Title: Do You Trust Me?
Author: Prynesque
Genre: Yaoi/slash, romance, angst
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rated: R
Warnings: Potential (though unintended) OOC, some swearing, slash, alternating POV, possible Australian-isms.
Feedback: Hell yeah? What I'm trying to say is that if you feel the urge to review, please indulge it. I don't even care what you say. Good, bad, it's all the same to me – just so long as I get to hear from you.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy… they are copywrited to someone else. They are being used without permission and no money is being made. I reiterate: they aren't mine (and if you think they are you should probably take this opportunity to get your head checked). However, this story is mine and mine alone, and if you so much as think of nicking any part of it, I'll hunt you down and set my demon kitty cat on you (be afraid, be very afraid).
Notes: This story is set following the downfall of Volemort in Harry and Draco's final year at Hogwarts. This story is also slash (or yaoi or whatever you want to call it), so if you don't like that… well, bugger off and come back when you have some taste!

Author's Notes: Hey all, this is my first foray into the world of writing HP fanfiction, though I have been a long time observer. So, please be gentle. Be warned there is a lot of background information in this chapter and most of it is fairly inconsequential. This story does not focus on Volemort and the War, but rather on the relationship between Harry and Draco in the aftermath. Anyway, let me know what you think.

.oO0Oo. signals a change of POV.

Do You Trust Me?

Chapter One:

It was a dreary evening in late August. The drizzle had set in around mid-morning and by dusk the grey streets of London were covered in a slick sheen of water.

This particular street was one of no importance and up and down it people were scurrying back to their homes, holding newspapers above their heads in a vain attempt to shelter themselves from the crisp droplets of water.

A young man stood on the foot path as the light rain fell down around him. He was wearing jeans and a sweater and, at first glance, everything about him screamed 'ordinary'. He was the sort of person that you wouldn't look twice at when you were busy trying to get home out of the rain.

He was standing before an inconspicuous building, staring at the doorway as though trying to work up the courage to walk through it. It was a building that only he seemed to see.

A steady stream of damp workers bustled around him, their eyes fixed on the grubby pavement beneath their feet. Every so often one of them would glance up as they passed the young man, but their eyes would slide from the book store on one side to the record shop on the other. Only the unsettlingly green eyes of this young man were trained on the dirty pub that lay before him.

Harry Potter pushed his bedraggled fringe out of his eyes and a couple of drops of rain trickled down the strange lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead, tracing the faint white line; it was, by no means, as visible as it had once been, and now was only noticeable to those who were purposely looking for it. The water dripped down his glasses and then down his nose and chin before disappearing into the collar of his sweater.

He had been standing in the misty rain for the past five minutes. The rest of his party had hurried into the Leaky Cauldron, unaware of his reluctance to follow.

Harry wasn't particularly fond of standing in the rain and nor was he particularly afraid to enter the dingy pub, but for some strange reason he couldn't bring himself to step forwards and open the door.

Outside on this poorly lit London street, he was nobody. The strangers that swerved around him didn't give him a passing glance; they barely even saw him. He relished the feeling of anonymity knowing full well that when he did finally take that next step over the threshold, the delicious feeling of peace would instantly evaporate.

Harry Potter was no stranger to feelings of complete insignificance. He had grown up believing that he was nobody, that he was nothing special. So when he was suddenly thrust into the limelight on his eleven birthday he had had no idea how he should react.

Now, at 19 years of age, he was still in the dark.

In the beginning he had felt nothing but relief and joy at being rescued from his routine Muggle life and brought into the whirlwind of excitement and newness that was the Wizarding world. He soon discovered that if the Muggle world had regarded him with distaste and disregard, then this new world was the complete opposite.

At first he was overwhelmed and shy about his newfound fame. But as the years progressed he had grown to hate it; the way he was revered for something he couldn't even remember; the way he couldn't walk down a school corridor or down Diagon Alley without those around him hurrying out of his way, their eyes flickering automatically to the scar on his forehead; the way no one seemed to be able to look past that scar and the story that accompanied it; the way every single aspect of his life had been planned for him regardless of his wants and needs; the way he was handed this destiny and then pushed off to fulfil it.

But being the person he was, he kept all of these feelings within him. He played the role that was expected of him. He became Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and when Dumbledore told him to jump, his reply was always 'How high?'

From the moment the Hogwarts Headmaster had sent out his Gamekeeper to fetch Harry, a chain of events had been set in motion… a chain that brought him right to this very moment.

Throughout his early school years he had managed to find himself in more than one life-threatening situation. And every time he came out the victor, more by luck than anything else. And with these victories his reputation and status grew.

When Lord Voldemort, the most powerful Dark Wizard of the age, had risen again at the end of his fourth year at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, his destiny suddenly came rushing up to meet him whether he was ready for it or not.

His fifth year had been a blur of confusion, frustration and inexplicable anger. It ended with heart ache and pain and after that moment in the Department of Mysteries he vowed to bury the petulant adolescent Harry forever, to be rid of the recklessness that had lead to Sirius' death.

