A/N: Hey, y'all. This story used to be separated into a bunch of one-shots, but now I'm working on new ones, and it's getting to be a lot to list out all the related fics for me (and a pain for you guys if you're interested). The old ones are still posted, but these are the most up-to-date version, and I won't post new fics as stand alone oneshots here. Sorry for the inconvenience, and there's already a new one if you're interested!

- Branwen

It's unfortunate that the best coping mechanisms for getting through the day are also the most unhealthy ones.

The war was hard on me, you know. Sometimes when I say that, I'm feeling sorry for myself. Most of the time, though, I'm just stating a fact, as emotionally distant as the color of the sky or whether the flowers are blooming yet. I try not to feel much of anything anymore, but sometimes I can't stop the memories from breaking through. Usually it's late at night or when I'm bathing - when there's nothing to distract me from my thoughts.

So I alternate between having dead eyes and red eyes.

But I have to be careful which vices I indulge, and how much. My parents still haven't quite forgiven me for walking out on them after my sixth year, and I feel like they'd jump at any excuse to lock me up. Maybe they'd forgive me if they knew that I couldn't bear to stay in their house any longer because my older sister - a frequent visitor - had cast the Imperius Curse on me to make me evacuate the school before the Battle of Hogwarts.

She's never apologized, either - not for that, not for anything. The day she came to my parents' house and mocked me for not being able to break free of the curse was the day I left. She said that if I really cared, I'd have done it.

I'm not sure that she's wrong, and that haunts me most of all, I think. She was right about our brother - her spell barely would have phased him. Brendon's always had a stronger sense of will than I do.

That's probably why I haven't told him what she did. Brendon's always been my favorite sibling, for all that he's eight years older than me, and he's gone so far beyond the call of duty with me. He took me in when I left and fixed it with my parents so they didn't haul me back - I still don't know what he said to them, since he hasn't volunteered it and I don't want to ask them, but it must have been pretty persuasive. I don't want him to feel like he's wasted his time on a weakling.

And if he knew, he'd feel like he had to do something about it, and I don't want that, either. He's done enough for me. I don't want to impose or put him in a situation where he'll get blamed for further ripping apart our already-dysfunctional family.

I've found that I really do enjoy alcohol. It's my coping mechanism of choice. Brendon's been asking me pointed questions about my weight loss and my picking at whatever food he puts in front of me rather than eat it, but it really is just in a no-appetite way, not in a starving myself way. I've also caught him glancing at my wrists when I push my sleeves up to play with his kids, but I don't do that, either. I've got enough scars on my arms and my shoulders for a lifetime, and I'm not adding to them myself.

I have to be careful, though. I can't drink so much that I can't fake sobriety if I see someone I know. If I had a safe place - a quiet place - to go to when I'd had too much to drink, I'd probably drink a lot more.

But I don't, so I don't.

I don't know why I've come to the Three Broomsticks tonight. I hate Hogsmeade - it has too many memories. I guess I just hate people more, and on a Wednesday evening, this place is a lot quieter than the Leaky Cauldron.

I've got to find new pubs.

I'm staring into my mostly-empty glass wishing I had more gold when someone stops in front of me. From the way he's carrying himself and the way his Muggle trousers hug him, I'm pretty sure he's a man.

During the war, a lot of people spent a lot of time wearing Muggle clothes to blend in, and they've stayed in fashion. It's a pretty shitty consolation prize, but it's something.

His arms are completely covered by the long black sleeves of his shirt. I consider that for a moment, and decide it's inconclusive; some people have scars from the war because they were on the good side and got tortured, and most Death Eaters who escaped being sent to prison don't like to show off their Dark Marks anymore. More people have scars, but fewer would stop to bother me, so it's really a toss up.

I don't particularly want to talk to whoever it is, though, so I don't look up. As a rule, I don't particularly trust very many people at all right now, but I especially don't trust men who aren't my brother. Men are usually quicker to jump to violence and torture.

"Hi." He's keeping his voice low, but it's a little familiar. "Can I join you?"

I don't answer him. I want him to go try to pick up some other girl, preferably in some other pub, and engaging these sorts of people in conversation always just encourages them to keep talking, even if you're giving them a flat-out "no." If you just refuse to acknowledge them, they're more likely to go away quicker.

"Astoria, right?"

My heart skips a beat. I still don't look up, but I begin considering my escape routes. My wand is in my pocket and would be quick to retrieve, but I've had too much to drink to apparate. He's between me and the door. Maybe a stunning spell - but that would make a scene, and I don't want a scene.

"I just…" he trailed off. "I just wanted to know if you wanted company."

Now I do recognize his voice. "Not from Death Eaters."

He turns and walks away. Before I can allow myself to feel some measure of triumph, I hear his voice at the bar, and I realize that he isn't actually leaving me alone, he's just getting us both a(nother) drink. I do want one, but not badly enough to take it from a Death Eater's dirty gold.

