Summary: The scene that was totally missing from the end of X3.

When Magneto enters the grocery store, he ignores the temptation of the candy aisle and marches right up to the counter, where the humans buy their cancerous cigarettes and their worthless batteries. The store is blissfully empty of the vermin known as men, except the man seated at the register, reading Us Weekly.

“Who is in charge of this establishment?” Magneto demands.

The pudgy man behind the counter raises an eyebrow. “That’d be me.”

“Puny human,” Magneto says, wishing his had his cape rather than this infernal trenchcoat¹, “I have come here– nay, I have been forced here by your feeble society’s foolish habit of using money in exchange for services.”

“What?” the man asks.

“I saw your help wanted sign on the door,” Magneto explains.

“You live at the old folks’ home down the street?” the manager asks.

Magneto declares, “Idiot! I have not yet been confined in your prison for elders. I live at the YMCA.”

The guy looks him over. Magneto clenches his fists as this creature’s eyes judge him. He remembers a time when this man would have been begging for mercy. “What’s your name?”

“I am Magneto, Erik the Red, the White King of the Hellfire Club,” he boasts, puffing out his chest. “I am known to some as Erik Magnus Lehnsherr.”

“Okay, Mr Lehnsherr,” says the shop owner. “You been a bag boy before?”

“I have nearly exterminated your kind at least five times. I have led armies across your vile nation. I have survived a Nazi death camp. I have seen things that would have you longing for the escape of death. Surely I can master this thing you call ‘bagging.’”

The man frowns at that. “My Grandpa Max was in a concentration camp. He’d roll over in his grave if he thought I was making a Holocaust survivor live on the street.” His hands move under the counter, and he removes a series of papers. He looks almost sympathetic. Magneto barely catches himself from recoiling in horror.

“You got a social security number?”

“I have a number,” Magneto says. “I do not remember whose it is.”

The manager stares.

“Mine’s probably in my safety deposit box at the bank,” Magneto says, thinking. “I will have to call my ex to see if she remembers which bank it is. It might take several weeks. I put it there quite some time ago.”²

“Okay,” the man says, scratching his head. “Uh, come back tomorrow at noon and we’ll get you started. Try to bring some kind of ID with you. You’re not an illegal, are you?”

“In what way?” Magneto enquires.

“Nevermind.”

Magneto cautiously shakes the human’s disgusting hand — thankfully, his hands are protected by the black mittens the widow across the hall knitted him last week — before he departs. As he stands in the doorway, it hits him: tomorrow he will begin his job bagging groceries for homo sapiens.

“Thank you, human,” he calls over his shoulder. “Perhaps I will not kill you when I regain my powers.”³

And Magneto walks back out onto the cold, harsh streets of New York.

*

¹ Actually, he loves the trenchcoat. It brings out his eyes.

² Last time he talked to Mystique, she told him to go fuck himself and stop calling him. At least he didn’t waste any of his free weekend minutes on her, that bitch.

³ A week into the job, he changes his mind. But first he will kill every single person in the government for taking such large amounts of his paycheques. Magneto only makes six fifty an hour, he is not made of money.

Summary: Harry doesn’t kill Voldemort, doesn’t get the girl, and doesn’t get peace of mind. But somehow everything turns out okay. Spoilers up to and including HBP.

One: After

After the medals and the parades and the parties and the funerals, when the streets of London are once again filled with people behaving as if there wasn’t a time when they feared for their lives, Harry comes to an understanding that he’s homeless, jobless, and his parent’s funds won’t last him forever. And more importantly, in all the chaotic years of defeating evil and saving the wizarding world, he understands that he forgot one very, very crucial thing: he forgot to plan his life.

“You want to move in with us?” Ron asks.

“We’d love to have you,” Hermione says.

Harry glances down at Ron’s hand, which is resting on Hermione’s thigh. “No, uh, that’s really alright. I’ll manage.”

It’s easy enough to secure the interview; after all, there are so many dead now, what with the war and all. Harry feels somewhat like a git for taking advantage of that. But he knows he can do this job. He’s seen and done more than anyone in the Ministry. Well, anyone still living, anyways. He’s fought wizards more powerful than him. He’s faced monsters. He’s stood face-to-face with pure evil and walked away unscathed.

Halfway through the interview, Harry realises he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing.

“And why do you wish to be an Auror, Mr Potter?” the man asks.

First he almost answers, “Because I’m Harry Potter,” but the last thing he wants is preferential treatment. Maybe.

Then he almost says, “Because I can’t do anything else. I took Potions, you see.”

A lone drop of sweat runs down the back of his neck. He clamps his sweaty hands together. He can’t remember ever being so nervous; honestly, he’d probably been less nervous fighting Voldemort. At least then his future had been in his own hands. Maybe he should’ve done better in school.

The chap is still staring at him, and Harry figures he should probably answer.

“I want to rid the world of the remaining supporters of Voldemort,” he says finally.

This seems to be the right thing to say. It’s a bold statement — fitting of a hero, which is what they’re calling him in the papers — and besides, it’s true. The interviewer nods slightly, scribbling something quickly on his notepad. Harry wills himself to breathe.

When it’s over, he finds himself hurried out of the office and back into the lounge. He thinks he recognises the secretary; maybe she went to Hogwarts either a few years above or below him. She looks at him like she knows him, certainly. “I’m surprised you even needed an interview,” she murmurs as he walks past.

“Maybe it’s a formality.” He means to be sarcastic, but it doesn’t come out that way, and he gets embarrassed when she blinks at him.

The walk back to his place from the Ministry is too short, so he just keeps walking until he stops recognising street names. Eventually, he passes an old second-hand bookshop. There’s a ‘Now Hiring’ sign in the window, and for a long moment he just stands there, tempted to go in. Of course, he won’t; Hermione would tell him he’s wasting his life, and Ron would be disappointed Harry wouldn’t be working with him, and who knows what Mr and Mrs Weasley would say (although he likes to think they’d support him no matter what, just like his parents, only less dead). Remus would have loved to live to see Harry working at a bookstore.

He frowns at the reflection of himself in the mirror, pushing his fringe to the side. He still can’t get used to his scar being gone, but it looks… alright. While he’s trying to flatten his fringe with his palm, a familiar figure casually strolls down the reflected road:

Lucius Malfoy.

Harry spins round, breath catching in his throat. But it’s not Lucius — who Harry actually saw die in the end — walking into an alley; it’s Draco. Draco Malfoy, assumed long dead, marching across a London street like it hasn’t been a year since anyone’s seen him.

Before he can fully process what’s going on, Harry’s taking off after him, pulling out his wand. He dives into the same back alley, but on the other side, it’s a new bustling, crowded street, even fuller than Diagon Alley. Harry ducks in time to avoid being hit by movers carrying a large painting of a woman eating grapes.

“Malfoy,” he shouts, scanning the crowd. He can barely hear his own voice. “Malfoy!”

He’s walked right into an open market. Fruit stands, vegetables stands, jewelry kiosks, and robe racks from one end of the narrow court to the other. He bumps right into a man playing a flute. A flock of girls in Hogwarts robes look at him and giggle. He pushes past them, trying to look through the crowd. He sees a flash of white-blond hair, and–

Gone.

*

“Here’s to having a real job,” Ron cheers, clinking their pints together. In the dim light of the pub, he looks eerily like his father. Harry tries to think of Hermione ginger-haired and plump, and he covers his laugh with a cough.

“I don’t even know if I got it,” Harry reminds him.

Ron drowns half his glass in a single gulp. “What d’you mean? Of course you got it! You’re Harry Potter. You were born for this job.”

Harry winces as Ron’s faux-pas, but Ron doesn’t seem to notice. He fixes his eyes on a set of blokes playing arrows in the corner. They look like they don’t have a care in the world. “I saw Malfoy earlier today,” he says.

He risks a glance back at Ron, who’s squinting at him. “Isn’t he dead?”

“No, not Lucius,” Harry explains. He feels ridiculous saying it out loud. “Draco. I saw Draco while I was taking a walk.”

“You’re sure it was him?” Ron asks.

“Dead sure,” Harry snaps.

“Oh,” Ron says. He plays with his pint, tipping it one way, and then the other. “He’s going to be really bloody mad at us if he’s been alive this whole time.”

That’s what Harry’s been thinking, only he feels Draco Malfoy will be less “mad” and more “homicidal.” Especially since the last time they saw him–

“Do you ever feel bad about it?” Harry blurts.

Harry doesn’t have to explain what he means. Ron looks up from his glass. “No,” he replies, and Harry expects him to say something along the lines of, “I’d forgotten all about it,” but Ron surprises him: “We couldn’t do anything. If we’d tried, we’d've been dead. Even if Malfoy wasn’t, you know, Malfoy, his life wasn’t worth the lives of everyone else.”

Ron’s right, of course, and Harry hasn’t thought about this in ages. There’s no reason for him to feel guilty. He saved the world, didn’t he?

“Listen to me,” Ron says, rolling his eyes. But Harry thinks he sounds chuffed. “All grown up. I sound like Hermione.”

Harry has to grin at that. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Not that there were many people left to tell.

That night, when Harry stumbles into the tiny, one-room flat he’s hired, an owl’s waiting for him.