The Harry that returned to Hogwarts for his sixth year was more mature and more responsible. He was still angry, still frustrated and still overcome with grief, but he held it in and his sixth year was consumed by frantic training as he was hurriedly prepared for a war that he didn't want to fight but would nonetheless.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was closed down at the beginning of Harry's seventh year. Voldemort's followers had attacked the unsuspecting castle; the Death Eaters ransacked the entire school, leaving it in ruins, and the students of Hogwarts fled back to their families.

The Death Eaters had targeted the Ministry of Magic simultaneously. That was the beginning of the war and the wizarding world was plunged into chaos.

Most of the wizarding population retreated into hiding, securing themselves and their families away behind barricades and wards, while others fled to the continent or America to watch the progression of the war from a safe distance.

A dedicated few rallied around the Ministry and a resistance movement known as the Order of the Phoenix, and fighting broke out across the country.

Harry was trotted out to fight on numerous occasions; the Hero of the Wizarding World leading his troops into battle. He had been given a heavy burden for one so young, just barely seventeen, and it took all his strength just to stay standing, just to keep the cracks from appearing in his façade.

There had been a moment when he thought it was all over. Captured by Death Eaters and tortured for their own sadistic pleasure, he felt the life draining out of him and the blackness consuming him.

His rescue was something that still haunted his dreams; a mysterious saviour that delivered him to safety and then disappeared. His memories of that night were patchy at best. He was assaulted by vivid images and recollections during disturbed dreams, but when he awoke the memories slipped away from him no matter how hard he fought to keep them, like trying to hold water in his hands.

He remembered a voice, familiar yet distant, but not the words it spoke. He remembered a broomstick ride, rough and hasty, but neither the origin nor the destination of this dramatic flight. He remembered pain and fear, but also something calm and grounding. He remembered waking in one of the cluttered rooms at 12 Grimmauld Place with Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore hovering over him, proclaiming him to be alive and safe. But that was all.

On several occasions he had tried to corner the illusive Potions Master and question him about that night, but every time Snape refused and the stubborn-look in those dark, narrow eyes told Harry that he would gain little information from that quarter.

After the night of Harry's rescue, the pace of the war escalated rapidly. Whole families disappeared and as the scuffles between the opposing forces grew more heated, the list of injuries and deaths grew exponentially.

Most of the victims weren't personally known to Harry but he still felt their deaths immeasurably, and in the darkness of night he still blamed himself.

The final battle had come just as February dawned, only a few months ago; it was three and a half years after Voldemort's rebirth.

On an eerily calm night, Light and Dark had met on an even playing field. Like his earlier traumatic experience, Harry only had a rather hazy memory of his meeting with Voldemort. He suspected that his mind had just blocked out the details of that night and that sooner or later they would come back to torment him, but in the meantime he was perfectly happy to live in clouded ignorance.

He didn't really know how he'd managed to survive the encounter. He remembered Voldemort's crazed red eyes burning through him, rooting him to the spot. He remembered Dumbledore standing beside him as the curses flew around them. He remembered casting the spell he had been taught; the spell to destroy every fibre of a being right down to the soul. He remembered watching Voldemort's pale skeletal body crumbling in on itself. He remembered the shrieks of the Death Eaters as their master fell. He remembered turning around, his eyes casting over the battlefield. He remembered Mr Weasley and Bill rushing to his side as he sank to his knees. And he remembered looking into the hollow, dead eyes of people he had once known… Mad-Eye Moody, Professor Sinastra, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Nymphadora Tonks, Penelope Clearwater, Roger Davis, Mundungus Fletcher, Albus Dumbledore.

For a final battle it had been relatively short and the loss of life was unexpectedly minimal for the Order of the Phoenix, though at the time it hadn't felt like that. The Death Eaters had not faired so well; a great many were killed as they tried to flee the scene after their leader perished.

The Ministry of Magic were still trying to round up the remains of the Dark Lord's followers. It had implemented harsh measures to ensure that no Death Eater slipped under their radar. Veriteserum was used extensively and the Aurors were once again given permission to kill rather than capture, if necessary.

But for the rest of the wizarding world, the war was over and peace and safety reigned again. Six months later, the celebrations were still going. Harry was declared the Saviour of the Wizarding World yet again and underground parties across Britain toasted his victory, "To the Boy-Who-Lived", just as they had done all those years ago.

Harry himself was caught up in these celebrations as well. His closest friends, his only true family, had swept him up with a mixture of relief and happiness as well as regret and loss. Tears were shed for those who had been lost, but in the end the atmosphere around them was of victory.

The smiles on the faces around him were lit up from within as they joyously proclaimed the war over. Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys, Lupin, Mrs Figg, Professor McGonagall and the rest of the Order had gathered around Harry and he was overwhelmed by hugs, pats on the back and congratulations.

And Harry wanted desperately to join in their celebrations but all he felt inside was numb. He had expected to feel relieved and glad. He had expected to feel something… anything. But he didn't.

Once, he had tried to explain this to Ron and Hermione, but they hadn't understood. All they knew was that the war was over; they told Harry that he needed to move on, and although he knew they were right he was at a loss as to how to go about that.

And as the weeks and then months passed it seemed like he was the only one in the world that hadn't managed to deal with the aftermath of the war. Even those who had lost their dearest friends, relatives, lovers still managed to move beyond their grief. And in the end he supposed that was the problem. Everyone else grieved and then when they had cried all their tears, they got up and continued with their lives.