Probably. We'll see how quickly I can get him to leave. If he's not here to see me drink it…

He returns, slides one glass over to me, and sits down to join me at my round little table in the back of the pub. Thankfully, he settles in a couple seats to my left rather than right next to me - I don't want to rub elbows with a Death Eater, especially not one who takes being called that as an invitation to sit down next to me.

It wasn't one.

"Death Eater isn't a compliment," I tell him. I try to make my voice ice, but it comes out more sullen than cold. Daphne's always been better at that than I am. Maybe it's a Slytherin thing.

"I didn't take it as one."

Daphne was mad about Draco Malfoy for more than a year - every other thing that came out of her mouth was about him and his hair and his family and how brilliant he was at Quidditch. Our brother was the only one who could stop her dead in her tracks - the first time she'd started getting breathy and doe-eyed in Brendon's presence, he'd asked in a tone that really was ice what on earth she'd want with a Death Eater's brat.

She only stopped talking about Draco after he started fucking that bitch Pansy Parkinson. Those were the rumors, anyway.

Now he was sitting at a table with me, and I wished he'd go away and start bothering my sister instead, wherever she was.

"I don't want to talk to you."

"I get that a lot."

"That's what happens when you lose. If you were in Azkaban where you belong, you'd have plenty of people to talk to. I hear they've even gotten rid of the dementors - it's probably downright cozy."

When he doesn't say anything, I finally glance up at him. He has the same bored, apathetic, above-it-all look I hated back in school - and that was before he became a Death Eater.

"It was complicated," he says after a long pause. "You were there, you know it was complicated."

I snort and finish my beer. "Genocide is literally the exact opposite of complicated. Why are you bothering me?"

"You look sad."

I don't like the way he's staring at me. It reminds me of the dungeons at Hogwarts - chaotic and unpredictable and prone to leave you with scars that keep part of you locked down there forever. Unlike the dungeons, however, there is a way out here - he cleared the path to the exit when he sat down. I have a choice. I can leave.

"Wait." He can tell that I'm about to leave rather than drink his stupid beer, though he has the sense not to grab me. If he did, I probably would have cursed him without even processing what I was doing.

Not that I would have felt bad about it once I had.

"Please," he says.

I grab my wand out of my pocket and point it him. The blood drains from his face, and his hand twitches, though he doesn't actually reach for his wand. "Push up your sleeve," I hiss at him.

He starts to push up his right sleeve, and I press my wand up against his throat. When he swallows, it pushes my wand back just a little, and he seems genuinely afraid. It gives me a strange sense of pleasure that I can return to him just a little bit of what his friends did to us. "You know what I mean."

He shoves my wand down toward the table and yanks up his left sleeve in one quick, fluid motion. I can see why he's wearing long sleeves - the mark is still clearly visible, though it's become blurred and fainter than I recall them being during the war. Back then, the Death Eaters would openly display them as they strutted around cursing people. They wanted everyone to know that they were You-Know-Who's most special lapdogs.

I bring my wand back to his throat. I feel eyes on my back and the pub has suddenly gotten a lot quieter, but I don't look away from him. No one is trying to stop me, at least. They must recognize him.

He shoves my wand aside again, and a few blue sparks land on the table and scorch it. This time, someone at the bar does shout something. "Hey, leave her alone!"

He peers around me incredulously. "Leave her alone? She's the one holding a wand to my throat!" He slams his hand down on mine as I make to raise my wand for a third time, and then the wall behind us shakes as a flash of red slams slams into it just to the right of his head. My breath catches in my throat - this is what I didn't want, this is exactly what I didn't want, and now everyone's making a scene and I can feel my heartbeat in my ears. I know I should cast something, but he still has one hand over mine, and I can't lift my wand up enough to do anything useful. He snatches his wand out of his back pocket with his other hand, and another flash of red light slams against an invisible wall that has sprung up just in time. The resultant explosion of light has left me momentarily blinded, and my wand slips from my grasp as my legs crumple.

I can hear him shouting something at them, but I don't know what he's saying. All I know is that after a minute, the lights stop flashing, and he's kneeling down to hand me my wand. "Sorry," he mutters, keeping his wand pointed upward. "I just - your brother said you were still getting past the war, so when I saw you and you looked sad… yeah. I'll go now."

He rises, and I look up at the room. A mirror on the wall directly across from us has been smashed by one of the deflected spells, and the tall, broad-shouldered man tending the bar tonight is red-haired by nature and red-faced with fury. His wand is still up.

"Wait," I say quickly. "What about my brother?"

Draco glances over at the man by the bar. "See?" he yells over. "She's fine. For fuck's sake, she pulled her wand out and pointed it at me!"

The man points to the door with his wand. "Out!"

Draco stomps over to it. Just as he yanks it open, I struggle to my feet and rush after him. "What about my brother?" I yell as the door is swinging shut.

When I burst through it, he's standing there with his arms crossed. "Thanks for getting me kicked out."

"You're a Death Eater. I don't care. What about my brother?"

