It was dark.

 

The streets beneath his feet echoed dissolutely in sync with the falling rain that poured from the sky. One or two lights shone in the distance like unfathomable eyes that could crack open skulls and absorb your every thought, your every well kept secret.

 

He shivered.

 

Not because he felt cold but because his secrets could rip the world apart.

 

Leaning against the rough wall of the narrow alleyway, he quickly averted his eyes, a hand reaching up unconsciously to feel for a fracture in his scalp. Finding none, he exhaled sharply and tried to relax.

 

Tried, and soon gave up.

 

He wondered what he was doing here. He had not, in actuality, expected him to show up. Not really. He had hoped though. Always hoped.

 

Not expected, never expected.

 

He had given up on assumptions long ago when they repetitiously had turned around to bite him in the ass. Now, he considered everything either an advantage or disadvantage.

 

Hermione scolded him; she says it’s no way to live.

 

He agreed.

 

He sighed and studied his watch, just for something to do.

 

It was a pretty watch.

 

He had bought it mostly because he could, and partly because he never got to have something nice. This way, he always carried something nice with him however superficial. Something to look at to sooth his nerves like now;

 

Silver, inlaid with finely shaped gold. The glass made of the clearest crystal, edges perfectly rounded.

 

Numbers and hands both intricately worked with the tiniest sharpened emeralds.

 

Numbers and hands both still showing one O’ clock in the morning, which meant he was late.

 

Late by thirty minutes.

 

Why had he hoped?

 

He turned his face up to face the night sky with his eyes closed. The rain, soaking his hair, his skin, his robes, beating on his eyelids like drums, seemed to be washing him away.

 

Until he was nothing.

 

Nothing but rain, skulking away through the cracks of stone as he fell. Fell back into the ground. Until the sun gathered him up again, high into the sky, only to fall down and be washed away once more with the nearest storm.  

 

A fierce crack made his eyes pop open. In one smooth motion his wand was drawn, and he, poised as sudden death.

 

A dark crouched figure straightened, then glided forward.

 

Black robes billowing, white mask blinding.

 

It stopped about ten paces away, reached up, took off its mask and waited.

 

“You came,” he breathed slowly, wondrously.

 

“I said I would,” replied the other, voice cold and shrouded.

 

He hesitated. “I wasn’t sure.” No expectations. Never.

 

“You should have been,” bitter, colder.

 

“You’re late.”

 

A shrug. “We don’t precisely clock-in or out,” was commented flatly.

 

“Why?”

 

“If you must know,” a sneer plastered a smooth face, “next time, I’ll ask The Dark Lord over for tea and kindly request a set time-schedule,” was bit out harshly. “I’m sure he will agree instantly and be very amendable,” the other’s voice finished, dripping poison.

 

“You know what I mean,” he snapped back, annoyed. “Why?” he demanded again.

 

“How should I know?” was growled back cruelly, instantly.

 

He fixed the man before him with a stare, his penetrating gaze incredulous.

 

“Maybe…” the other started finally, tongue flickering over thin cracked lips, “maybe, I’m not a monster, not the epitome of evil you lot make me out to be.”

 

Silence.

 

Not a monster? He thought evenly.

 

Gradually, anger, cold bodiless anger flitted through him.

 

Not, evil?

 

He had seen the new pictures. Gruesome horrific pictures. Pictures, if seen, would make anyone, anyone human he amended, want to spill out his guts.

 

“I saw the photos. How could they? A house full of Muggles. Children Malfoy! Muggle children, destroyed, ruined,” he spat harshly, “how could you?”

 

Malfoy’s face was like stone, all hard angels and lines. Eyes grey as ice and as hard as polished diamonds, glittering with malice.

 

He remained silent.

 

Why had Malfoy agreed to meet?

 

He sighed and looked away, visibly gathering himself.

 

He had not come here to argue. He had not, he told himself firmly. He had known what Malfoy was and what he did. Long before the first pictures were taken as evidence, and long after he became an Auror.

 

He had killed Snape. Hunted him down and killed him. He had, as soon as he received status that classified him as an Auror. A Dark Wizard catcher. Snape had been a Dark Wizard to him. One who had killed Dumbledore, his mentor, his friend.

 

So he had killed him in return.

 

He had thought it a fair deal. A very fair one, until recently he learnt Snape had been a spy. A spy who had only done his ‘masters’ biding; only not the master Harry had believed.

 

It still made his stomach knot. 

 

He could ill afford such mistakes. That’s why he had contacted Malfoy. Because Malfoy had lowered his wand ten years ago, because Malfoy had all but accepted Dumbledore’s offer of protection.

 

No, he could not afford such a mistake again.

 

He forced his eyes away from the paved street, away from those lights that wanted to pry his head open like a crowbar, and squared himself to face the Death Eater.

