The Boy Who Lived got up from the adjoining booth and sat down across from Draco, grinning like a maniac. Very few people would recognize him these days. Gone was the clean-cut, poster-boy-for-the-overthrow-of-evil look. Instead, his dark hair was long and carelessly tied back from his face. Faded jeans, fraying at the hem, were topped by a sun-bleached, untucked corduroy shirt. He still wore round glasses, but now they were tinted a smoky hue. He was tanned from working out-of-doors. A thin streak of a scar slashed from his hairline to his cheek, obscuring the original lightning scar on his forehead. The biggest change, however, was not his physical transformation. When one looked at him, one got the sense that he was free; he was unburdened by the oppressiveness that so many find weighing down their lives. Draco had been an undemanding friend to him; Harry had been surprised at the amount of common ground they shared. Mostly, it had been obstacles to a quiet life, Harry’s from fame, Draco’s from infamy. They had become friends after leaving Hogwarts, having begun Auror training at the same time, and for similar reasons. Both had had dealings with Dark wizards throughout their lives; pursuing a career along the same lines seemed only natural. But after completing the training, Harry decided that the Ministry could mop up the scraps of the war without him; in fact, the Ministry in general could just sod off. A lifetime of fighting Voldemort, he decided, was enough for anyone; so thinking, he handed in his notice. He was at a bit of a loss for a while. His whole life had been directed towards a fight that was finished, and the prophesy never mentioned anything about what was supposed to happen next. Casting about for something else to do with his life, he thought of the boa he’d met so long ago at that fateful trip to the zoo. The idea took hold, and so he called in a number of favors owed him until he was able to contact Newt Scamander, author of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Though Newt was retired, he was delighted to hear of Harry’s ambition to study snakes in general, and search for magical varieties in particular and thus helped Harry make many useful introductions. In only a few years, Harry was well-known in magico-herpetological circles, and traveling throughout the world enjoying his new career path. “Been back in town very long, mate?” asked Draco. “Just got in a couple of days ago. Brazil was dead brilliant. Loads of different snakes, and some definite leads on that Aztec feathered serpent,” said Harry keenly, brushing a stray hair out of his eyes. He gave the distinct impression that he was having the time of his life. Draco felt faintly annoyed, but wasn’t sure why. “How’s Ginny?” asked Draco. “I heard she’s doing something with curses? Doesn’t her brother do that, as well?” “She’s doing well. Our work’s meshed together quite nicely, in fact. The places where there are curses to be studied seem to be precisely the sorts of places that contain all sorts of rare magical creatures. But, no,” continued Harry seriously, “she doesn’t just break curses like Bill. She studies them. Takes them apart, and figures out how to recreate them. She’s good at it too; you should see some of the stuff she can do now,” said Harry with a shiver. “Scary stuff. It makes the Bat Bogey Hex look like a Tickling Charm.” Harry finished the drink he’d brought to Draco’s table. “Wish I’d known that when I was cleaning out the manor,” said Draco wistfully. “She probably could have saved me a burn or two. Not that it would have been likely under the circumstances of the time. I see she didn’t come today, though. Other plans, or just avoiding your git of a school chum?” Harry snorted a laugh and said, “She’s taking a few days to visit her family before we head out of the country again.” “On the road again?” said Draco, with a lifted eyebrow. “Always,” said Harry leaning back in his seat. “Just busy, busy, busy. How’s the Auror’s life treating you, by the way?” “It’s been interesting,” said Draco evasively. Harry knew Draco was winding him up. “I’ll take a drink on your Knut, then, while I hear all about it. But maybe something a bit stronger than yours, if you don’t mind,” he said with a grin, taking in Draco’s butterbeer. “Since when do you drink the kid stuff?” “It’s a long story,” said Draco with a sigh and launched into his account of the past few days. Harry settled in to hear Draco’s story; Auror’s work was interesting even if he no longer wanted to do it himself. Listening, he was glad to know that Hermione was doing well in the Ministry; he rarely heard from her these days. As Draco launched properly into his adventures, polite interest in catching up with an old friend was rapidly turning into a growing incredulity. Harry found himself speechless as Draco finished his story, except to repeat his earlier request. “I’ll take that drink now, mate,” said Harry quietly. While Draco went to the bar to get a refill for his friend, Harry tried to reintegrate all the characters reemerging from a story he thought finished from a life left