But Harry couldn't do that. He was trapped in the depths of emptiness; he couldn't grieve and he couldn't move on because he simply wasn't able to feel anything.

When Mrs Weasley or Hermione or Ron or Remus Lupin came to him and told him that they were proud him, that he was brave, he accepted it a well-trained smile and laugh, but it was all meaningless. He didn't feel like a hero. He didn't feel brave or victorious. He wondered why he felt so empty. He wondered how he could fix this. But most of all he wondered why no one around him seemed to realise what he was feeling, why no one seemed to understand.

He knew he could never tell anyone; he knew he couldn't bring them down with him. So he suffered in silence, a smile plastered on his face but a hollow look in his eyes.

And the rain continued to fall down on him.

A faceless stranger brushed passed him and the nudge jolted Harry out of his thoughts. He wanted to stay in this moment forever, lost in obscurity on a darkening Muggle street. But a more logical part of his brain told him that if he didn't go inside soon either one of the Weasleys would appear to investigate his whereabouts or he would catch a cold… probably both.

So, he stepped forwards and grasped the tarnished brass door handle, pushing forwards.

A wave of warm, stale, smoky air rushed forward to meet him as he entered the dark, shabby pub. The Leaky Cauldron was busy, full to the brim with wizards and witches seeking a stiff drink and shelter from the rain. The indecipherable babble of conversations whirled around him as his eyes searched the mass of bodies for the Weasleys and Hermione.

"Harry!" a voice called from near the bar. Ron was waving to him across the crowded room and gesturing towards a private dining room. Mr Weasley was just behind him, trying to talk to Tom the Barman over the ruckus.

All of a sudden an awed silence spread over the bar and all eyes were on Harry as he stood in the doorway, dripping with water. The eerie silence was eventually broken as the patrons of the Leaky Cauldron started clapping.

Harry stared at his feet, feeling the heat of a blush spreading across his wet cheeks. He shuffled forwards, stumbling through the throng of bodies. Hands rained down on his back and his hand was shook vigorously by various unfamiliar faces… congratulating him, thanking him.

By the time he reached the bar, Harry was almost praying for a black hole to swallow him up. Mr Weasley ushered him into a private room beyond the bar and Harry was inordinately relieved to escape into the quiet.

Behind him he could hear excited whispers.

"The Harry Potter!"

"The Boy-Who-Lived!"

"He saved us all!"

"I shook his hand!?!"

Mr Weasley closed the door behind him and the eager chatter was muffled. The rest of the Weasleys were already seated. Mrs Weasley was fussing with the table cloth while Bill and Charlie, seated beside her, appeared to be deep in conversation.

The twins were flicking strands of Ginny's wet, bedraggled hair into her eyes and she was squealing in protest, her pretty round face scrunched up in a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

Ron and Hermione were seated close together, an empty chair beside them waiting for him. Ron had his arm around Hermione's shoulder and they seemed both happy and slightly uncomfortable with this arrangement. The change from being 'just friends' to dating had not been particularly smooth for them, and they still sometimes felt a little unsure of where they stood with each other.

Mr Weasley pushed passed Harry with a jovial smile and sat beside his wife, taking her fingers in his hands and whispering, "Leave it alone, Molly, love," as she worried over the hole in the lace.

It was such a strikingly happy domestic picture that for several moments, Harry was reluctant to intrude. The only family member missing was Percy. While he had been welcomed back into the folds by most of his family after his self-imposed exile, his younger brothers were still fairly scathing of his past behaviour. He sometimes made a brief appearance at these family gatherings and sometimes he didn't come at all. He threw himself into his work at the Ministry, still trying to alleviate the vestiges of shame and guilt.

Harry stood by the door casting his eyes over this happy family and in that moment it was like the war had never happened. They slotted back into their old routine without a backwards glance and Harry wondered how they could do that.

They had all seen and felt the effects of the war as it progressed, and yet they were perfectly happy to forget it once it was over. Mr Weasley, Bill and Charlie had even been there at the final battle so why didn't they have this same numb, empty feeling that Harry had?

But, his mind reasoned, they hadn't had the extra weight and pressure that he had carried. They had chosen to be there, they hadn't been pushed into it by a sense of inescapable duty. It was perfectly understandable that they wouldn't be suffering the same aftermath that he was.

Harry slid into the waiting chair beside Ron. "What took you so long, mate?" Ron asked, clapping Harry on the shoulder with his free hand.

"Oh, just thinking," Harry replied vaguely, retrieving his 'everything is right with the world' smile and sticking it firmly in place.

"Oh, me, too," Hermione enthused. "I can't wait to get back to Hogwarts. It feels like an age since we were last there."

Back to Hogwarts. That was right. That was why they were in the Leaky Cauldron, Harry remembered suddenly. In just a few days time they would be returning to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for their seventh and final year of school.

Two years had passed since the end of their sixth year and technically, now that they were of age, they didn't need to go back, but as far as Harry knew most of his year would be returning anyway.

There would of course be some losses amongst the student body. Some, who had fled abroad, had completed their study elsewhere and a few, like the twins, had found jobs that didn't require N.E.W.Ts. And, of course, there were a few who had not made it through the war alive.