*

Two: Before

Before Harry can set off for Godric’s Hollow to start on his genius plan to rid the world of Voldemort — he isn’t sure what it is yet, but he knows that if he puts his mind to it, he can maybe possibly sort of come up with something brilliant — he heads back to the Dursleys’ to wait until his seventeenth birthday. For the first time in a while, Harry feels completely, utterly calm; he knows he has to get rid of Voldemort, and he knows he might die trying, and that, for some reason, doesn’t bother him in the least.

“I’m back,” Harry calls, dragging his trunk behind him.

The Dursleys barely looked up from watching the telly. “I hadn’t even noticed you’d left,” Uncle Vernon says, throwing him a beady-eyed glance before turning back to his programme.

“I was gone for the whole bloody summer,” Harry grumbles under his breath, loudly dragging his stuff upstairs, much to the chagrin of his uncle, aunt, and cousin. He makes sure his luggage hits every single stair. He isn’t sure which is worse: them gloating when he left, or them not noticing he left at all.

When Harry opens the door, a tall, dark-haired boy with plastic glasses jumps to his feet.

Polyjuice, Harry thinks immediately, whipping out his wand. “Stupefy!”

The other boy falls over onto the floor, knocking off– his black wig? Come to think of it, the other boy looks nothing like Harry. His nose pokes through the empty eyepieces. He’s thinner and blond–

“Malfoy!” Harry exclaims. Then he groans: “Malfoy.”

Moaning, Malfoy starts to prop himself up with his elbows, but Harry steps over his body and grabs the front of his shirt. His shirt that belongs to Harry. “You have thirty seconds to tell me what you’re doing here.”

“Er,” Malfoy says, eyes growing wide.

“Twenty-five seconds,” he threatens. “I’m not up for games, Malfoy.”

“Alright, alright,” Malfoy chokes. “At least let me get off the floor, will you?”

Keeping a careful eye on him, Harry lets go of Malfoy’s — his — shirt, roughly dropping the other boy to the floor. Malfoy shakily climbs to his feet. He fixes the wig and puts his fake glasses back straight.

“Get on with it,” Harry says.

“Not much for reunions, are you, Potter?” Malfoy sneers, but his thin lips are trembling. Harry doesn’t have any sympathy for him. “Alright then. I’m on a mission. I’ve been sent to kill you.”

“You couldn’t possibly kill me,” Harry says. Not just because he’d easily win against Malfoy in a duel (“Unless it was a duel on who could be the biggest ponce,” Ron once said spitefully.), but because Harry knows of Malfoy’s struggle to kill Dumbledore. Fleetingly, he wonders if Malfoy cried over him the way he cried over their fallen headmaster.

Draco starts to wring his hands. In the six, almost seven, years they’ve known each other, Harry’s never seen him do that. He starts to feel a little bad. But not too bad. “No, I know. I know. I think–” Malfoy’s voice drops. “I think that was the idea.”

Harry frowns. “You think Voldemort — come on now, you work for him, you can handle hearing his name — sent you here so I’d kill you?”

“Listen, Potter, you don’t know what happened after we left Hogwarts,” Malfoy retorts, and Harry’s filled with a sudden, blinding rage at the image of Snape and Malfoy landing safely at the Death Eater’s hideout, Voldemort waiting eagerly for the news of Dumbledore’s demise. But if it shows on his face, Malfoy doesn’t comment on it. “The Dark Lord was surprised to see me. He, er, it didn’t seem like he knew what to do, with me surviving. So he sent me here.”

“And that’s proof you’re supposed to fail?” Harry asks, swallowing his rage.

Malfoy gives him a very familiar contemptuous look. “I believe his exact words were, ‘Oh. Draco. You made it. How… lovely.’”

Thinking of those words coming out of Voldemort’s mouth makes Harry’s head hurt. “So you decided to dress up as me? How long have you been here?”

“Not long.” At Harry’s scowl, he adds, “Three or four days.”

“And no one happened to notice you look nothing like me?” Harry asks, irritated. He really hates the Dursleys.

“I–” Malfoy starts, but the door opens, and in walks Petunia with a single cheese sandwich (cheese and bread, no spread or meat) and a cup of tea (no milk or sugar).

Petunia takes one look at them and drops the tray with a loud clash. “Vernon,” she screams out the door, “Harry’s multiplied himself!”

*

Three: After

“I have bad news, and I have worse news,” Harry announces.

Hermione and Ron look up from bickering about — furniture, or some sort. Harry hasn’t been listening. He doesn’t have anything to do with their normal, every day problems. Instead, he’s been stirring sugar into his tea, pressing his fingers against the cup until it burns. It’s been eight hours since he received the message. He thinks he might be in shock.

“What is it?” Hermione asks.

“It’s sort of hard to explain,” he adds. “I’m not even sure I understand what’s happening.”

“Out with it,” Ron pushes, taking on a determined expression.

Harry brushes his hair out of his eyes. He reckons the best way to do this is to say it quickly, like pulling off a plaster. “Turns out there were eight horcruxes. And the remaining one is suing me for offing the real Voldemort.”

They both stare at him like he’s grown a second head and it’s started speaking in tongues.

“Is that… is that even possible?” Ron asks.

“Apparently, since it’s happening,” Harry says harshly, pulling the owl from his robes.

Hermione snatches it, eyes running furiously over the script. He hopes she understands it better than he does. It’s ridiculous, he tells himself, ridiculous, ridiculous, ridiculous. Her shoulders slump.

“Oh, Harry,” she says.

Ron gulps. “You mean it’s real then?”

“How could we’ve missed an eighth one?” she asks Harry. “You were so sure there were only seven!”

Harry winces. “That’s because Dumbledore told me there were seven.”

None of them want to say “Dumbledore was wrong,” so Ron just says, “Bloody hell!”

“What’re you going to do?” Hermione asks.

“I don’t know. I didn’t even know wizards could sue each other. I guess…” He straightens his shoulders, trying to look determined, instead of confused and sick. “I guess I have to defeat him a second time.”

*

Harry doesn’t sleep for three nights, and then he passes out while practicing defensive spells on his wardrobe. When he wakes up, there’s a crease on his cheek from the shoebox he used as a pillow, and there’s an owl in his hands. It says he’s to report for the next Auror training session the Monday after next, at seven AM sharp.

He’s not sure how feels about this. When he tries to imagine himself as an Auror, he can’t see that far ahead.

*

Harry expects it to take months before his case actually goes to court, but it actually takes less than a week. He figures the wizarding world is just much more efficient than the Muggle world. Maybe it won’t take long for the judge to see how ridiculous this whole mess is, and Harry can be out in time to catch dinner at Ron and Hermione’s. He’s looking forward to getting this over with.

He changes his mind when Percy Weasley sits beside him.

“What’re you doing here?” Harry asks.

Percy takes several scrolls and books out of a large leather bag he brought in. “Ron owled me. He said you planned on defending yourself. I know I’m not a barrister, but I thought — we all thought — you might need someone with, ah, experience in law.”

“You’re my barrister?” Harry says. “I’m going to lose, aren’t I.”

“Yes, yes,” Percy says distractedly, opening a bottle of ink.

Harry shakes the chains round his wrists, frowning. “So what’s with these? I thought this was a civil trial.”

“Procedure,” Percy replies, without looking up from his scrolls.

“Right.”

At least it’s not the cage; Harry always thought that seemed like some sort of human right’s violation.

Harry wasn’t there when the Ministry was rounding up the most recent batch of Death Eaters. He could’ve been; they wanted him there, of course, but he was still recovering from the final battle, and he hadn’t felt up to looking into the faces of those who had just tried to kill him. He hadn’t been in this room since he fell into Dumbledore’s Pensieve. It’s not as dark as he remembers, but the air smells damp and musty, like old books. Across the way, he spots another bar like his, and a man bending down to talk to–

“What’s that?” Harry asks, straightening up.

Percy actually glances up. “That’s what’s — er, who, rather, is suing you.”

“Is that a piece of paper?” Harry asks in disbelief.

Percy adjusts his glasses, looking rather uncomfortable. “Ah, actually, it’s a receipt for Chinese food. From 1978.”

“You mean to tell me Voldemort–” Percy winces slightly. “–put the very last piece of his soul in a receipt for take away?”

“Well,” Percy sniffs, “you didn’t find it, did you? Seems to me his evil plan worked.”

Things go downhill from there. Harry gets thrown out of court for screaming, “But it’s Voldemort!” over and over, and they’re told to come back the next day, “But check your anger at the door, Mr Potter.” Percy follows the guards who are dragging Harry out, covering his reddening face with his bag.

Harry sits in Percy’s office, stewing, while Percy just glares at him from across the desk.

“You should settle,” Percy says after some time.

“I want a new attorney,” Harry says flatly.

“Frankly, Harry, there’s no one else who wants to work your case, because of who’s involved,” Percy replies, peering up over the rim of his glasses. “Hermione and Ron have been trying to get some high-profile types to help you, without success, I’m afraid.”

“It’s Voldemort,” says Harry. “You’d think I’d have a heap of barristers banging on my door.”

Percy leans forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial level. Resentment causes Harry to bristle. Percy’s trying to make up for all those years of being against him by playing the big brother, but it’s not working. “That’s just it. It’s not You-Know-Who, not really. It’s something that represents him, and that frightens people.”

Harry frowns. “But– it is him. It’s a piece of his soul. Except in a take away receipt. Okay, now I’m beginning to understand why no one wants to help me.”