behind. Shaking his head, he thought that, however overwhelmed he himself felt, it was nothing compared to how Draco must feel. All that, and not even able to console himself with a glass of firewhiskey, he thought pityingly. Bringing Harry’s drink, Draco sat back down. “So . . . any ideas?” he asked. “I think you should retire and take up antiques-dealing,” said Harry gravely, but with a twinkle in his eye. “I retired from the whole saving-the-world bit and it did me no end of good. Instead of the Boy Who Lived, I am now the Prat Mucking About in Dangerously Unstable Ruins Who’s Going to Get His Head Split Open . . . Again,” he added as an afterthought. “Seriously, though, nobody recognizes me anymore. It’s quite a nice change of pace. You might consider it.” “I had meant, what am I to do about this whole . . . thing . . . with Granger?” said Draco coolly, irritated with Harry’s lack of urgency. “Perhaps you should retire, really,” said Harry, ignoring Draco and warming to the subject. “Obviously, you’re quite tense in your current job. Look at you, you look like a fashionable undertaker,” he remarked, noting that Draco was dressed head-to-toe in black, even on his day off. “And I doubt you’ve worn short sleeves since fifth year. You should get that Mark removed, you know; it makes you all sullen and melodramatic. Then move someplace sunny. Hermione told me once that the south of France was nice, although Paris seems more the place to indulge in drama,” he added cheerily. “So you think I should tell the Ministry to get stuffed and go to France and get a tan?” “In a nutshell.” “You know you’re talking complete drivel, don’t you? How is this so-called advice on fashion and real estate supposed to help?” Out of the blue, Harry said, “Do you call her ‘Hermione’?” “What?” said Draco, taken aback by the change of topic. Harry narrowed his eyes. “You don’t, do you? You live with the woman, you’re probably tied to her for the rest of your life, and you’re calling her ‘Granger’, the same as when you still pulled her pigtails.” “I never did that!” said Draco indignantly. “Not literally, of course.” He rolled his eyes as Draco made a face at him. “You know what I mean. You actually sound like you’re having a fairly good time, despite the vomiting and forced togetherness. Or maybe even because of it. You know what your problem is?” “Enlighten me,” said Draco sardonically. “You’re happy.” “Happy?” “Yes,” said Harry simply. Draco could think of nothing to say to this revelation. Instead, he watched Harry sip his drink with not a little envy. The moment stretched in silence. In frustration, Draco finally asked, “So how did you figure that one out? Shouldn’t I know if I’m happy or not?” “For a start, you wouldn’t ask me about it if it wasn’t something you thought was important,” began Harry patiently. “Second, the way you keep going on about the situation means you either love it or hate it. Third, I ran into Esmeralda last night after you’d left, (you know how Ginny likes to hit the clubs after being out in the sticks for so long) and she had a few words to say about your new associate.” “Did she?” said Draco evenly. “She said you flamed Nik in front of the whole club because he tried to make off with Hermione.” “The undead are such busybodies,” said Draco with a careless air. “Are you saying you wouldn’t have?” “No. I probably would and damn the consequences. But we’re talking about you, not me. Aren’t you usually a bit more subtle than that? I wouldn’t have pegged you for a white knight,” said Harry in an amused voice. “Ah . . . the softer side of Draco Malfoy, swooping in to save a damsel in distress.” For a response, Draco made a face at him. Then, very quietly, in a sing-song voice, “Draco’s got a girlfriend, Draco’s got a girlfriend . . .” Draco rolled his eyes at Harry’s juvenile ribbing. A little too casually, Harry asked, “When is Hermione supposed to be coming back?” “Dunno, she didn’t say,” replied Draco absently, still chewing on the idea that his life was now supposed to ‘happier’ rather than more complicated. “I should probably get going, then, before she gets back,” he said with a trace of agitation. As he threw back the rest of his firewhiskey in preparation to making his getaway, he heard her voice calling to Draco. Harry swore under his breath. “I found this really neat striped quill -- ” she began, but then stopped. Hermione stared at the unkempt man she had dismissed earlier. The light of recognition dawned, but darkly. “You . . .!” she growled menacingly. “Ah, Hermione,” said Harry with a brave attempt at joviality, “long time, no see.” Draco looked back and forth between them in confusion. Weren’t Harry and Hermione best friends? Hermione was glaring at Harry as if she could make him vaporize on the spot. In turn, Harry seemed as if he wished that she could, just so he could get the hell out of there. Hermione rounded on Draco. “What’s he doing here?” she demanded accusingly. Before Draco could stutter an answer, her wrath was directed back to Harry. “What are you doing here?” “I was just having a drink at my favorite establishment in Diagon