But everyone else would be returning to the familiar castle, now rebuilt, and most seemed inordinately grateful for it. Harry knew that like him, many of his year mates were not just looking for the satisfaction of graduating but were also craving the routine and normalcy that school provided. It would be so much easier to forget the war if they had something to distract them.

But Harry was also slightly apprehensive about going back. Would it even feel like Hogwarts without Professor Dumbledore? He closed his eyes momentarily and was assaulted by the image of Dumbledore lying sprawled on the dusty ground, his long silver hair hanging limply around him, his mouth slightly open in surprise and a vacant look in his dead eyes.

His relationship with Dumbledore had certainly suffered since that fateful night in the Department of Mysteries. Harry had even grown to resent the Headmaster's presence and interference in his life, but tolerated it in silence as usual. But despite the rift that had emerged between the puppet master and his marionette, Harry had still felt a profound sense of loss over Dumbledore's death.

Harry fought back a shiver and his eyes flew open again. He pushed all thoughts back to the dark recesses of his mind and turned his attention to his friends.

Dinner arrived and Harry let the various streams of conversation wash over him, participating occasionally.

He glanced around, his eyes taking in Ron and Hermione, Ginny and the twins. They were all joking and laughing. They were young and vibrant. Harry hadn't felt like that since the end of fourth year.

A cold, cruel voice had cried "Kill the spare" and as Cedric fell to the ground, lifeless, Harry was thrust into adulthood. He had felt trapped; trapped in a life that he was too young for. He grew up hard and fast. His childhood and adolescence had passed him by.

As he looked around this slightly dingy room, taking in the smiling faces, Harry wanted nothing more than to join in. On the outside, he went through the motions, but on the inside he feared that he had lost that part of himself forever.

He was tired of feeling old and worn. He wanted to laugh again; he wanted excitement; he wanted something new; he just wanted to be able to feel again.

With a heavy sign, Harry turned to George and asked for the salt.

As the meal ended Harry laid down his fork. A busty barmaid with long dark hair and a quirky smile entered the room to clear away the dishes, immediately capturing the twins' attention. As Harry watched them, his lips twisted upwards into a slight smile. He met Ginny's eyes across the table. She spotted the twins and mirrored his smile but didn't seem to notice that the expression hadn't quite reached his eyes.

The door to the bar stood wide open as the barmaid moved in and out clearing the table. Faint streams of chatter from the pub beyond wafted into the room.

Harry's eyes roamed the bar through the open doorway. A tall, hooded figure was standing at the bar talking to Tom.

Tom looked the figure up and down, a look of extreme dislike flitting across his usually jolly face, but he accepted the stranger's gold readily enough.

Harry sat back to let the barmaid take his plate. She smiled and blushed as her eyes raked over the famous lightning bolt scar. The twins cackled and nudged each other, wiggling their eyebrows suggestively. Harry barely contained the desire to roll his eyes. He wanted to shake them all.

When he glanced back through the doorway, Tom was pointing towards the stairs which were situated to the immediate left of the private room where Harry and Weasleys were enjoying their dinner. Apparently the stranger had been purchasing a room for the night. Their business completed the stranger turned. As he did so, his hood slipped down, and Harry met Draco Malfoy's cold grey eyes with a jolt of shocked recognition.

.oO0Oo.

A sharp bolt of lightning pierced the darkening sky. Moments later a loud clap of thunder rumbled overhead, destroying the fragile peace of the Wiltshire landscape.

Draco Malfoy stared up at the ominous-looking sky. At that very moment, the heavens opened and thick, fat droplets of water rained down.

It was the heavy, cold kind of rain. The kind that soaks you to the bone within seconds, but Draco Malfoy didn't run for cover as others might have done. He just stood there, his dark robes sodden with water, clinging to his body and his long blonde hair hanging limply around his pointed face.

He stood before a menacing manor, casting his eyes over the fine, gothic architecture. Everything about this manor exuded darkness, from the heavy black stone work, to the dull, lifeless gardens; from the eerie stillness that cloaked the fine old house to the remnants of Dark Magic that still lingered in the air.

To any stranger this house would have been particularly daunting, but Draco Malfoy had grown up here and knew it like the back of his hand. He wasn't intimidated and he wasn't afraid but for some strange, unfathomable reason he couldn't bring himself to enter.

Unconsciously, Draco ran long, pale fingers over his left forearm. Up until just six months ago, a fierce, ugly tattoo had rested there, a shock of dark magic marring the otherwise smooth, pale skin.

The Dark Mark… Feared by most of the wizarding world, but worshipped by a crazed few. It had been a symbol; a symbol of everything Draco had been brought up to believe; of everything that had been expected of him; of everything he had once wanted; of everything he had eventually grown to despise.

Draco had grown up believing that receiving the Dark Mark was the highest honour imaginable. His Slytherin ambition yearned for it. His father spun him tales of the glory, the respect and the power that accompanied the mark and Draco fell for it wholeheartedly, wanting nothing more than to experience it all for himself.

His early school years were marked with a fierce and intense dislike of everything and anything that represented an alternative. Harry Potter was the personification of this. What had begun as a childish rivalry sparked by a spurned friendship had escalated into fierce clash of personalities. Harry Potter was as Light as Draco was Dark, and Draco hated him for that.