Naturally, he decides not to settle. Percy lectures him about being stubborn and pig-headed (ironic, coming from Percy), but Harry stops listening. Percy doesn’t understand that he just can’t let Voldemort win, not after everything’s that’s happened. But he doesn’t know how to fix this; it’s not a problem he can solve by magic and skill. He’s out of his league in a way he’s never been before.

Maybe then, he thinks, growing cold, he’s already lost.

When Percy finally lets him leave, he spots Ginny Weasley sitting on a chair in the corridor. He slows his pace until he’s right in front of her, and she looks up from her magazine and smiles.

“Hermione told me about the eighth horcrux,” is the first thing she says.

“Oh, yeah,” Harry says, “I would’ve told you, but…”

They haven’t seen each other since the first week after Voldemort died. Or almost died. Or whatever. He danced with her once, when he was really pissed, and he’s sure he told her some things, but he can’t remember what. He still cares about her, but he doesn’t want to be with her. He likes what they had; he likes looking back fondly. He doesn’t want to ruin that.

“Percy wants me to pay whatever Voldemort wants,” he says, shrugging.

She snorts. “Percy’s a git. He’s probably still mad you made Fudge look like a clot.”

Harry smiles. “Yeah, but unfortunately, he’s the only one here who knows what he’s doing.”

Ginny puts her hand on his arm. He almost has to look up to look into her eyes now. Weasleys are too tall for their own good. “Harry,” she says softly, “I want you to know, I’m here if you need me.”

“It was good to see you again,” he says, pulling away. She looks disappointed.

Rather than returning to the emptiness of his flat, he sits at a cafe in front of the second-hand bookstore and waits until Malfoy walks by. It takes nearly four hours, but eventually he catches Malfoy, who still struts as if every eye should be on him, walking in the same direction as a week ago.

*

This time Malfoy’s surprisingly easy to follow. Harry, keeping a respectable distance and wishing for his Invisibility Cloak, trails Malfoy down narrow, shadowed alleyways of broken cobblestone. They cross the square Harry remembers being lost in, and eventually Malfoy stops at a cluster of lopsided houses. Harry waits in the shadows while Malfoy walks up to one of the doors.

He waits until he heard the creak of a door opening before he steps out. “Hey, Malfoy.”

Malfoy yelps and spins round, eyes wide. “What the bloody–? Potter?”

There’s a moment where neither of them know what to say to each other.

“So I guess you found me,” Malfoy says arrogantly.

“You have been walking round London,” Harry points out.

“Are you going to stand here and mouth off, or are you coming inside for tea?”

Harry’s too startled to be properly offended. Malfoy goes inside, but he doesn’t completely shut the door. For about ten seconds, Harry seriously debates whether or not he’s going to follow, but in the end, curiosity gets the better of him. He pulls his wand out of his pocket and enters.

Malfoy’s home is actually the bottom level. Harry has to pass another doorway beside the stairwell. The flat’s small and shoddy, with white plaster walls that are beginning to crumble. From his spot in the entrance, Harry can see the kitchen and the lounge, which also might be the bedroom. There are newspaper clippings stuck to the wall, probably with magic, and even from a distance Harry can tell they’re about Malfoy’s parents. There’s one of Snape, too, but Harry can’t bring himself to get a good look at it.

Malfoy fills the kettle and turns on the cooker. He looks exactly the same as he did a year ago. Harry feels weird about that, and then he feels weird for feeling weird.

“I saw you a few weeks ago,” Harry says without thinking. “I called your name, but you didn’t stop.”

Malfoy eyes him warily. “Did you?” He looks down at the two cups he’s pulled out, then back up. “So I hear you killed the Dark Lord.”

“Yeah, well, you know,” Harry says, “most of him, anyway.”

Malfoy’s white eyebrows knit into a frown. He looks at Harry like there might be something wrong with him, but then the kettle goes off, and Harry’s pulling up a chair to the wobbly table while Malfoy pours them tea.

“I’d offer milk and sugar,” Malfoy says snidely, “but I’m sort of starving to death from being on the run and having my family’s fortune confiscated by the Ministry.”

Harry ignores the jab. “You’ve been in London this whole time then?”

Malfoy snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. First I was in France, but not speaking French kept getting in the way. Then I was in the Highlands, but that’s such a miserable place, I don’t understand how anyone could possibly live there. After that I was in Manchester, but that was full of Welshmen.”

Harry’s beginning to remember why he hated Malfoy. “So you came back here, where anyone could spot you? Real good work there, Malfoy.”

He waves a vague hand. “Everyone thought I was dead anyway. I thought London was big enough for me to get by without running into people I know. Obviously, I was mistaken.”

“Seems that way,” Harry agrees. He takes a sip of his tea, which is still hot enough to burn.

“They left me to die,” Malfoy says, answering the question Harry hasn’t asked. “They left me naked in a forest somewhere on the continent. They said I’d never survive on my own. But I did, as you can see.” His chin tilts haughtily. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Harry asks.

“Aren’t you going to tell me how brave and strong I am?”

Harry resists the urge to laugh in his face. “I’m sorry,” he says instead.

Malfoy goes utterly still, expression unreadable. This is all very uncomfortable, and it’s not like Harry had a plan, but this isn’t going the way he wants. He reaches out to touch Malfoy’s shoulder, but then he decides that might be a bad idea. “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you when I was supposed to,” Harry rambles on. “I’m just really sorry, okay?”

He suddenly knows what he wants more than anything is for Malfoy to forgive him. He needs Malfoy to forgive him, to give him hope that maybe everything isn’t all screwed up.

But then Malfoy leans back in his chair, pale eyes cold, and Harry’s heart sinks. “Excellent,” he says, drawing each word out slowly, “I’m glad you’re sorry. You should be.”

*

Four: Before

Harry and Malfoy sit on the curb of the entrance to Privet Drive, their trunks resting on the grass behind them. Malfoy’s gotten rid of that ridiculous wig, but Harry didn’t see whether or not he threw away the glasses. Uncle Vernon kicked Harry out as soon as he thought Harry was performing magic. “I won’t have two bloody wizards in my home!” he screamed, to which Harry replied, “Fine by me.”

Now they’re waiting for Arthur Weasley to arrive. Harry sent an owl explaining he didn’t have access to a fireplace, and that his trunk and Hedwig would make it difficult to Apparate. They’ve been sitting there in complete silence for hours. Harry’s been seriously considering just hopping onto his broom and leaving.

“I don’t suppose you can drive,” Harry says finally.

Malfoy merely looks at him. “I don’t even know what that means.”

The silence continues.

Malfoy lets out a long, painful sigh, and leans back so far he’s almost laying on the road. “I can’t believe I’m going to the Weasley’s. My father would die if he knew I set foot into that cramped, disgusting hovel.”

Harry can’t believe he was ever intimidated this prat. “Listen,” he says, turning to Malfoy, “from here on out, if you say a single bad thing about the Weasleys, you’re on your own. I’m not helping you because I like you, or even because I think you’re a good person.” Malfoy starts to say something, but Harry silences him. “And if I hear the words ‘my father’ come out of your mouth, I’ll kill you.”

Malfoy audibly clenches his teeth and looks away.

Arthur Weasley arrives with a pop. He rushes towards Harry, looking frantic. “What now, Harry?” he asks, putting a steady hand on Harry’s shoulder as Harry climbs to his feet. “They kicked you out? They can’t do that, Dumbledore would–”

Then he notices Malfoy.

Arthur looks at Harry sharply. “What’s going on here?”

This is the most humiliating moment of Harry’s life. Worse than the whole Cho fiasco. Worse than when he kissed Ginny in front of the entire House. “Er, he asked me to protect him from Voldemort.”

“And you believed him?”

“He seemed rather, uh, desperate,” Harry says.

“Is this the truth?” Arthur asks Malfoy. “Don’t think I won’t personally hand you over to the Ministry myself. We have ways of making you talk.”

Malfoy starts to sneer, then seems to think better of it. “Yes, sir.”

Arthur stares at Malfoy for a long beat, and for a second, Harry thinks maybe Arthur’s going to tell Malfoy to get lost. But he’s Arthur Weasley; he’d never do that to anyone, no matter how horrible they are. Instead, he pulls an old rubix cube out of his pocket.

“Now, both of you grab your trunks with one hand, and put the other on the portkey,” Arthur says.

Malfoy puts his hand on it quickly, but it takes Harry a second to bite down his anxiety. He hates portkeys.

A spin and a headache later, they’re in the Weasley’s yard. Harry breathes in the cool air, but when he glances at Malfoy, Malfoy’s gazing at the Burrow like he’s just seen something obscene.

Inside, it’s a flurry of activity, as usual, and no one even notices that Arthur brought home more than one boy. Mrs Weasley is furiously directing objects to clean themselves for their unexpected (“But very welcomed, of course.”) guest. And then Ron and Hermione come clambering down the stairs.

“Harry, love, how are you?” Mrs Weasley asks, folding a tea towel.

“Alright,” Harry says. He feels a million times better just walking into the Burrow.

“Harry–” Hermione starts, as Ron clasps his shoulder and begins, “Great to–”

Ron’s the one to notice Draco first. His face turns the same colour as his hair. “What the bloody hell is he doing here?”

Harry really doesn’t want to explain this. “Potter’s protecting me from the Death Eaters,” Malfoy sneers, before Harry can say anything.

