Lovely, I'm sure. But try to understand, Mr. Malfoy. If I go back to the Dark Lord empty handed, there won't be a nice little house in Tuscany. There will be nothing, because you will be dead. After all these years, we finally figured out how to get to you. You don't think we're going to try it this way again? I promise you. The next time a Death Eater comes Polyjuiced, it's not going to be me."

"Then, if you don't mind me saying, Professor, I'd rather take my chances with Potter," He didn't think he'd ever live to see the day he'd say that, but there is was. This was, without a doubt, the lowest and most pitiful point in his life.

A frown creased Snape's brows. "Have it your way, Mr. Malfoy." He raised his wand.

Draco was surprised he wasn't as frightened about death as he thought he'd be. He expected he'd be Avada Kedavra-ed. It was the only way a self-respecting Wizard should die by wand-curse. So it caught him completely off-guard when Snape whipped his wand towards him and he felt the presence of magic snaking through his mind.

It lasted only a few seconds, and though Draco tried to fight the invasion back, it was no use. He didn't know how.

When Snape released him, he felt lightheaded and faint. His knees buckled from under him and he collapsed, his vision spinning.

Next thing he knew, Snape was holding out a handkerchief.

"Wipe the blood off your nose, Mr. Malfoy," Snape said. "You don't want it getting on your shirt."

In spite of himself, Draco took the handkerchief. "W-What did you do to me?"

Snape folded his arms over his chest, eyebrow arching. "So, Potter and the rest of his governing board are going to Hogwarts. And interestingly enough, Granger's back… with her Shadow Kin, to boot. Potter's no fool, is he? Because she's not going to let anything happen to him."

Draco didn't reply. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs as he hung his head between his shoulders.

"They're going to use the train to Hogwarts," Snape continued. "Bold move, and it might have worked, if you hadn't been around to tell on them."

"I didn't tell on them."

"It doesn't matter if you did or didn't. They'll think you did, and so will the Dark Lord. This information you have… provided me will be enough to buy you some time. And who knows, Mr. Malfoy… the Dark Lord may grow to trust you again."

"I don't need you or your stinking Dark Lord."

"Oh, I don't intend for you to need him. It's dangerous to need someone, because in the end, you'll only have yourself." Snape bent over to pick up a book from the floor. The book was blue, old, and just a bit bigger than a man-sized palm. He read the title page. "Foul Fowls and How to Keep Them Out of Your Attic. An interesting book. You should give this a read." He opened the book, appeared to study it for a few seconds before closing the book again. He slipped the book into a shelf. "I'll put it here, in case you decide to look it over."

Draco snorted.

Snape reached into his robe and pulled out a pocket watch. "I think I must be going. You've been a great help, Draco."

"Fuck you."

Snape eyed him for a moment. "Are you so sure, casting your lot with Potter?"

"No, but he didn't kill my mother." Draco was surprised he was able to say it with such a steady voice.

Snape conceded it with a resigned nod of his head. "Fair enough. We will see if you made the right choice, Draco. Test your hero's mettle. If he finds this encounter in your memories and unlocks its clues, then maybe Harry Potter is worth his salt, after all."

Draco scowled. "What the bloody hell-"

"Praeterittum."

And the memory closed in itself.

~~

Harry released Draco from his hold and Draco collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

Sweating, Harry gasped for breath as he stared at Draco's pale and placid face. He took a moment to absorb what he had seen.

Praeterittum was a cousin-spell of Obliviate, but instead of erasing a memory, it hid it. It was usually impossible to find such memories amidst the jumble of thoughts in a person's mind, but Snape had made sure he would find it. Snape had made sure about many, many things.

"If he finds this encounter in your memories and unlocks its clues…"

Harry had already spotted the more obvious one: Fowl Fouls and How to Keep Them Out of Your Attic. The others would need some thinking, but they probably wouldn't be so difficult to figure out. He had already found the trail to looking into Draco's mind, now all he had to do was put the puzzle together.

There was little point in thinking whether the memory had been altered, or if Snape was manipulating everyone. The former was moot, the latter was obvious.

Draco began to stir, giving an agonized groan. "FFFFFuck…" He rolled over, hands to his head.

Harry's lip twitched as he watched the man on the floor, struggling to get up. He managed to summon his compassion and was surprised he found it so easy. Reaching out, he grabbed Draco's arm and hefted him to his feet.

Draco struggled to wrench his arm away but Harry held on.

"Oh, get over it," Harry said, dumping Draco on the nearest chair which happened to be the one for the tea table.

Draco sank into the chair, leaning his elbows on his knees as his hands cradled his face. He was taking deep breaths.

"How much do you remember now?" Harry asked.

Draco was silent for a moment. "Everything."

Harry swallowed, feeling more sympathy for Draco than he had ever thought possible. "I'm sorry about your mum."

Silence again before Draco replied without leaving the solace of his hands. "Piss off."

Harry wondered if Draco was crying. He didn't care to find out, but he didn't feel like abandoning Draco, either.

The world, it seemed, was coming to an end if he felt the need to offer Draco consolation.

Harry poured firewhiskey for them both, and taking one filled shot glass, he nudged it at Draco.

Draco looked up. His eyes were dry, but a profound sense of loss had-unbelievably-softened them. He stared at the offered whiskey for a moment before he took it and knocked it back. His eyes watered momentarily, but the tears didn't spill.

Whether or not the tears were for his mother or the sting of the whiskey, Harry would never know.

Harry knocked back his own shot and set the glass down. "Is it true what you said about McGonagall and Dumbledore, then?"

Draco blinked, brows furrowing. "Sorry?"

"Five years ago, at that meeting in Ireland. You said McGonagall and Dumbledore-"

"Oh." At that, Draco actually laughed. "No. That wasn't true. I spied McGonagall having a teenage crush on her Transfigurations professor, who was Dumbledore at the time, but that was it."

"So you lied."

Draco scoffed. "Hardly. I didn't think anyone would take me seriously. Really, Potter… can't you take a joke?"

"Not from you."

"This is why the Mudblood is so much more fun to have around than you are."

Harry actually felt no irritation for what Draco said. Maybe it was because Harry knew Draco was grieving, and that right now, the only thing holding Draco together was his sarcasm, his off-color jokes and his grating sense of arrogance.

"Don't call her a Mudblood," Harry said, turning to leave. Before he exited the room, Harry set Draco's wand on the dresser, and without looking back, he stepped out in the hall and closed the door behind him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: It's exhausting to make a person out of a little shit-faced imp, I'll tell you that.

As for the bathroom scene… well, you MUST thank tome_raider for that one. There was no shagging, initially, but tome_raider presented logical arguments for me to write the love scene, and she knows fanfics, so I listen to her most of the time! Hehe.

On yet another note, I watched X-Men: Last Stand, and all I could think was that Ben Foster (Angel) looked like Draco. Talk about making angels of demons…