Harry Potter became an integral part of Draco's life at Hogwarts. He was the hated enemy, the bitter rival, the proof that everything Lucius had ever told Draco was right.

Draco had rejoiced when the Dark Lord returned. He saw his path before him; the path to honour and fame and power and he ran towards it without a second thought.

During his fifth year at Hogwarts, with a Prefect badge on his robes and the twisted guidance of Professor Umbridge, Draco had experienced the power he so sorely craved and he could almost feel the Dark Lord's acceptance within his grasp.

But at the end of that monumental year, Draco's world had come crashing down around his feet. His father was arrested. Draco was outraged. The dishonour, the injustice that someone, anyone would dare to arrest the almighty Lucius Malfoy.

Draco blamed anyone within reach. He blamed the Ministry of Magic, he blamed Dumbledore, but most of all he blamed that upstart mudblood-loving little half-blood, Harry Potter.

He blamed everyone except those that actually lay at fault.

His mother had spent most of that summer holiday shut up in her room. She had been supposedly mourning the loss of her husband, but Draco had doubted that she possessed the depth of feeling required for that sort of emotion.

And so, for the first time ever, Draco was left to his own devices; left to ponder his own thoughts in peace.

Thus began the beginnings of disillusionment with the Dark side. He still believed the tales of glory he had heard from birth and he still craved the power that he believed Lord Voldemort could give him, but somewhere in the back of his mind a little voice wondered whether Lucius had been put in jail because he deserved it. The little voice then went on to ask whether the power of the Dark Mark was worth the danger. And finally the little voice asked whether Draco really wanted to join Voldemort or whether he was just doing it because he had never really stopped to consider an alternative.

After that question was raised the little voice had been hastily pushed away into a deep dark recess of Draco's mind and was forgotten.

Lucius didn't remain in Azkaban for long. By the time Draco left for his sixth year at Hogwarts, Lucius was back at his master's side and Draco realised with a jolt of excitement and slight apprehension that it wouldn't be long before he too joined the ranks of the awe-inspiring Death Eaters.

That year had passed expediently for Draco. He kept a sharp eye on his despised rival and wrote veiled letters to his father passing on any information he gathered. Every time Lucius replied, praising his son and passing on the Dark Lord's approval, Draco's confidence and determination grew. He had his sights firmly set on the Dark Mark and nothing would dissuade him from his goal.

The summer arrived and Draco reached the point of no return. On his 17th birthday, Lord Voldemort called for Draco's loyalty, his wand and his soul and Draco stepped forwards assuredly and handed them over. The Dark Mark burned into his pale flesh and Draco was shocked to discover that instead of feeling elated and proud as he had expected to, he just felt ill and powerless.

Draco was not alone in his initiation. Just weeks later, Pansy Parkinson, Gregory Goyle, Vincent Crabbe, Adrian Pucey and Theodore Nott all fell to the power of the Dark Lord.

The summer bridging his sixth and seventh years at Hogwarts was marked with extensive training. A select group of Death Eaters arrived at Malfoy Manor to oversee the young heir's induction into the Dark Arts.

Draco was somewhat surprised to find Professor Snape among them. He had always had a good relationship with the Potions Master but he had always suspected that Snape had turned from the dark path long ago. More than once, Draco fancied he caught the surly professor looking at him with something akin to regret and resignation in his eyes. The more he watched Snape, the more certain he became that his teacher's allegiance lay far away in the North of Scotland.

But Draco kept these suspicions to himself. Once he would have been eager to reveal such a betrayal, but he had stared down at the Dark Mark, black against his pale flesh and knew that he couldn't.

Draco had long since mastered the basics of Dark Magic but by the time August came to a close and the Death Eaters returned to their master, Draco had an arsenal of Dark curses under his belt; the Unforgivables had become second nature to the scion of the Malfoy dynasty.

Draco relished the feeling of immense power that flowed through him when he performed Dark Magic but always at the end when Finite Incantatem was muttered, he was left feeling empty. And then he would look at the effects of the curse he had just cast and he would feel nothing but disgust; disgust at himself and then shame.

Very few Slytherins returned to Hogwarts after that summer. Most of the older Slytherins were initiated as soon as they reached their 17th birthday and many of the younger students were transferred to Durmstrang to await their turn. The Slytherin families who did not follow the Dark Lord quickly fled the country, seeking refuge abroad from Voldemort's vengeance.

And of course, Slytherins were not the only ones to swear loyalty to Voldemort. A significant number of Ravenclaws, and even Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, joined the ranks of the Dark Lord, a clear indication of the power this charismatic wizard managed to wield.

Draco attended his first Death Eater meeting just weeks before the attack on Hogwarts. It was a turning point for Draco.

A young Muggle girl had been captured. Draco watched as this young girl was tortured and then killed before his very eyes. All around him, the sadistic laughter of his fellow Death Eaters rang out. And Draco felt sick.

For the first time, he was confronted by the reality of actually being a Death Eater, of what Voldemort's cause actually entailed.

Draco had never been fond of Muggles. He didn't understand them and to be perfectly honest, he didn't want to. They were beneath him. They held the wizarding world back. They were responsible for some of the worst massacres and persecutions in wizarding history. They were pathetic and bumbling. But did they really need to be wiped of the face of the earth?