Alley,” said Harry, attempting to sound innocent, “and ran into my old school mate. He mentioned that you two were joining forces at the Ministry, which sounds very interesting. Why don’t I get you a drink and you can tell me about it?” He made another stab at a winning smile. Hermione narrowed her eyes in dislike. Draco was simply bewildered by the exchange. Though he knew Harry well, there was obviously a detail that he had neglected to mention. “Come on, then,” Harry cajoled, “why don’t we talk about it like adults instead of shouting like children?” “Very well, then,” she said coolly, sliding into the seat next to Draco. As Harry went to get her drink, she turned back to Draco. “Your ‘old school mate’?” she asked him, in a voice that would cut diamonds. “He and I became mates during Auror training,” Draco countered dismissively. Then, taking an offensive tactic, he said, “I thought you and he were supposed to be best friends?” “That was a long time ago,” she snapped, eyes flashing. “Things . . . changed . . . since then.” Before Draco could probe further, Harry returned with Hermione’s drink and a refill for himself. “There you are, Hermione,” said Harry brightly, pushing a glass of bright green, slightly smoking liquid in front of her. “What’s this?” she said suspiciously. “Oh, um, Tom said this was quite refreshing after a day’s shopping,” said Harry, even more gratingly cheerful. “Quite a popular little quencher.” Draco caught Harry’s eye and raised his eyebrows. Harry gave the tiniest shake of his head in return. Hermione elected to take the tiniest sip of the green liquid. She was pleasantly surprised at the light flavor, like the fragrance of fresh flowers condensed into liquid, with a hint of spice. She took a larger swallow. “So what are you doing here?” repeated Hermione, relaxing back into her seat and eyeing Harry over the rim of her glass. “I am here at the request of our mutual friend,” he said, raising his glass toward Draco in a small salute. “Are you quite well? I understand you’ve had an interesting week.” “Interesting?” she repeated in disbelief. “Bloody hell, this has been the worst sodding week of my life! I’ve been blown up, menaced by the local wildlife, and pawed by the undead!” Draco winced at the tirade. Harry made sympathetic noises, and gestured that she should continue. “I mean,” she said, taking another swallow, “How should I feel about this? About the only bright spot in the whole mess in that Draco hasn’t been a prat about it. Have you been to his flat, by the way? Huge. Lovely furniture,” she gestured expansively. Squinting at him, a thought occurred to her. “Of course you have been, haven’t you? That’s what Draco meant about having help with Trippy; you’re the only living Parselmouth.” “Quite right,” nodded Harry, primly sipping his firewhiskey. “And you’re teaching him to write? How’s that going?” “As well as can be expected, I suppose, considering he hasn’t got thumbs to hold the quill. Hey,” she said, tilting her head, “can Parseltongue be taught?” Harry shrugged, then made a series of hisses in an almost musical rhythm. Hermione tried to copy him, but succeeded only in producing a noise like a raspberry made by a person with a harelip. “How was that?” she asked. “I’m sorry to hear that you have a frog in the bidet,” said Harry, suppressing a grin. “So, I guess the answer is that if Parseltongue can be taught, it’s only with great difficulty. Never mind, Trippy will be fine if he can just pen a word or two if he needs one.” Hermione considered this and gazed at the faint swirls of mist rising from her glass. “This conversation notwithstanding, I’m still not speaking to you.” She regarded him levelly. “I didn’t think you would,” he agreed gently. “You’re a complete scruff.” “Yes.” Tears stood glittering in her eyes. “I loved him, you know.” “I know. I’m sorry.” His sadness was genuine. Harry’s mind flicked back to the day, that day, when their worlds crashed around them. He always knew that his friends would stick by him, right to the end. Ron, Hermione, Luna, Ginny, Neville; they were all guarding his back so he could do the job he was born to do. He had hoped no one would get hurt; he’d even tried to drive them away so Voldemort wouldn’t find them, so he couldn’t contaminate them the danger he always drew towards himself. During that last battle, he hadn’t held much hope for his own chances. It was going badly, but it couldn’t be a draw. Then the knight sacrificed himself, put the king in check. He had to make the checkmate; there wasn’t time, there wasn’t a choice. He always made sure he was out of the country on the anniversary of his so-called victory. “I’ll be right back,” she sniffed, and rushed towards the ladies room. Draco watched her go, then reached across the table and punched Harry hard in the shoulder. “Ow! What was that for?” said Harry, rubbing his shoulder and gingerly checking to make sure it still worked. “For giving her snakebite and making it sound like all the little old ladies drink it after they finish buying cat food!” hissed Draco. “What were you thinking?!” “Oh, calm down,” said