“I’m not,” Harry mouths to Ron, who’s looking slightly ill, and Hermione, who just appears furious.

“Arthur,” Mrs Weasley calls hotly, “can I have a word with you in the kitchen?”

Arthur looks panicked for a second, but he follows her, leaving Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Draco to stand there and stare at each other.

“Potter,” Malfoy says, crossing his arms over his chest, “I’ve changed my mind. I’d rather the Dark Lord killed me.”

*

Five: After

Harry goes for his first day of Auror training, and he has a complete, utter freak-out.

*

On his way home, he buys a loaf of bread and a pint of milk. He makes it back to Malfoy’s place (after getting lost twice) and knocks on the door.

Malfoy pokes his head out a second later. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re not making a social call, are you?”

“I brought you some food,” Harry says, holding out the goods. He starts to step inside.

“I don’t want your pity,” Malfoy snarls, shoving Harry out the front door, but he snatches the bread and milk anyway.

Harry tries to block him. For someone so thin and pointy, Malfoy puts up a good fight. “Then what do you want?”

“I want you to get a life!”

The door slams behind him.

*

Just like when they were kids, Harry constantly seems to find himself at Ron’s place. Except it’s Ron’s and Hermione’s now. They’re all proper and grown up; he lies awake every night in a room above a pub while his parents’ galleons dwindle. When he gets to his friends’ flat, they serve him tea and biscuits, a habit he knows they picked up from Ron’s mother. There’s an overstuffed bookshelf in between two of Ron’s Quidditch posters. Their home is the complete opposite of Malfoy’s, and for some reason, that bothers him.

“I saw Zacharias Smith at the Ministry today,” Ron says, talking with his mouth full. “He’s working in Records now. You should’ve seen the look on his face when I told him we were Aurors.”

“I’m not an Auror anymore,” Harry says.

“What?” Hermione and Ron ask simultaneously. Or rather, Ron tries to ask, but he starts choking instead.

“Er, I botched it.”

“How could you botch it?” demands Ron, taking a big swill of his tea to wash down his biscuit. “You defeated Voldemort!”

“Yeah, well, it’s kind of hard to keep your job when everything you see and do reminds you of the final duel between you and the man who killed your family,” Harry snaps.

Both Ron and Hermione seem taken aback. “Oh, Harry,” Hermione says. “What happened?”

He runs a hand over his smooth, unfamiliar forehead. “They were giving me a run-down in the Dark Arts. I just didn’t want to have to deal with that again.”

What he doesn’t mention is he made it as far as Avada Kedavra before remembering every single time that particular curse was used against him, his friends, and his family, in vivid, glorifying detail. He walked right out of the Ministry offices and just stood on the sidewalk, sucking in deep breaths until the urge to scream or vomit or who-knows-what subsided. In the seven years he struggled with Voldemort, in the seven years he watched people he cared about die, he’s never once had a reaction like that. That worries him a lot more than what he’s going to do without employment.

“I think I need a quiet job,” Harry says, rubbing his forehead again. “Something where nobody dies.”

“Listen, Harry, I think you might have a condition known as Post-traumatic Stress Disorder,” says Hermione. “It’s the result of having experienced something life-threatening. Do you feel detached? Have you been having flashbacks?”

Horrified, Harry can’t even formulate a response. He turns from her to Ron, who looks like he’d rather be doing anything other than having this conversation.

“You think I’m traumatised?” Harry manages.

“Well, mate,” Ron says hesitantly, “you did sorta kill someone.”

“For the good of humanity!” Harry sputters. “And– and you killed someone too!”

“And that is why Ron cries himself to sleep every night,” Hermione says. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter why. The point is that you did. And you can’t just walk away from that unaffected.”

Sudden, irrational fury pulses through him, and he clenches his fists. He knows Hermione just wants to help, but he wishes for once she’d just listen to him. He’s not insane; he just needs time to get used to this new world where Voldemort’s (mostly) gone and Harry’s expected to be a hero.

“Have you thought of what you’re going to do now?” Hermione asks.

He snaps, “You know, between the not sleeping and the nervous breakdown, I hadn’t really given it much thought.”

She brightens at “not sleeping.” “I was right, you do have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

*

“You alright?” Ron asks.

Harry’s sitting in the entrance to their building. It’s chilly out, and he wishes he’d worn a thicker jumper. He glances over his shoulder at Ron; Hermione’s frizzy-haired silhouette is pacing back and forth on the other side of the window.

Ron clunks down beside him. “Sorry about all that up there,” he says, bumping Harry’s shoulder with his. “You know how she is when she’s worried.”

Harry studies him. “Do you really cry yourself to sleep every night?”

Ron pauses. “Not… every night.”

Harry presses his palms against his eyes. He wants a drink. No, actually he wants to be back at Hogwarts. “You ever think about the future?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ron says, voice lifting in surprise.

“Yeah? What sort of things do you think about?”

Ron’s still looking at him strangely, but answers, “You know, the usual. Good job, nice home, maybe a family. I used to think about making a name for myself, but, well, I don’t really have to worry about that anymore. Order of Merlin, Second Class,” he reminds Harry, beaming.

“I’ve never thought about any of that,” Harry admits. “Ever since I found out about Voldemort and my parents, all I’ve thought about is doing my homework, playing Quidditch, maybe defeating an evil or two.” Ron chuckles at that. “Last summer, before Malfoy showed up, I’d been trying to think of a plan on how to kill Voldemort. But I couldn’t think of a single thing.”

Ron frowns. “But you did, eventually.”

“Yeah, thanks to you and Hermione. Not on my own. I can’t think that far ahead on my own. Now it’s like I can’t even think what I’m doing tomorrow.”

“Maybe Hermione’s onto something,” Ron says carefully.

“You think I’m nutters,” Harry accuses. He doesn’t need this from his supposed best chum.

“No,” Ron says, “I think you’re stressed. Come on, Harry, mate, you were raised in a cupboard. You were bound to come out maladjusted no matter what.”

Harry wants to ask where Ron learned the word “maladjusted,” but he knows the answer.

“We’re just worried,” Ron adds. “You haven’t been the same since…”

Harry closes his eyes. “So you’ve got me all figured out then, haven’t you? Well, I’m sorry I’m not adjusting as well as you and Hermione. I’m sorry that my whole life was leading up to one moment, and now that it’s over, I can’t–” He shakes his head. “It’s not even really over. I mucked it up. I thought there were seven, and there were eight.”

“Man,” Ron says, gazing up at the stars, “I don’t think anyone saw the receipt thing coming. That was really clever, wasn’t it? Sort of makes you appreciate his evil genius. It’s a wonder any of us lived.”

*

Six: Before

Ottery St Catchpole is a lot smaller than Harry expected. It’s not more than a few narrow streets, a patch or two of bright green parks, and a handful of buildings that lean suspiciously to the left. The weather’s boiling hot, and Harry can smell the Otter River from where they are. Harry loves being at the Burrow.

“This place reeks,” Malfoy grumbles, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

Mr and Mrs Weasley sent the younger ones — minus Ginny, since Arthur seemed to be having a hard time adjusting to the fact his little girl was seriously dating, even if the bloke was someone he knew for years, and even if they already broke up — to town, because Malfoy was grating everyone’s nerves. Ron whinged Malfoy was annoying them, but his parents ordered them to take Malfoy out or else.

“Hey,” Ron murmurs, bumping Harry with his shoulder, “let’s chuck him in the river.”

“If you’re willing to listen to him complain about it for the next week,” Harry whispers.

“I’m right here,” Malfoy says loudly. “I can hear you. You’d better not throw me in. These robes alone are worth more than your miserable life, Weasley.”

“Shut up,” reply Ron and Harry, as Hermione snorts.

“There’s not really much to see here,” Ron says as they walk onto the high street. “They have a wicked sweets shop, but it’s, you know, Muggle candy, and Mum doesn’t like us to eat it. Something about not knowing what’s in it.”

They walk up and down the road a few times, peering into the shops. Ron’s right, there isn’t much; they see the sweets shop, as well as a single coffee bar, a travel agency, and a post office. Harry notices Hermione smile to herself when they pass the public library. Ron starts telling them a story from when he was a kid and the twins made him eat sand out of the park sandbox, and how ever since then he’s had a hard time stomaching porridge, when Harry notices something’s off.

“Malfoy, you’ve been awfully–” He turns and find he’s been talking to empty space. Malfoy’s gone. “–Quiet.”

“Uh-oh,” Ron mutters.

All three of them take out their wands. The streets are eerily still, but there’s something dangerous in the air. The hair rises on the back of Harry’s neck.

“Maybe he just ran away?” Ron says hopefully, but his voice is low.

“Help!” they hear, and it’s definitely Malfoy’s whiny voice.

“Harry,” Hermione says, grabbing his sleeve and pointing.

Harry braces himself for the Dark Mark floating above the village, but there’s nothing. So he takes off running in the direction of Malfoy’s scream, hoping maybe Malfoy’s just thick and got lost. He’s not prepared for when Ron knocks both him and Hermione to the ground. The wind rushes out of him, and he gasps, “What’re you doing?” and braces himself against the wall of the most definitely left-leaning building on their side. Hermione also has a pale, shocked look about her.

Without sound, Ron nods to indicate Harry should peek round the corner.

“Death Eaters,” Hermione hisses.