Draco had cast his eyes around the room and it was as though a dark veil had been lifted. He looked at his revered master and all he saw was a crazed madman, caught up in his own pursuit of revenge. He looked around at his fellow Death Eaters and all he saw were pathetic, grovelling servants. Where were the power and glory and honour in kissing the hem of a deranged lunatic?

From birth, Draco had been instilled with an overwhelming sense of family pride. The Malfoys were the most powerful, respected family in the history of the British Wizarding community. Let them respect us, so long as they fear us, Lucius had commanded. Malfoys were leaders; they bowed down to no one.

But now Draco looked across at his father. Lucius Malfoy, tall, elegant, supremely confident sank to his knees and bowed to his Lord, and something inside Draco snapped. The Malfoys did bow in submission. Lucius had lied and Draco felt betrayed.

That little voice was back and after the attacks on Hogwarts and the Ministry, it just grew louder and more insistent.

However, by this stage the wheels had been set in motion. The wizarding world hurtled towards an inevitable war, and Draco was dragged along unable to free himself from the Dark Mark's death grip.

He grew to despise the Death Eaters and their master. He grew to despise his father and all the lies he had spun. But most of all, he grew to despise himself for being too weak to resist, too weak to do anything but blindly follow the path he had so foolishly chosen.

Draco had resigned himself to the life of a Death Eater and went about his duties with reluctant efficiency. Death and pain surrounded him, but he was numb to it.

As March dawned, Gregory Goyle was killed in a raid. Draco had never really been close to his schoolyard companion. He had appreciated Goyle's burly re-enforcement and protection, but had always considered him to be dispensable.

He had approached Goyle's broken body, secretly hoping that witnessing this waste of life would give him the push he needed to resist his preordained path. But it didn't. He had looked down at his former friend and felt nothing. And then he had turned away and returned to his master's side.

As the one year anniversary of his initiation approached, Draco had been skulking in an alcove off the main corridor that ran along the ground floor of the Riddle Manor, when a pair of faceless Death Eaters passed, whispering excitedly and Draco learned with a sickening jolt that Harry Potter had been captured.

Suddenly he was walking; his feet were taking him down through the Manor to the dungeons. He wasn't thinking. He didn't have a plan. He just needed to know. He had pushed the heavy iron door open; palm flat against the cold iron, he could feel the metal humming with Dark Magic.

Harry Potter was chained to the wall. His hair was stiff with dried blood and his face was streaked with dirt and tears. He was barely conscious and his eyes were dulled from the pain. A Death Eater was standing with his back to Draco. His wand was raised, poised to utter yet another shattering curse.

And in that moment, everything froze. As he looked down upon his adolescent rival, something in Draco's mind clicked and suddenly he could feel again. Suddenly the tortured innocent was no longer a nameless, faceless Muggle. Suddenly it became personal.

Draco hadn't understood it then and he still didn't understand it, but in that moment, Harry Potter's bruised and battered body, his broken spirit cried out to Draco. This boy that Draco had spent seven years despising suddenly represented salvation. Represented an alternative, a choice.

As the unknown Death Eater hovered over Potter, crucio poised on his lips, Draco raised his own wand and rendered the Death Eater unconscious.

Potter had watched with shock and confusion as the Death Eater fell to the ground. He had observed unseeingly as Draco removed the Death Eater's mask and stared into that familiar face. He had shrank back against the wall as Draco had approached him, seeing nothing but another Death Eater hiding behind his gruesome mask. And he had fallen to the ground, unable to support his weight, when Draco released his shackles.

Draco could still see the haunted look in those bright green eyes as Potter floated somewhere between consciousness and oblivion.

Draco risked his life to carry the dead weight of Harry Potter out to now decrepit stables. But at the time he hadn't even been aware of the danger. He had been running on pure adrenaline.

Looking back on that night, it was pure luck that Draco and Potter had made it out of that manor alive and undiscovered, and not for the first time, Draco wondered whether some God, somewhere was looking out for the bespectacled Gryffindor hero.

He had flown north with Harry Potter clutching to him from behind. He had taken his precious cargo to the only place he could think of.

Severus Snape had answered his door with suspicion, fully prepared to start hurling curses. Draco remembered with a laugh the look on the Potion Master's face as his gaze fell on the unlikely duo standing on his doorstep. An unidentified Death Eater, holding up the barely conscious Boy-Who-Lived.

Snape had recovered quickly, asking Draco why he had brought Potter to him; playing the role of the shocked and dutiful Death Eater; threatening to tell the Dark Lord.

"I know you're a spy," Draco had said bluntly. Snape's eyes had widened and Draco knew that he recognised his voice.

Snape had implored Draco to stay. "Come back to Hogwarts with me," he had pleaded. "We can keep you safe. It doesn't have to be this way." But Draco had deposited the half-dead Harry Potter into his former teacher's arms and then left.

The following morning, Snape was renounced as a traitor. Voldemort was furious. To have had Harry Potter in his grasp only to lose him within hours had touched a raw nerve and when that meeting was over, every single Death Eater had sloped away in pain to nurse their wounds in private.