He turns and starts to walk down the street. The orbs floating ten feet above us have started to glow since I went into the pub. "Yeah, that's a really good way to get someone to share information with you." He turns around and starts striding down the street again. "Oh, and a word of advice," he calls over his shoulder. "Don't point your wand at someone when you haven't even decided on a spell."

I feel my face start to get hot; the fact that he's turned his back on me says everything about how much of a threat he deems me. Before I can say anything, a door creaks open behind us, and the bartender sticks his head outside. "Is everything all right, miss?"

I turn back. "Yes, thank you."

He peers into my face, and I realize that he's wondering whether I'm under the Imperius Curse.

I hear Draco's voice behind me. "Oh, for fuck's sake, she followed me. Look, that's Brendon Greengrass's little sister - if she goes missing, feel free to report me to him."

I feel pins and needles break out across my shoulders, and as they start to run down my arms, I shudder involuntarily. The very last thing I need is my brother hearing that I was drinking alone in the Three Broomsticks. "I'm fine," I tell the bartender. "Really."

"Be careful around him," he says. "I'll be listening. If he tries anything, just yell."

His voice isn't soft, and I'm sure that Draco can hear it. When he ducks his head back inside, he leaves the door propped open, despite the cool night air.

I would have preferred to remain anonymous, but I suppose it's comforting to know that people are still wary, still paying attention, and they'd defend me if I needed them to.

Against my better judgment, I start to trot after Draco. "You know," he says, "all I wanted to do was get a few drinks before the death threats start coming again. Now I'm going to the Hog's Head, which I do not particularly like, and I want to have a couple drinks in peace."

"What death threats?"

He glances over at me when I catch up to him and lowers his voice. "When the head of Werewolf Capture asks you for information on the Dark Lord's followers and you actually give it to him, you're probably going to get death threats. I've already had three people try to kill me for information I gave to Potter and Granger. This'll be my last drink out for awhile."

"You gave my brother information tonight?"

He shrugs. We've reached the Hog's Head. I've only set foot in it once - when I had no other choice - and there's a reason for that. The bay windows are so dirty that all I can see of the inside are indistinct shapes and a flickering light, and even in the faint light, I can see how rusted the handle of the door is. He opens it with his sleeve rather than his bare hand and turns to look at me. "I'll buy you a drink if you'll be halfway civil."

I stare at him for a minute. He doesn't seem to be about to hurt me - he gave me back my wand, after all, and he probably wouldn't have done that if he'd wanted to hurt me, even with the big red-haired man shouting at him. I still don't like him, but that makes him seem marginally less awful now, and I'm genuinely curious about the death threats. "Fine," I say.

He lets out a snort as he kicks the door open. "Gracious, aren't you?"

When we're sitting at a table, mugs in front of us, I start toying with the remnants of a wax candle that have melted into the wood rather than ask him again. I feel like he wants me to, and I don't want to give him what he wants. His ego needs to meet more people he can't manipulate.

He's so twitchy, though, that after a moment, I can't help but say, "You really are scared, aren't you?"

He shoots me a dirty look. "No, I love having people try to kill me. When it happens, it's my best day ever." He gulps down a sizable portion of his beer

"Your information is that good? Even now?"

"The Dark Lord used my parents' manor as his base for over a year, and my parents were always part of his inner circle. Yes, even now."

"So why not give it to them all at once?"

"I don't know what they need all at once, and I don't have access to everything all at once, either. I give them what I can when they need it." He takes another sip of beer. "Then people call me a blood traitor and try to kill me for it. I keep my head down, they forget, and then we do it again."

"So why do you do it?" I haven't even touched my beer yet. I'm too interested in what he's saying.

He shrugged. "Because I fucked up, and I owe Potter and Granger for keeping me out Azkaban."

"So why'd you help my brother?"

"Because I still fucked up, and Brendon Greengrass gives Slytherins a good name." He finishes his beer. "Are you going to drink that, or just look at it?" I grab the mug and pull it closer to me, and he pushes his chair back. "I'm going get another one, then."

I take a sip and glance around the room. It was deserted when we walked in, other than the old bartender, and and it's stayed deserted. That's probably just as well, if he's worried about assassins.

I'm not sure whether he's being honest with me or just spinning me a tale of lies.

He drops back into his chair, refilled-mug in hand. "So why are you sad?"

I take another sip. "It's none of your business."

"Fair enough." He shrugs and changes the subject.

When we leave half an hour later, he asks, "Are you okay to Apparate?"

"I'm fine." I wish I wasn't, but at this point, I've sobered up enough that I am. I wouldn't have let a Death Eater touch me even if I wasn't, though, whether or not it turns out that he's passing information to my brother. I should think up an excuse to ask him about it.

Draco hesitates. "Do you want to meet me at the Three Broomsticks? Next Thursday? Assuming there aren't five threats on my life by then?" I open my mouth to say no, and he adds quickly, "I'll buy."

I hesitate, and after a minute, what comes out instead is, "I guess."