Harry, “It was a very little one; I bet you’ve gotten a better buzz from a strong cup of tea. From what you told me about your bond, you’d know if I’d given her something wacky enough to get her sozzled.” Draco grudgingly conceded the point. “Besides, it kept her from hitting me, but I hadn’t counted on you getting a lick in.” He gave Draco a wounded look. “However, it does prove me right on both points. She likes you,” he grinned, “and you definitely like her.” He looked at Draco in syllogistic triumph. “How can you say that?” erupted Draco. “All right, I admit that I’ve been ‘coming to her rescue’,” he said, making quotes in the air, “but that is merely the duty of a gentleman.” Continuing over Harry’s snort of laughter, he said in a dignified manner, “But the best she’s said about me is that I’m ‘not a prat’. Not a great deal of encouragement,” he finished wryly. “How can you say that?” said Harry. “She’s practically cuddled right up to you. Likes your flat. Figured out how to keep you both from chundering all over the Ministry. Even made friends with Trippy. A girl with spirit like that is what you want.” He was briefly lost in reverie about another spirited red-haired girl, then realized Draco was speaking. “Hrmm?” “I said, if you could wrench your mind from your trousers for a moment, ‘what’s between you now?’ I thought you were best friends in school --” “Ah. Ancient history. You remember that heroic final battle the Ministry keeps bleating about?” “Yes . . .” “Well, the books don’t mention it, but I lost two friends that day, not one.” “I see,” said Draco seriously. “It wasn’t your fault, you know.” “It doesn’t matter. Every time she sees me alive, it reminds her that he’s not. It’s hard. I miss him, too. I wish I didn’t have to miss her, as well.” He stared into the remains of his firewhiskey as if the answer might be hidden in its amber depths. “But now I’ve gone all maudlin on you. I should probably get on,” he said, standing up. “And I stand by my original advice, on, as you say, ‘fashion and real estate’.” Draco stood with him and clasped his hands in farewell. “Take care, mate. Give my best to Ginny.” “I will. Take care of Hermione for me, won’t you, mate?” Draco was going to say, ‘I’ll try’, but at the solemn look on Harry’s face he said, “I will.” He was surprised to find he meant it. * * * Draco watched her as she read, curled up in her favorite chair, her brow softly furrowed in concentration. The flickering firelight danced in her curls, making it seem as if she was lit by stars from within, which, upon reflection, Draco decided she probably was. The afternoon had passed uneventfully. Hermione complained that she had a headache again, for which Draco brought her an analgesic potion. She was annoyed that she was still having headaches and that Draco seemed to have been exempted from them. The shadows stretched into evening. Draco opened a book but wasn’t able to concentrate enough to take in a single word. Instead, he mulled over what Harry had told him. Fashion and real estate, he thought. It wasn’t like he needed the salary. Being an Auror was just something he decided to do while he figured out what to do next with his life. Well, he thought, maybe this is the next thing. Maybe if he worked out the fashion and real estate problems, the rest would fall into place. He gathered his courage and cleared his throat. Hermione looked up in question. Draco realized he hadn’t the faintest idea of how he was supposed to whisk her away. He began to improvise. “I was planning to leave for a holiday before all this happened. To France. Check out the beach, you know. Museums. Vineyards.” Damn. He groped for an explanation. Real estate. “Perhaps look for a cottage while I’m there. A chateau or something. Someplace to putter about in on the long weekends.” Stop babbling. Harry said she likes you. Inwardly he snorted at the blatant excuses. Until now, he’d never missed a day of work at the Ministry and was there for an hour or two most weekends, as well. Come to think of it, he hadn’t spent so much time at his flat before, either. A first time for everything, he supposed. “That sounds lovely,” she said politely. Damn, damn, damn. Shouldn’t she be a bit more excited than this? Shit. “I mean, I’d be honored if you’d come with me. Allow me to escort you. To France. Or someplace else, if you’d rather.” Damn it, stop babbling! He tried to smile, but had lost control of his facial muscles, so he merely hoped that the expression on his face was at least something mammalian; feline or something reasonably assertive would do, but he feared he may have slipped into the piscine. “I went there once for summer holidays. France will be fine.” She smiled warmly at him. Draco felt giddy, like someone who was supposed to be thrown off a cliff finding that he was merely being pushed onto an invisible bridge. The only thing he now had to worry about was slipping off before reaching the other side. With this unencouraging image in mind, he plunged onward over the abyss, trying not to look down, or to think too much about it. “Ah. Beaches. Yes, um, one usually