Indeed, roughly a dozen men in Death Eater masks and robes are carrying Malfoy down a path that leads out of Ottery St Catchpole. Malfoy’s struggling to get out of their grasps, but he’s no match for twelve large, hulking adults. He’s also shrieking very loudly and hysterically.

Harry leans back against the wall and squeezes his eyes shut. They should do something. They should definitely do something. “Anyone have a plan?”

“You want to save him?” Ron asks incredulously. “I’m not putting my neck out for Malfoy!”

“Ron!” Hermione snaps. She turns to Harry. “You think we can get all of them before they either kill us or kill him?”

“I don’t know,” Harry replies honestly, trying to remember what happened at Hogwarts, or the year before at the Ministry. How many Death Eaters did they fight then, and how did they win?

They all watch until the Death Eaters disappear into the distance. Eventually, Malfoy’s screams die off.

“We should go after them,” Hermione says to Harry, but he voice is hesitant. “Malfoy’s a horrible, terrible, despicable person, but they’re probably going to kill him.”

“Yeah, that’d be a shame,” Ron says, studying his trainers.

Guilt tightens Harry’s chest. On the one hand, he doesn’t want Malfoy to die, but on the other hand, he does.

When they make it back to the Burrow, none of them speaking, Arthur, Molly, and Ginny are all in the lounge. There must’ve been something on their faces, because Arthur goes slightly grey and climbs to his feet. “Where’s Draco?” he asks.

“We’re assuming he’s dead,” Ron explains for them all. “We’re rather optimistic.”

*

Seven: After

“It’s not that I’m stalking you,” Harry starts when Malfoy leans out the doorway.

“It’s just that you have this compulsive need to be around me?” Malfoy raises a cool brow.

They do that whole shuffle again where Harry tries to get inside and Malfoy struggles to keep him out. This time Harry wins, and Malfoy’s left following him.

“I’m beginning to think you might be in love with me,” Malfoy drawls at Harry’s back.

“Yeah,” Harry says sarcastically, “I love you so much, I let Death Eaters carry you off to your death.”

“Supposed death, Potter. Supposed.”

There’s a new — and very sinister-looking — clock leaning against the wall in the lounge. Harry’s somewhat ashamed he’s been here often enough to notice things like that. He really needs Malfoy to forgive him now so he can get over it. He wonders if maybe they should go somewhere else for once. Although it’s hardly like he can ask Malfoy to play Quidditch or go for a drink, him being on the run and all, even if Malfoy seems to think he can walk round this part of London without worry.

“Ron and Hermione think I’m losing it,” he says, eyeing the clock.

“I don’t care, Potter.” Malfoy gets up, starts to pace, and then sits down again.

“They think I feel guilty because of stress.”

Malfoy sighs. “Is that so?” he says, in a tone that clearly means it doesn’t matter to him what Harry’s answer is.

“So I came here to apologise again,” Harry continues.

“Yes, that’s very compelling evidence of your sanity.”

“Why won’t you accept my apology?” Harry yells, clenching his fists. “Do you know what my life’s been like?”

“No,” Malfoy shouts back, “I’ve been too busy being nearly murdered by Death Eaters and running away from Aurors.”

The rage seeps right out of Harry. He presses a hand against his forehead, saying quietly, “I wasn’t supposed to be the person who leaves people behind.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t supposed to be the person to get left behind,” Malfoy says angrily. “I was supposed to be the one who helped You-Know-Who rise to power, and then I was supposed to be the one to kill him and take over the Death Eaters. Instead I’m here pouring tea for everyone’s hero, Harry-bleeding-Potter, who’s having a complete mental breakdown in my kitchen.”

“I don’t think it’s a complete breakdown until I start sobbing uncontrollably,” Harry points out.

Malfoy’s face turns slightly purple. “What is it that you want from me? What’s the reason you’re wasting my time now and every other day this past week?”

Harry frowns. “I told you, I just wanted to say–”

“Right, right, you’re sorry. You’re always sorry now. It’s pathetic, really. You’ve gone from being someone I hated, to someone I could have possibly one day not minded your being alive, to someone I truly pity.”

“Is a symptom of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder rage blackouts?” Harry asks coolly. “Because I think I’m about to have one right now.”

“Are you sorry about what you did to my parents?” Malfoy asks suddenly.

Harry’s startled. “No,” he says firmly. “I didn’t turn them into Death Eaters. They got what they deserved.”

Malfoy’s mouth curls into a tight sneer. “Are you sorry for killing Voldemort?”

“Technically, I only killed seven eighths of him, but no, I’m not sorry.” He pauses and thinks about that. “I mean, I am sorry, but only sorry I didn’t kill him entirely.”

“What would happen if I said I forgave you? Would this huge weight suddenly be lifted off your chest, and suddenly the birds will sing and the sun will shine and you’ll walk into the sunset with that Weasley of yours?”

“Ginny?” Harry asks.

“Sure,” Malfoy says.

In all honesty, he’s not sure what would happen if Malfoy accepts his apology. He hasn’t really given much thought about it, about anything, really, in what feels like months. Somehow he doesn’t think he’d feel any better.

“I think,” he says slowly, “your forgiveness would make me feel as if I’m the hero everyone claims me to be.”

But by the time Malfoy kicks him out, Harry’s realised that’s a complete, total lie. He doesn’t need Malfoy’s forgiveness; he needs Malfoy’s fury to keep his mind off the people he really failed.

“I’m coming back tomorrow,” he shouts at the door.

He hears something like sputtered curses rising on the other side.

*

Actually, he doesn’t return the next day. Rather, just as he’s about to walk out the door, Ron asks him to referee a Quidditch game between him and some other blokes from the Ministry. Harry’s a little hurt Ron didn’t even bother to ask him to play, but he says yes anyway.

Because of all the equipment and the unusually nice weather, they decide it’ll be more fun to walk than Apparate. Ron’s in quite a good mood, humming to himself as they move, which Harry kills by saying:

“I want to tell you something important.”

For a second, Ron looks positively terrified. “Alright,” he squeaks.

Harry adjusts the pack on his shoulder, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’ve been seeing Malfoy.”

Ron falters. “You what?”

“Not, like, seeing-seeing. Just seeing. We’ve been talking.”

“Talking?” Ron repeats shrilly. He goggles. Then shakes his head. Then goggles again. “About what? How you’re going to turn him in to the Ministry?”

“I’m not turning him in, Ron. I just… wanted to make sure he was okay. Look, I shouldn’t have left him last year. I wouldn’t've done it to anyone but him.”

Ron stops abruptly and grabs his arm, face darkening in anger. A few people behind them mutter curses as they bump into the six-foot-plus redhead. “Is that what all this is about, your guilt?” Ron demands. “Listen, Harry, it was war. It was a war we barely survived. People do daft things when their necks are on the line, and you know what? I think we did the right thing. Yeah, we hated him, and he hated us, but I’d do it all over again. Because if you’d gone after that pack of Death Eaters, then we might not be here. My family, Hermione, our friends — they might all be dead. So stop bloody thinking about the one bad thing out of all the good you did.”

“I did plenty of bad,” Harry almost says, turning away.

Ron lets go of him, and they walk the rest of the way without speaking.

Harry’s afraid that if he stops thinking about Malfoy, then he’s going to have to think about Sirius and Remus and Tonks and Luna and Snape and Dumbledore and everyone else he couldn’t save. At least Malfoy is here now, where he can fix his mistake.

*

Harry doesn’t sleep that night. He tosses and turns for about three hours, but eventually he gets fed up and puts on his robes.

Under his bed, Harry keeps a box filled with all the owls Sirius and Remus ever sent him, a worn-out copy of The Quibbler, and even a few of his old Potions scrolls with failing marks on them (including one that suggested he drop out of Hogwarts and become “something more suited to your intelligence, perhaps a bin man”). He never considered himself particularly sentimental until he kept losing people he cared about (and in Snape’s case, someone he just feels very awful for not trusting). He has another box full of things from Ron and Hermione, just in case.

He opens the box and reads Sirius’s letters until he can’t take it anymore.

After pulling on his trainers, he practically runs to Ron and Hermione’s flat. Being London, there are still plenty out of people out and about, but he doesn’t look at any of them.

He bangs and bangs until Ron finally opens his door, hair mussed, eyes wide. “Blimey, Harry, what–?”

“It’s not about Malfoy,” Harry rushes.

Ron frowns. “Okay?”

“When Sirius died, that’s all I could think about for months,” Harry says, words falling out of mouth. He doesn’t understand them, but he needs to say them. “I never stopped feeling bad about it. And now it’s more than just Sirius. A bunch of people died because of me, Ron. They died so I can live, only now I’m not really living. I can’t wake up every day and feel happy that I survived the war, knowing that they didn’t.”

Ron’s expression softens. He puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder and leads him inside. “Hermione’s usually right about these things.”

*

A fortnight later, Harry comes to after a long twelve-hour sleep. It’s been four months, one week, and two days after his final duel with Voldemort. For the first time since he left Hogwarts for the final time, he wakes up and feels… not terrible.

His case is still in court (Percy told him not to show his face). Ron and Hermione are still worried about him. His friends and family are still dead. Malfoy’s still a prat.

During breakfast, he reads the Daily Prophet, takes a walk to feel the sun on his face, and thinks about what he needs to do. The first thing, he decides, is to get a bloody job already. Eventually, he Apparates to a familiar little neighbourhood in a different part of London.