Draco had only just made it back to Malfoy Manor before he passed out. And for days afterwards he could still feel the after effects of the Crutatius Curse rippling around his body.

Draco had never had any intention of spying for Dumbledore. He saw the Hogwarts Headmaster as a master manipulator, a puppeteer jerking the strings of those below him. Draco was little more than a servant to the Dark Lord, a dispensable pawn in a war of vengeance… but at least he knew where he stood. Voldemort never made an effort to hide how he saw his faithful followers.

But Dumbledore was the ultimate chess player, moving his pieces around the board. Draco often wondered if Potter ever realised how he was being used by the old man. But something told him that even if Potter did know, he would have continued to fight anyway. He was just like that, Potter was.

So Draco dismissed any notion that suggested he should take up Snape's newly vacated position as spy. When he left Potter with Snape he had fully expected that to be the end of it. He honestly didn't think he had the strength or the nerve for treachery. It seemed like such a foolishly Gryffindor thing to do.

Occasionally he found himself considering writing to his former Mentor, considered passing on crucial information he was sure the Other Side would be grateful to have. But he never did.

Sometimes he felt guilty. He witnessed deaths and wondered if he could have done something to prevent them. But still he didn't write. In the end, his sense of self-preservation won out over any conscience he still possessed.

Besides he had already saved the one life that truly mattered. Harry Potter lived and, with him, the hope of the Wizarding World.

As far as he was aware only Snape knew the details of that fateful night. Before he returned to his master, he had instructed the Potions Master never to reveal who retrieved The-Boy-Who-Lived from danger. He supposed Snape had probably told Dumbledore. But he wasn't especially concerned about that. All he cared about was that Potter never found out who had released him that night in the dungeons.

Draco never really understood this need for privacy. Less than a year ago, Draco probably would have taken every moment available to triumph over Potter, to remind him that he owed his life to none other than Draco Malfoy. But now he hoped that Potter never found out. He didn't think he could stand Potter's gratitude, a gratitude he wasn't even sure he deserved.

The end of the war had come sooner than Draco was expecting. He had been a Death Eater for barely a year and a half when the dramatic climax unfolded.

He had stayed back as his fellow Death Eaters made their final attack. He had watched from the shadows as the final battle between Voldemort and Potter played out on the dark battlefield. He saw Dumbledore fall and he saw Voldemort's skeletal frame disintegrate as Potter triumphed. He had felt the excruciating burn of pain on his forearm as the Dark Mark disappeared forever and after that he had Disapparated away, leaving his fellow Death Eaters to their fate.

He had spent the past six months in France. The Malfoys owned a vineyard in the south and although years of neglect had left it run-down and decrepit, it had become a strangely comfortable home, if only temporary. He lived alone and isolated.

Every day Draco woke expecting Aurors to beat down his door and arrest him. But none came. He didn't understand it. He was certain that the captured Death Eaters would have named every one of their brothers in an attempt to save their own lives. He didn't know why he had been spared the Ministry Inquiry, or if his protection came from Snape or the now deceased Dumbledore or both, but he was eternally grateful.

And then one day, not long ago, a letter had arrived from Snape, informing him that Hogwarts would be reopening this year and inviting him to return to complete his seventh year. Snape's unexpected correspondent left Draco confused and wary. Why would Snape have thought that Draco wanted to come back, why would he think that Draco would even be welcome?

Initially Draco had discarded the letter, not even stopping to give the offer a single thought. He was 19 now, long since come of age. He didn't need to graduate. It wouldn't matter anyway; no one would hire a Malfoy, diploma or not.

But he was still plagued by nightmares and fears, and in the end he found himself returning to England, seeking a refuge at Hogwarts from the outside world.

He had come straight to Malfoy Manor, intending to stay here until the train left in a couple of days. But now as the rain fell around him, he realised that he couldn't go back in there. He didn't even know why. The house was empty. A shell, stark and dismal against the landscape.

His father was long gone, perished on that final battlefield and Draco had felt little sorrow at the loss of his one-time hero.

His mother had died not long after. The Ministry of Magic had arrived on her doorstop with the news that her husband was dead and her son was missing, and a warrant to search the Manor.

Narcissa Malfoy had let them in and then retired to her room. She had sat by the window and sedately drank her tea. Moments later, the poison that mingled with the sweet Earl Grey flooded her veins and she drifted into an endless sleep.

Draco had spared only a few moments pondering the motive behind his mother's suicide. He would have liked to think that she couldn't bear living without her husband and son, but he rather suspected that she merely didn't want to face the shame or the hassle of having her home publicly ransacked by the Ministry. In the end he pushed her to the back of his mind as well; just another death, another casualty.

Perhaps that was the reason, Draco thought. Perhaps he couldn't enter his childhood home because it was a home no longer. All it represented was death, pain and decay… the final fall of the prestigious Malfoy dynasty.

Draco Malfoy turned around in the mud and raised his wand. A loud, sharp crack echoed across the empty fields and then there was silence and the pale figure was gone.

He Apparated in an alleyway, just around the corner from the dingy entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. The rain was light and drizzly here in London and Draco felt foolish standing there, his robes sodden and the hem caked in mud. He replaced his wand and left the alley.