 

The man before him looked nothing like the boy he remembered. The boy, who he had thought cold and cruel seemed warm and pleasant in comparison. He was still obviously Draco Malfoy, the sheer arrogance in his stance and the haughty way he held his head high left little doubt. But his face had equated out, wasn’t as pointy as it used to be, had roughened and looked to be made of adamant.

 

“Prove it,” he told Malfoy roughly.

 

He had not expected Malfoy to, in all honest truth. He had not expected Malfoy able to prove anything. How could you not be anything but a monster doing such things? He had hoped though, always hoped. But never expected.

 

So when Malfoy looked at him calculatedly for long seconds, nodded, reached into his dark robes, halted uncertainly, looked back up into Harry’s eyes, gaze wavering towards Harry’s wand and back, Harry found himself leaning forward on his toes in curiosity, motioning Malfoy to continue impatiently, and at the same time lowering his wand arm a fraction.

 

What could he possibly prove?

 

His eyes stared in shock and his breath left him in a rush of astonishment as Malfoy produced a small cup between folds of cloth. A small cup with two finely wrought handles shining dimly in the murky shadows of the night with a burnished gold, engraved with a small reflection of a badger.

 

Harry stood frozen on the spot, his eyes felt as if they were bulging out of their sockets and he stared at Malfoy unnervingly.

 

Malfoy stared back at him, his face empty seemingly unperturbed, but his tongue slivered across his lips again uneasily, his long fingers fiddling with the white mask and wand still held in his other hand.

 

“Well?” he challenged Harry, voice raw, eyes studying him intently.

 

“Well…” Harry repeated, his voice surprisingly firm. Not because that had been what he wanted to say but for lack of anything else.

 

Malfoy started to shift when Harry did not elaborate, his hand crumpling the mask in a white-knuckled fist. He breathed raggedly through his nose and when Harry still kept his involuntary silence his carefully crafted facade of stone cracked in two.

 

“I thought…” he started anxiously, harrowing a hand through white-blond wet strands of hair as the hood of his robes fell back, “this,” he held up Hufflepuff’s cup stiffly, “it isn’t… what… you were looking for, is it?”

 

Harry understood.

 

Malfoy had agreed to meet with Harry solely because he was in the possession of this cup. 

This cup, he now believed Harry did not need.

 

It was transparent that he held no illusions of being able to take Harry on in a duel. His wand was still along his side, pointed to the ground; smashed against his Death Eater mask, while Harry had his firmly up, not pointing but not entirely lowered either.

 

Malfoy cast around wildly as if trying to find a solution to his problems in the hidden chasms of the alley, trying to find something he had lost.

 

Harry had seen more like it exempt of the badger of course, and numerous other valuable magical objects of gold and silver during the now legendary Malfoy Manor raid. An investigation he had led four years ago.

 

Malfoy had very likely grown up playing with these kinds of artefacts and drank his pumpkin juice from golden family heirlooms, just like this one.

 

At his order they had burned the manor down to the ground.

 

To Malfoy it was merely an ordinary cup again.

 

A cup, Harry Potter did not need.

 

What Malfoy had lost was something he had been positive would bend Harry to his will, or at least offer some form of protection. He had lost an advantage. An advantage he had handed over to Harry unsuspectingly.

 

Harry had been a fool not to have known that Malfoy would only come if he would gain something. That he would come, only to bring his own hidden agenda with him.

 

 

He finally found his voice, his mouth was dry, but he ignored it just like he ignored Malfoy’s question.

 

“What is it?” he asked levelly. “An enchanted cup that fills with wine when you tap it twice with your wand?” he mocked contemptuously.  

 

He knew perfectly well what it was. It was a Horcrux. A Horcrux he had been ineffectively trying to track down for almost a decade. His insides quivered like pudding, and he barely restrained himself from snatching it out of Malfoy’s fingers.

 

Harry was an excellent Auror. He had learnt when to use stealth and cunning and when to listen to his head instead of his emotions.

 

Malfoy stood petrified, his faced darkened in outrage, he opened his mouth angrily but was not given a chance to speak.

 

“What is this supposed to prove, Malfoy?” he scorned, shaking his head for good measure. “Is this a bribe, am I supposed to be impressed by trinkets?” 

 

“This was a mistake,” interjected Malfoy savagely, “I should never have come,” he announced to himself as much as Harry before turning around, and striding back to the end of the alley, where he had appeared. Cup still in hand.

 

“Wait!” Harry exclaimed.

 

He realised his mistake before Malfoy had paused to look over his shoulder, his face, a mixture of relief and presumption. He arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow and waited.

 

Harry cursed himself a fool. An excellent Auror?