He knocks on Malfoy’s door for about ten minutes (it’s a good thing Malfoy doesn’t seem to have neighbours, because otherwise they’d probably not be very happy with him) before it opens a crack. Malfoy peers at him with narrowed eyes. “Why do you look so happy? You know, I keep telling you I don’t forgive you, yet you keep coming back.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. He tries not to smile, but fails. “I won’t bother you any more after I say this.”

“Oh,” Malfoy says, blinking. He leans against the doorway. “I wasn’t serious. I, er, don’t mind being bothered every now and then. Especially if you keep bringing me food.”

Harry pretends he doesn’t hear that. “I’m sorry for–”

Scowling, Malfoy waves his hands. “Yes, yes! I know! Leaving me to die. You’ve said it a thousand times by now.”

“No, this time I’m sorry for using you as a substitute for all my guilt,” Harry says. “Which has actually caused me more guilt in the process. It’s been a rough couple of weeks.”

Malfoy squints. “Are you even speaking English anymore?”

“I’ve, er, been talking to Hermione.”

“So you don’t feel bad anymore for breaking your promise to keep me safe?” Malfoy asks, sounding dubious. He keeps narrowing his eyes, as if trying to look angry, in between bouts of seeming surprised.

Harry rubs the back of his neck. “I do,” he says honestly, “but I think I can live with it.”

He turns to leave, but Malfoy’s voice stops him: “Hey, Potter, I’m sorry too — for ruining your life.”

When the door shuts, all Harry can do is laugh at Malfoy’s sense of self-importance.

That night, Harry sneaks into the Ministry of Magic and rips up the receipt. The next day, the Ministry launches a formal investigation, but Harry receives an owl from the new Minister of Magic, congratulating him on saving everyone. Again. Harry puts the owl in his desk drawer next to his medals, and then he leaves to meet Ron for a game of Quidditch.

*

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Special thanks to Lulinda and Aja for beta reading.

Summary: Lex had thought Smallville would be boring, but that was before the town tried to kill him. A romp in the hay complete with goats’ blood, football players, flying cows, and corn. Set in the early days of Season One.

Friday, November 2001, 8:32 pm

The shack reeked of alcohol, dirt, and death. The goat in the corner was probably a very bad sign.

“You have to look at the big picture,” Whitney told him.

Clark gripped his unopened Budweiser. Whitney kept eying the bottle like it was the last beer on Earth. Not that Clark had any intention of drinking it; he didn’t think being the drunken geek in a group of equally drunk football players was the smartest thing to do right now, even if Whitney was lamenting about the glory days when “hazing meant togetherness.”

“You’re one of the guys,” the quarterback insisted. Maybe Whitney had lost Lana’s necklace again, and she had insisted he play nice with Smallville High’s lower life forms. “You passed the hazing. It’s a ritual, dork.”

That’s the only thing Clark wanted to be, really: one of the guys, so maybe Lana would see him as something different — anything but Clark Kent, the boring guy who spent too much time in his loft. Whitney had lured him here with fancy football rites-of-passage. Somehow he had pictured keggers and chest-banging, but when he and Whitney had arrived at the shack, deep in the heart of Smallville’s woods, they had found a swarm of grim-faced jocks among burning candles. Now the players were oddly quiet as they passed a large knife between them, and Clark had a knot in the pit of his stomach.

“I have homework to do,” he muttered. “I can’t stay long.”

Whitney snorted in disgust. “You’re such a waste of beer, Kent.”

One of the players stood shakily. Chad, if Clark remembered correctly. His grin made Clark nervous. “Dudes, it’s time to begin.”

“Time to begin what?” he whispered to Whitney.

“The sacrifice to the football gods,” Whitney said. “Duh.”

Clark blinked. “Of course.”

“Bring me the goat!” Chad boomed. He picked the knife up off the moss-spotted floor. In that moment, Clark would have given Chad anything he wanted. His lunch money, his jacket, his homework… and he often had, now that he thought about it.

“You’re lucky,” Whitney added. His eyes were a little glazed. “Not too many people outside the team get to see this. Lana hasn’t even seen this. And she’s, like, my bitch.”

Clark wondered if bailing out right now would earn him a lifetime of wedgies. “Please tell me you’re not going to sacrifice the goat,” he said.

Whitney just looked at him. “What else would we use the goat for?”

“Come on, guys–” He cringed and looked away as the knife came down. The goat made a strangled sound. When he looked back, the animal was on the ground, and a football had been painted in the dirt with blood. Beside him Whitney was sweating. “How many times have you done this?”

“Just once,” Whitney whispered back. “But we won Homecoming.”

His attention was drawn back to the situation at hand when the football players began chanting. Chad’s voice rose above the rest: “O Gods, we ask that you bring us good fortune in Friday’s game!” Some of them were too drunk to even get the words out.

“You needed to kill a goat for this?” Clark demanded.

Chad waved his arms dramatically, too rapt in his ritual to pay attention to Clark’s outburts. The candlelight flickered across his face. It would have been threatening if it weren’t so weird. “Osh! Swaki!” he called.

“What does that mean?”

Whitney rolled his eyes. “I don’t know — I don’t take French.”

“You!” He was taken aback when Chad pointed a stubby finger in his face. “You, the newcomer, have to perform the sacred rites.”

Clark’s mind went completely blank. “No thanks. I just ate,” he managed.

That received a death glare from Whitney. “Don’t disappoint me, Kent,” he warned. “Don’t think I haven’t forgotten you’re after my girl.”

Well. After Clark scrambled to his feet, Chad passed him the knife. The cool blade was slick in his palms, and he had to swallow a lump in his throat. “Uh.” Biting his lip, Clark repeated Chad’s earlier motions. “Osh! Swahili!”

The others gasped. Obviously humiliated, Whitney buried his face in his hands. Chad cried, “You said the words wrong!”

“Sorry,” Clark muttered.

The jock glared at him fiercely. “Now you have to stomp on the floor three times, in order to apologize for your blasphemy.”

He looked around the room blankly. The team waited in anticipation. Feeling somewhat helpless, Clark pounded three times. He tried to control his strength, but he hadn’t counted on the moldy wooden floor being so weak. A chunk collapsed under his feet. He teetered on the edge of the hole, and his stomach dropped, but he caught his balance just in time. Several of the guys snickered.

“You suck,” someone called out.

Clark opened his mouth to retort– but something under the floorboards moved. He squinted. “Did you see that?”

“What?” Whitney asked, stepping up beside him.

“He broke our party house,” Chad said, one corner of his lip curling menacingly. The other football players stirred. “You’re going to pay, geek.”

Clark leaned closer to where the floorboards had collapsed. Something was definitely down there; he could see a glimmer below, like eyes. “Stop, I’m serious,” he told them. “This isn’t–”

A hand slid out from the hole in the floor. Startled, Clark jerked back and crashed right into the quarterback. They fell to the ground; Whitney’s jean-clad leg blocked his view of whatever it was under the floor, and when he pushed the other teen away the boards were splitting. The hand slid back up and grasped the jagged edge of one board.

“Oh my gosh!” he exclaimed.

The players scattered quickly before Clark had even staggered back to his feet, leaving Clark and Whitney alone. The force of the swinging door blew out most of the candles.

“Where are you going?” Whitney shouted. He stood up angrily. “You chickens! It’s probably just some rat or some–”

More of the floor caved in. Another hand rose up to meet the first.

“Thing,” he finished weakly. He stepped back with a look of horror.

Something started to lift itself up from the depths. Whitney stepped back far enough to bump into Clark’s shoulder, and Clark looked around the room quickly for a weapon –anything to hold the creature back. “Kent,” Whitney said in a strangled tone. Clark picked the knife back up from where he had dropped it. “Kent!”

The thing stood, and Clark realized it was a woman. What was once a white dress clung to her waif form. Her skin was caked with mud, and her thin arms looked more like branches than living flesh. Slowly, her dry lips lifted in a smile.

“Holy shit!” Whitney cried.

She launched herself at Whitney before either of them could move. The quarterback shrieked as he fell to the ground, and the woman wrapped her arms around his shoulders tightly. As Clark quickly reached out to pull her off, she bit down hard on Whitney’s neck.

There was a shocked silence between them. Clark’s heart pounded in his chest; if he grabbed the woman there was the possibility that Whitney would be harmed more than he already was. Whitney finally stopped struggling and simply lay there, blinking up at the roof.

“Dude,” Whitney said, “she’s nibbling on me. Get her off.”

Clark took her shoulder and lifted her up. She snarled at him when he wrapped one hand around both her wrists, and he saw her teeth were filed down.

“Do you think you’re some sort of vampire or something?” Whitney demanded. Bruises were already forming on his neck.

“Maybe she really is,” said Clark nervously. She nipped at his face, and he held her as far back as he could. She couldn’t penetrate his skin, but Whitney didn’t know that. “She went right for your neck.”

“Way to go, Kent,” Whitney sneered. “You raised the dead!”

They both stared at her. Her eyes were yellowed, hazy, and not entirely sane.

“Oops,” Clark said.

*

They were halfway to the police station when Clark tripped. The vampire wiggled out of his grasp and took off down the street, cackling.

Whitney slowly shook his head. “I am so embarrassed.”

Clark pressed his forehead against the cool pavement and wished the night were over.