He strode purposefully down the gloomy street. Unlike the figure that had stood on this spot earlier, Draco Malfoy was immediately noticeable. Everything from his clothes to his air of superiority commanded attention. Muggles swerved to avoid him. Eyes widened as they took in the dark, almost menacing figure and then they returned to the pavement and the owners hurried away.

Draco stood before the door for several moments. This wasn't a good idea. It was highly unlikely that the wizarding world would greet the sole surviving Malfoy with anything but hatred and distrust.

He took a deep steadying breath and pushed the heavy door open. The pub was dimly-lit and smoky, but it was warm and Draco felt an almost instant sense of relief.

A moment later, all sense of warmth and comfort evaporated. Silence reigned in the previously noisy bar and all eyes were on the pale figure standing in the doorway.

Draco felt the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he faced the open hostility and stepped forwards over the threshold. He made his way across the crowded room towards the bar, his eyes shifting restlessly around at the staring patrons and one hand gripping his wand through his soggy robes. They stared back at him with a mixture of disgust and fear.

He was half way across the room when the whispers started.

"Bah! A Malfoy!"

"Bad news, the lot of them!"

"Just like his father, that one."

"Evil, mark my words."

"Death Eater!"

Draco's shoulders tensed as these vicious barbs met his ears. As he approached the bar, a tiny haggard witch stepped forwards and spat at his feet. "Filthy Death Eater scum! Why couldn't you die with the rest of your kind?!?" she snarled.

Draco clenched his fists, trying to block out her words. He drew closer to the bar. He could still feel hundreds of eyes shooting daggers at his back. Self-consciously, he drew up his hood as though this would protect him from their piercing gaze.

He stepped up to the bar, placing his long pale hands on the well-worn wood of the counter. Tom the Barkeeper approached him cautiously, a sneer of dislike on his usually cheery face.

"What d'you want?" he asked gruffly, wiping his grimy fingers on his apron.

"A room," Draco stated.

Tom started to refuse, but Draco pulled out his soft leather coin purse, scattering the gold Galleons on the bar top. Tom's eyes flicked from Draco's shadowed face to the gold and back again. Slowly he reached down and fingered the gold lightly. Draco only just managed to bite back a sneer; the general wizarding public might fear and despise the Malfoy family, but they never had any problem with the Malfoy gold.

"Alright, Malfoy," he said begrudgingly. "Just the one night?" He eyed the gold again.

"I'll be leaving on the 1st," Draco replied, snatching the offered key, vaguely registering the number 13 etched on the tarnished bronze keyring.

Tom nodded curtly and pointed towards the stairs. Draco turned to leave, but his cloak caught on one of the barstools. His hood slipped down and as Draco looked up, he found himself staring into a familiar pair of penetrating green eyes.

For a split second, Draco froze but he recovered immediately, fixing his usual emotionless, blank expression on his face.

Draco freed his cloak hurriedly and brushed through the staring crowd, seeking the refuge of the empty stairwell. As he disappeared, the conversations started again in the bar and it was as though he hadn't even been there.

Wearily he climbed the stairs. They creaked ever so slightly with his weight and his sodden robes left a trail of water on the dusty, well-worn steps. He stepped onto the second floor landing, taking in his surroundings. The corridor was dimly lit but even through the gloom Draco could make out the dust and cobwebs that ornamented the ageing walls and ceiling. The air was thick and stale, almost tangible.

Once upon a time Draco would have shuddered at the mere sight of something so plebeian; as a Malfoy, he would never have lowered himself to this level. The Leaky Cauldron was a place only frequented by the lowest ranks of wizarding society, people like the Weasleys.

But now, in the face of little alternative, he swallowed his revulsion, although he did allow himself a brief sneer at the small grubby window that adorned the far end of the corridor, taking in its smeared appearance and the dull glow of the Muggle streetlamp beyond.

Draco searched the row of doors for number 13. He fitted the key in the lock and slipped inside, preparing himself for the worst. Some people might have called the room cosy, but cramped was the word that first came to Draco's mind.

However, it was clean and neat, and above all, welcoming; a fire was blazing in the grate and a series of candles were casting a warm glow over the comfortable furniture.

Draco retrieved his shrunken trunk from his pocket and returned it to its original size. He removed his soaked robes, leaving them in a pile on the floor where not even the thickest of House Elves could miss them.

For a moment he stood in the middle of the room in his underwear, shivering in spite of the glowing fire. When he managed to pull himself out of his daze, he dragged the extra blanket off the end of the bed and, wrapping it around himself, sank into one of the plush armchairs by the fire. The woollen blanket was harsh and scratchy against his bare skin, but it was warm and oddly comforting.

He gazed into the swirling flames, but he didn't see it; he just looked through it. All he could see were green eyes, wide in a shocked and wary expression.

"Potter," he muttered bitterly to the empty room. "Just what I need right now."

And with little more thought than that, he sagged back into his chair and let sleep overcome him.

Author's Notes: Well, that's the first chapter. I don't know when I'll be able to get the next one up. I'm rather embroiled in my Gundam Wing fic at the moment and feel guilty for taking time off to start this story. But if the interest is there, I'll continue to juggle more balls than I'm able and will put the next chapter of this story up for you as well.

So what I'm trying to say is… please review!