 

Malfoy was not going anywhere. If he really wanted to Apparate away he would have done so instantly without the preamble. Harry would have sooner killed Malfoy when his back had been turned if he really had no need for him. Going by the relief faint but still visible on Malfoy’s face, he had known that as well and taken the risk anyway.

 

“I want that cup,” he admitted, forcing his voice to be casual and light. He was annoyed, especially with himself for falling for Malfoy’s trickery. But he was not about to worsen the situation by letting him know just how bad he wanted it.  

 

Bewilderment bloomed on Malfoy’s face quickly wiped away by a sense of triumph. Obviously he had truly believed the cup to be worthless. Now, he cradled it in his arms, pressed it against his chest tightly and narrowed his eyes warily at Harry as if he expected him to attack him physically and wrestle it away from him by force.

 

“Not just a trinket, is it,” Malfoy deduced slowly.

 

“No,” he conceded coolly.

 

“You need it.” A pleased little smile played on his lips.

 

 “It could save me some time, but I can find another,” he lied. He had become used to lying.

 

Malfoy’s smile evaporated at once. “You’re lying,” he hissed through his teeth.

 

Harry shrugged as if losing interest. “Whatever Malfoy, if you really want to go, go.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “I won’t stop you. I had not expected much from you.”

 

He turned to lean against the wall, taking his eyes off of Malfoy as if he had found something more important to stare at, then muttered, “Not a monster, really,” under his breath, while shaking his head again in consternation.

 

He felt Malfoy stiffen next to him while the rain continued to batter down on them relentlessly and felt the coldness finally seeping into his bones slowly as his soaked robes clung to his skin.

 

He fetched a piece of parchment from his cloak, ignoring the drops of rain that immediately started to blur the ink and pretended to study it. His stomach fluttered queasily, heart racing like a hammer smashing his ribs but Malfoy had not so much as moved a toe. He did not know what he would do if Malfoy were to move, if he were to actually leave. He could not afford a mistake like Snape. If there was to be any hope, he needed Malfoy. Maybe as much as he needed that cup.  

 

Over ten years he had found two. Only two Horcruxes.

 

Over ten years Voldemort had send his ever growing rank of Death Eaters to terrorize the Wizarding World. Only London held. Held on with hands and feet desperately. Barely.

 

Harry had made sure of it.

 

If the Ministry had fallen, if the people had lost that glimmer of suppositious hope everything would have fallen.

 

Fallen to shambles.   

 

People were afraid. London was packed like a horse; refugees from all over the country had come seeking sanctuary. Most had been sent away.

 

One city could only hold so many.

 

He had been young and naïve, had been terribly angry with the world after the Tower incident. That’s how he referred to it these days. The incident that had triggered many others.

 

He had never thought it would be easy. Nothing had ever been easy for him. But after he had stumbled upon two Horcruxes within the first year following his retirement as a Hogwarts student, he had become so sure of himself. Too sure.

 

He saw Malfoy considering him from the corner of his eyes. He still hadn’t moved. Not a toe. Harry compelled himself to be more relaxed, focussed all his concentration on breathing evenly as he continued to stare at the flimsy paper in his hand.

 

 “What’s that?”  Was asked after a while.

 

“What is what?” he inquired back, voice made absent.

 

“What you are reading, Potter,” Malfoy snapped, irritated.

 

“None of your business is what it is,” he answered coolly, staring unseeingly at last weeks groceries list. “Weren’t you leaving?”

 

Only the sound of rain followed and a crackling thunder somewhere in the distance.

 

Another minute passed.

 

“Look at me Potter,” growled Malfoy, his voice trembling with frustration.

 

Harry turned to look at him.

 

“Say if…,” Malfoy began, pausing to wet his lips. A bad habit he needed to rid himself of. “Say if I were to…perhaps…maybe…give you this cup,” he continued hesitantly, “what would you give me … in return?” Malfoy finished, staring at Harry fixedly.

 

“That depends on what you want,” he answered slowly. “I do not need that cup.” His eyes flickered from Malfoy’s face to the Horcrux and back. “But you on the other hand-” He pointed his finger at Malfoy sharply, emphasising his point. “-seem to desperately need something,” he continued, ignoring the angry strangled noise Malfoy made in his throat. 

He paused. 

“What is it that you need, Malfoy?”

 

Malfoy stood shaking. Shaking with rage. He looked as if he were about to have apoplexy.

 

“I… don’t need anything from you,” he whispered softly, cuttingly, more effective than if he had shouted. “You are the one that asked me to come. You. Asked. Me. do you hear me Potter. I don’t need anything!” he breathed harshly. “Least of all from you.”

 

Harry rolled is eyes. His onetime school nemesis words had banished all doubt away from him. Malfoy definitely wanted something, but what? What could he possibly have to give that Malfoy wanted.