*

It was just after nine-thirty when they arrived back at the farm. Whitney pulled his father’s truck right in front of the porch and cut the engine viciously. The expression on his face made Clark grateful his parents were in Metropolis for the night; the last time Whitney was mad at him he ended up a scarecrow.

“Get out,” Whitney growled. He shoved Clark’s arm roughly, and Clark pretended it actually hurt.

“We need to stay together,” Clark insisted. “She’s on the loose, and she might come after us–”

“No, you’re the one who messed up the spell. She’s your problem, freak.”

With a frustrated sigh, Clark leaned his head back on the seat. “You can’t guarantee that,” he said.

“Kent.” Whitney looked violent. “Get out of my car. I’m not dying in Smallville.”

He stumbled out of the truck. Whitney sped off like his life depended on it, and Clark stared at his rapidly fading license plate with a growing horror. A vampire was on the loose, and the only other witness was completely unprotected. His first idea was to go stalking the cemetery with a stake, but he had a greater chance of running into Lana there than the vampire. Explaining the stake to her might be tricky, and he never had any luck in talking to her anyway.

Chloe was the only one he could think of who might know how to vanquish the undead. She picked up the phone after the first ring.

“Hey, it’s–”

“Oh, Clark.” She sounded vaguely disappointed. He heard typing in the background. “Listen, I can’t talk now. I’m trying to finish the latest edition, and I think Pete ran off with my printer paper. I’m going to crush his head.”

“Er–”

“I’ll call you back in, like, an hour.” She hung up before he could get another word in.

He stared at the phone for a long time. Okay, so Chloe was out of the vampire chase. He could have called Pete, but he was pretty sure Pete would demand to know why Clark, the guy whose dad wouldn’t let him play sports, was invited to the party while he, an actual member of the team, was not.

Clark fumbled around the counter for a sticky note with the phone number of the one person in Smallville he could count on right now. He found it crumpled under a pile of cookbooks. Lex had given it to him after one of his produce deliveries; he had said Clark could call him any time. There was still something about the older man that made Clark– jittery, almost, like he was afraid he would trip over his own two feet. But Lex had been nothing but kind to him since day one, and, despite the long stares and promises of greatness, Clark knew Lex wanted to be his friend. Nervously, he dialed Lex’s number.

“Hi, um, it’s Clark Kent,” he stammered. His palms were sweaty, and he rubbed them on his jeans. “I’m sorry to interrupt, I know it’s a Friday night and…”

“Clark.” Lex sounded happy. “I’m glad to hear from you.”

“I did something I shouldn’t have, and I was sort of wondering if you could help me figure out what to do.”

“Of course. What was it?”

“It’s kind of bad,” Clark admitted.

“How bad? Cheating-on-a-test bad, or stealing-your-dad’s-truck bad?” If Clark didn’t know any better, he’d say Lex was amused.

“More like raising-the-dead-and-unleashing-evil-upon-Smallville bad.”

There was a long silence. Clark contemplated saying, “Just kidding,” and hanging up.

“Hey, hold on a minute, would you? There’s a woman at my window.” Clark frowned. There was a muffled sound as Lex put the phone down, and Clark heard, “This is the fourth floor, what are you–?”

The phone disconnected.

*

Clark burst through the door of the castle. His mouth was dry, and all he could think of was Lex, Lex, Lex laying on the cold floor, bleeding to death from a vampire puncture wound to his neck. Lex. He took the steps five at a time, the world blurring around him him. He hoped Lex was in his office; he’d never find him–

As he slowed down enough to make it looked like he had run over at a normal speed, he spotted Lex on the floor by the desk. A window had been smashed. The vampire was knelt over Lex, her face pressed into the crook of his neck, and her dry, brittle hair fanned out over her shoulders.

“Lex!” He was too late. Grief settled heavily in his chest.

He nearly jumped when Lex turned his head slightly, his grey eyes narrowing. “Clark.” Lex gritted his teeth. “I seem to have acquired a new friend.”

“Er,” Clark said, gaping.

“She’s sucking on my neck. It’s a little uncomfortable.”

Startled into motion, Clark ripped her off his friend. She swiped at his face; the look of surprise on her face when her nails didn’t break his skin was something he was used to by now. When she reached for his throat he shoved her away roughly. Shrieking, she tripped over Lex’s chair and went sailing somewhere behind the desk.

“Thanks,” Lex said. He took Clark’s offered hand. He hadn’t let go when the vampire launched herself at them yet again. Clark pulled Lex towards him, and Lex sidestepped her easily.

“I think she likes you,” Clark said.

“Great,” Lex murmured.

Lex stepped backwards into the lamplight. The way it hit his pale skin was fascinating. Clark found he wasn’t the only one who thought so; the vampire paused in mid-step, clearly awestruck.

“Oh,” said Clark.

Lex seemed worried. “Why is she just standing there? Clark, do something!”

“I think she likes your head.” He risked a glance at his friend. “Because you’re, well, shiny.”

The vampire practically drooled.

“Because I’m shiny?” Lex demanded, horrified.

“Not glowing shiny, but just shiny-shiny,” Clark said defensively. “Like a countertop, or a–”

“Not helping,” Lex interjected.

The vampire took another step towards Lex. Clark did the first thing that came to mind: he pushed Lex hard enough to send his friend crashing to the floor. She came at Clark with her hands raised like claws. Clark batted her away with his shoulder, and she crashed through the stained glass window. A loud scream grew more distant as she went down, and then, finally, it stopped.

Groaning, Lex sat up. “Jesus, Clark, what was that?”

Clark peered out the window. He didn’t see the vampire in the darkness below, but the bushes rustled loudly. “I think she’s gone,” he called.

With a gentle touch, Lex led him away from the window. Glass cracked under his sneakers. “What’s going on?” Lex asked quietly.

“She was a vampire. I think.”

Lex frowned. “That wasn’t a vampire, Clark; she didn’t penetrate the skin. A more plausible explanation would be she just thinks she is. And, in case you haven’t noticed, vampires don’t exist. They’re folklore.”

Clark winced. “We have a problem in Smallville.” Lex looked at him sharply. Timidly, he added, “With mutants.”

“Right,” Lex said.

There were red marks on Lex’s neck, like hickeys, and Clark didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or amused or what. His face felt hot. “Whitney took me to this old house in the woods,” he stammered. Lex raised an eyebrow. “People call it Lilah’s Fort, because they say a crazy hermit died there during the meteor shower. They never found her body.”

Lex drawled, “Let me guess. Lilah was the one who attacked me.”

“Some of the football team was in the shack,” he continued. “They were making a sacrifice. When it was my turn, I kind of, er, broke through the floorboards. The vampire came out from beneath it.”

“They were making a sacrifice,” repeated Lex, incredulously.

“To the football gods,” he said weakly.

Lex’s grey eyes widened. He couldn’t tell whether Lex was amused or horrified. “Faux vampires and crazy football teams,” Lex said tightly, and Clark wondered if he was fighting back hysteria. “Strange place, Smallville.”

Clark smiled crookedly. “I’ve seen weirder.”

*

Saturday, 10:07 am

When his car had broken down in the middle of the road, Lex had been annoyed. When he had found himself surrounded by nothing but miles of corn and a stretch of sky so bright he could feel his skin sizzling, he had been disgusted. But when a cow came hurling out of the heavens and crushed his Spyder under its massive weight, he was downright pissed off.

He didn’t know much about livestock, but he was pretty certain cows didn’t fly. He was also sure running over teenagers usually killed them, so perhaps the laws of science didn’t function normally in Smallville.

The cow let out a weak “moo,” and promptly rolled off the crushed metal. As Lex stared at the remains of his car he remembered why he hated this town.

He dialed the only phone number he knew in Smallville.

“Hello?”

“A cow just crushed my car,” he said blandly.

Clark’s silence was a testimony that Lex wasn’t the only one confused. “I’ll come pick you up,” Clark offered.

“A cow crushed my car, Clark,” he repeated.

“I heard you the first time.” There was a muffled sound. “Dad, I’m taking the truck. I’ll be back soon.”

“Thanks,” Lex said. He wasn’t sure what else to say. He eyed his car wearily.

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

It was actually seven minutes and thirteen seconds, but Lex wasn’t going to hold it against him. When the battered Kent truck stopped right in front of him Clark gave him a little wave. Letting out a small sigh, Lex climbed in the blue truck. He was careful not to touch anything but the tattered seat; he didn’t want to accidentally ruin something and have Mr. Kent realize Clark had given him a ride.

“Thanks for picking me up.”

Clark smiled brilliantly, and Lex found himself smiling back. “No problem. You’re lucky I was home to catch your call.”

“I’ll remember that next time a cow falls out of the sky,” Lex murmured.

“How did you get out of it, anyway?”

“I wasn’t in the car when the cow came down. My cell refused to work, so I got out to see if the reception was better somewhere else. That’s when the cow came.”

Clark frowned. “You were lucky then.” His voice was distant, and Lex wondered if Clark knew where the cow had come from. Maybe it rained cows all the time in Smallville.

Lex said, “I know it’s out of your way…”

He chuckled. “Well, it was either this or leave you to hitchhike home, and with the mutant-to-human ratio…”

“That’s not funny,” Lex said flatly.

“Uh, yeah, sorry.” Clark looked disappointed. He fiddled with the controls, and the heat rose considerably. “I tried to call Chloe, but her dad said she spent the night at Pete’s–” Lex rose an eyebrow. “–So the general consensus is that the vampire is still out there somewhere. Do you have any bodyguards at the castle?”