wants to skip the jumper, and wear something a bit more casual. Shirt sleeves, for instance.” He took a deep breath, hoping that she didn’t think he sounded as lame as he thought he did. “I know you work with all sorts of odd charms and things . . . I wondered if . . . if you could help me with a . . . blemish.” He hated the way his voice faltered. He knelt beside her chair, unbuttoning his cuff. Finally he looked into her eyes, dark eyes filled with concern. Sliding back his sleeve, he revealed his Dark Mark. “I don’t want it anymore.” Hermione’s breath caught. She’d heard but didn’t believe it; and now the evidence was here in front of her. She cradled his arm in her hands and traced the pale curving lines on his skin, painted as if by Death’s own brush. He shivered under her touch. “Can you remove it?” Her gaze returned to his eyes, eyes the color of slate mixed with a storm at sea. Eyes that anxiously waited for her answer. How could he think she would refuse? “Of course.” The moment was punctured by an outbreak of insistent hissing. With a sigh, she let go of Draco’s arm to see what the runespoor wanted. Triplicity’s heads motioned urgently towards the lap desk on the floor that Hermione had bought for his use. In a painful scrawl, he had written: DANJR Hermione blinked. She had only been working with him a few hours in total, and hadn’t gotten to proper words, just letters and sounds. Despite the misspelling, it was quite obvious that he thought she was in danger. “What’s the matter?” she asked kindly. “What’s dangerous?” Triplicity took up the quill again. With a few sweeping strokes and a few more dots and slashes, he had drawn, albeit impressionistically, the Dark Mark. Hermione frowned. “But it’s just a scar, now, isn’t it? How can it be dangerous? Vol--Voldemort is gone; shouldn’t his Mark be dead as well?” Triplicity shook his many heads, and tapped his earlier message impatiently. Seizing the quill again, he scratched a few more letters. Draco looked on in amazement. Clearly, he had underestimated Trippy. DRA MOR HER “Huh?” said Draco in consternation. Hermione looked at the letters thoughtfully. Triplicity was beginning to think he had overestimated this rather thick pair of humans. His many eyes flicked back and forth between them, as they puzzled over his message. He tapped his quill irritably on the floor. “It’s like bits of our names,” said Draco, “or maybe instructions of some sort.” Addressing the runespoor, he said, “You think I should ‘dramor’ her? Is that a snake thing?” The left-most head bared its fangs in impatience while the other heads shook vigorously. Clapping her hands together, she said, “No, no, you’re on the wrong track altogether. Trippy knows letters, not words. This is phonetic!” Triplicity nodded vigorously. “Ok, then . . . dray,” she guessed. Shake. “Draw.” Nod. “More.” Nod. “Her.” Shake. “Hair.” Meaningful glare. Shake. “Here?” Nod. “Draw more here?” Nod. “More what?” frowned Draco. Triplicity again stabbed his quill at the drawing of the skull and snake he had made. “He wants us to draw pictures with him?” said Draco. Triplicity flicked his quill away in disgust, and wished fervently that he had limbs just so he could convey the depths of his feelings with a V-sign. Hermione thought that the runespoor had a point. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, but Draco had seemed a bit distracted when he’d simultaneously decided to reveal, and ask her to remove, the fabled Mark. That, and he seemed to have trouble remembering how to construct a sentence. Odd. Usually Draco was so focused, so intense. It’s what made him a good Auror. Potter seemed very odd today; maybe he was rubbing off on Draco. There was something tugging at her memory, something to do with Draco’s odd behavior, but she couldn’t immediately place it. Maybe it was something from her other life; those bits of her memory were usually kept on a very short leash and kenneled again as quickly as possible. Suddenly a nugget of information about Protean charms surfaced in her mind, and she realized why Trippy was so agitated. “Draw more here,” repeated Hermione softly. “I suppose he must have spent a great deal of time with a very skilled wizard to know about Protean charms. Didn’t you, Trippy? Before Draco found you in a Death Eater’s house, you used to live with Voldemort.” Triplicity nodded. “The Dark Mark is a Protean charm, right? Or at least a variation on one.” She stood up and began to pace. “A series of Protean charms are connected like strands in a spider’s web. When one strand is touched, it reverberates throughout the whole web. It’s a bit different because the primary Mark was destroyed with Voldemort. But removing your Mark is still going to make one hell of a vibration in the web.” She stopped pacing to look Draco in the eye. “Removing your Mark is going to bring every living Death Eater down right on top of us.”
A/N: These are the chapters formerly known as 11, 12, and 13. We're getting closer to the end now. Did you like Harry's makeover? I always thought he ought to have a happy ending after all he's put up with. :)