 

“If you say so, Malfoy,” he said wearily, “i’ve changed my mind about this meeting, you may go, I wont arrest you,” he finished offhandedly before turning back to look at the list in his hand that was now completely illegible.

 

Malfoy would not go. He wouldn’t, he tried to tell himself feverishly.

 

“How generous of you,” was spat in response.

 

Harry only nodded without looking back up. Pretended he had forgotten Malfoy’s every existence.

 

“Alight, alright!” Malfoy cried out bitterly some moments later. Something in his voice made Harry glance at him.

 

Malfoy stood back straight, shoulders rigid and a face pale as milk. His long blond hair stuck to his face in lumps, giving him the appearance of a drowned cat. The mask he had been holding in his hand was now unrecognisably rumpled and he was still shaking.

 

His face looked as if he had taken a bite out of a lemon; a vein near his temple throbbed dangerously as he closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, fighting some internal battle.

 

Shock held Harry in its grasp when he saw the look in Malfoy’s eyes as they shot open wide.

 

“What I want in return for this cup,” Malfoy began in a pained voice, “what I need, Potter is you to give my...” he swallowed, as if his next words were frenetically struggling to stay in, “my…my mother Potter, I need you to take my mother to London,” he finished in a rush.

 

Harry was dumbstruck, thrown completely off balance by Malfoy’s words and eyes. He would have expected anything. Anything but this.

 

“Your mother,” he repeated numbly, “bring her to London.”

 

Malfoy dipped his head in a jerky nod.

 

“Me,” he started again, “bring your mother, as in Narcissa Malfoy… to London,” he repeated in confirmation of words he was sure he had not misheard.

 

“Yes,” Malfoy hissed, as if the admission burned his tongue and brought him in a state of near death.

 

Harry stared at him blankly.

 

“Protection, Potter,” his mouth curling in disgust as he spat both words. “In return for this cup I need you to get my mother out.”

 

“Out of what!” Harry demanded sceptically. “Did she find Voldemort’s hospitality unsatisfactory?” he galled, abandoning his cool composure. He snorted loudly then added, “Not the perfect host she had imagined him to be?"

 

The skin around Malfoy’s eyes tightened in strain, to his surprise Malfoy’s cheeks reddened slightly and there went his tongue again brushing his lips. “That is one way to put it,” he said quietly.” His voice firmed before he asked, “In return for the cup will you do it, Potter?”    

 

Narrowing his eyes to suspicious slits he answered brusquely, “No. I will not bring Death Eaters into London, Malfoy. Do you think I am a complete fool? I will not risk innocent people, cup or no cup.”

 

He did not mean it; he would risk people if it meant saving more. Too many years had passed for him to still believe he could save everyone.

 

He would bring ten Narcissa Malfoy’s into London if he had to. A thousand. If only he could be sure…

 

“What ever game you are playing at Malfoy, it is not going to work.”

 

“It is not a game!” Malfoy’s voice exploded in frustration. “She is not a Death Eater, do you hear me Potter! She’s nothing like my father,” he bit out.

 

“She is… nothing like…like me,” he finished, voice barely above a whisper.  

 

Malfoy’s angry face crumpled suddenly, his shoulders slumped dejectedly, the look on his face was pleading and his lustrous eyes pooled with torment. “Please,” he stammered weakly, “you must…you must get her out; she needs to go to London.” He started forward, Hufflepuff’s cup in his arm thrust out ahead of him.

 

“Take it, please…here, you have to take it,” he said to Harry, his jaw set in a determined line.

 

He didn’t know why he agreed. Maybe it was the beseeching look on Malfoy’s face as he locked eyes with him. Maybe it was the cold of the metal cup he had sought for so long that was pressed into his palm, or maybe it was because he realised he didn’t have any other choice.

 

Whatever the reason, he soon found that ‘why’ was not important. The outcome to that question would eventually lead to the same conclusion;

 

In ten years he had found three. He had the cup, destroyed the locket and the harp. That left one, only one more to destroy.

 

He sighed wearily, letting his head rest against the icy stone of the alleyway and closed his eyes.

 

It had not even been necessary for him to ask his question. Malfoy had unknowingly provided him with the answer by the name of Narcissa Malfoy. Malfoy would do anything for Narcissa Malfoy.

 

Anything.

 

He would make sure of it.

 

“I am not a monster!” Malfoy had told him before he had Apparated away.

 

But he had not replied

 

Only the rain had.

 

Nothing but the rain, skulking away through the cracks of stone as it fell. Fell back into the ground. Until the sun gathered it up again, high into the sky, only to fall down eventually and be washed away once more with the nearest storm. 

 

A storm that would come fast and frightening, carrying secrets that would rip the world apart.