Lex frowned. Something about this situation didn’t feel right. “You said last night that the vampire ‘liked’ me.”

“Yeah, I thought the way she looked at you was–” Clark broke off and shook his head. “Well, I just don’t think we should rule out the possibility she could come after you.”

She couldn’t possibly– “Cows don’t fly in Smallville, right?”

Clark raised his eyebrows. “No.”

A shadow rose in the corner of his eye. Clark gasped, and Lex’s head snapped back to the front.

The vampire was sitting on the hood of the truck.

“Whoa!” Lex exclaimed.

Her yellow eyes were fevered as she latched on with her hands. She crawled towards them slowly, staring hard at Lex. Clark swerved quickly, throwing Lex hard against the door, but she just pressed herself against the windshield. All Lex could see beyond her frayed white dress was corn.

“Clark! Stop the truck!” Lex shouted.

Clark looked at him like he was insane, but he slammed on the breaks with enough force to rip the vampire off. She slid off the hood with a loud squeak. Clark shifted into reverse and took off down the street, backwards. Lex thought Clark should have backed over her.

“I have an idea,” Clark said.

The vampire pushed herself to her feet, and she didn’t appear happy at all. Lex panted. “What?”

With a determined expression, Clark did a three-point turn. “You’re going to have to trust me.” He sped up. Lex looked back over his shoulder; surely enough, the vampire was following them. She moved fast for a dead woman.

“You need to trust me,” Clark said.

Lex looked at him. His hazel eyes were open and sincere, and Lex swallowed. “Yeah,” he croaked. “I trust you, Clark.”

*

Clark drove as far into Smallville’s woods as he could, carefully weaving the truck between trees. Thankfully, the football team had been there often enough to leave permanent tracks in the grass. Lex clenched his teeth tightly and gripped the dashboard as if he were afraid Clark would kill them both. As soon as the house came into view Clark saw Lex’s mouth twitch in disgust. The shack looked different in the light; now Clark could make out the rotting siding. The door was gone. He rolled the truck to a stop. He heard the vampire running after them, although he knew she was too far away for Lex to hear.

“I need you to stand in front of the entrance to the cabin.”

“You’re kidding me,” Lex said.

“Lex–” he started.

But before he could finish Lex, still staring at him, opened the door. “Sorry, I forgot. I trust you.”

Relief washed over him. Lex stood in front of the empty doorway with his hands on his hips. Clark could hear the vampire coming closer. “Just stay there,” he called, and dashed around the corner. The footsteps grew louder, and then suddenly stopped. Lex’s heartbeat, on the other hand, increased dramatically.

“Clark, she’s here,” Lex called. He didn’t respond. Lex chuckled nervously. “Oh, I’m the bait. Hey, uh, if your plan is to get me killed, then it seems to be working.”

“Shiny,” came a hiss.

“I have no self-esteem left after this,” Lex said.

She screamed as Clark rounded the corner and tackled her. They rolled into the shack, and she clawed at his face, his arms, and his back, but it didn’t work. “Lex, get in the truck!” he yelled, and the vampire took a swipe at his mouth. He grabbed her hands. Then he heard the truck door slam.

He raised her by her wrists. She kicked at his shins, but yelped when her toes hit hard flesh.

The wooden floor startled to crack under their combined weight. Frantically, Clark tossed her towards the wall. She smacked against it, and then fell over into the hole where she had originally came. Using his superspeed, Clark pushed all the walls onto a pile over the floor, burying her.

“Clark!” Lex was shouting.

He took a step back as the dust rose around him. When it cleared, Lex stood across the pile of wood from him, breathing hard. It was all very anti-climatic.

“I’m okay,” Clark said. “But I don’t think we have to worry about Lilah anymore.”

*

Lex was staring at him all the way back to the Luthor castle. Pete and Chloe, no matter how suspicious they had been in the past, had never looked at Clark with that cool, calculating expression. It was the same one Lex had given him when he had handed Clark the lead box; like he knew more was going on than Clark let on. He liked Lex, but he wouldn’t — he couldn’t — tell him anything.

“Can I use your phone?” Clark asked. His voice sounded too loud to him.

Lex broke his gaze long enough to dig the cell phone out of his jacket pocket. Clark dialed the Fordman’s house one-handed.

“Hello? Whitney speaking.”

“It’s Clark, and–” Clark’s frustration spiked as Lex started to reach for his shoulder. “Lex, would you stop looking at me like that? I’m fine.”

“A house fell on you,” Lex said slowly.

“The house what?” Whitney asked.

Clark cleared his throat. “Whitney, I don’t think we have to worry about the vampire anymore.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Whitney said flatly. “What about the shack?”

“The house, um, missed me,” said Clark, more to Lex than Whitney. Lex didn’t seem convinced.

“What did you do?” demanded Whitney. “That’s the property of the Smallville football team, doofus.”

Lex leaned back in his seat, making a point of not looking at him. Clark figured this was a bad sign. He stared at his friend as he replied, “Yeah, the, uh, party house is gone. The team will have to find someplace else.”

“You had to destroy Lilah’s Fort to get rid of the vampire? Thanks a lot, Kent. I always knew you were a loser.”

Whitney hung up angrily. Clark blinked at the phone.

“I think it’s safe to assume you’ll never be invited to another party,” Lex said.

“All this because I displeased the football gods,” Clark murmured.

They pulled up to the castle gates. Lex opened the door and slid out of the passenger seat. He took his phone back, frowning deeply. “You know, Clark, I still want to be your friend. I don’t want you to think you have anything to hide from me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Clark said.

He watched Lex walk leisurely up the stone steps, until finally, he disappeared into the castle. Clark put the truck back into gear and drove home.

*

Disclaimer: Smallville and its characters belong to DC Comics, Warner Brothers, Tollin/Robbins and Millar/Gough Ink. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Thanks to Morri, Aja, Cassie Claire, and Rube for all their comments, suggestions, and beta readings.

Summary: All Lucius wanted was for his son to make him proud.

The carriage ride to the Dark Lord’s country villa was a hellish experience. Not only did the rocking of the buggy make Lucius Malfoy physically ill, he also had to listen to Draco whine about how carriages were so last century and why couldn’t they just Apparate like normal Wizards and where was Mummy? Apparating to the Dark Lord’s secret location was unthinkable; Voldemort would kill them, dispose of their bodies, and still have time to sample the appetizers before the Ministry’s Aurors would even appear.

“You will remember to compliment Our Lord on His excellent decor and food, Draco,” Lucius commanded.

Since Draco’s birth, Lucius had been awaiting the day his son would follow in his footsteps. They had had several drawbacks over the years, such as Draco spending his time obsessing over Potter rather than studying, Draco being afraid of nipple clamps, Draco finding the Dark Mark unseemly. But in the same manner as he had believed his Lord would one day rise again (despite all of that dying business), Lucius found himself knowing with utmost certainty that Draco would make a fine Death Eater.

“Right, food, decor. ‘Is this salmon? I love salmon.’”

Or perhaps not. Lucius’ smirk slipped. “You will engage my peers in stimulating conversation,” he hissed.

“Stimulate your peers, yeh,” Draco said, staring down at the platter he was to present to Voldemort on his lap.

Lucius simply looked at him.

“What now?” Draco asked.

Lucius thought for a moment. “Don’t hog the chips.”

“Yes father,” Draco nodded. Lucius scowled at him, but Draco didn’t notice. He gingerly lifted the lid to the dish they were to offer. “What is this? It smells good.”

“Moose Casserole,” Lucius answered, idly studying his fingernails. Draco closed the lid, looking vaguely ill. “I’ve got Emu Goulash as well, it’s in with the driver.”

“Nice,” Draco gagged.

“My Lord was insistent that I bring the Turtle Piquant. I hate to say it, but Frances Crabbe has a house-elf far superior to mine. Really, if it’s a bad Turtle Piquant, it’s a bad Turtle Piquant, and Weeble only has experience with French cuisine…” he trailed off.

There was a long silence.

“I think I’ll just have the chicken soup,” Draco whispered.

Lucius couldn’t think of a Death Eater worth anything that ate chicken soup. “You will not,” he said sharply. “You will eat your Emu Goulash, and you will be happy about it.”

“Yes father,” Draco said, although he didn’t sound very convinced.

*

The Malfoys, of course, arrived fashionably late. The festivities were already in full swing; over in one far end of the hall, next to the vomitorium, was a long table covered in dishes. With a nod at Draco and the house-elves to follow, Lucius crossed the room, chin up, eyeing his fellow Death Eaters. A handful of them swarmed round the Dark Lord, who didn’t even look in Lucius’ direction.

Lucius caught the back of Draco’s dress robes with his cane as he saw his son start to edge towards the chip bowl. He gave Draco a warning look, but before he could begin to lecture him Crabbe Sr. wandered over.

“Lucius,” he said cheerfully, his rank breath causing Lucius to wrinkle his nose distastefully, “so nice to see you!”

“Charmed,” Lucius said snidely.

“I see you brought little Draco. Isn’t it grand that the boys will all be Death Eaters together?”

Lucius glanced over at Crabbe’s son, Vincent. The lad was wolfing down cupcakes like he wouldn’t be fed again for another month. He had a smudge of pink frosting on his nose.

“Yes, it’s fabulous,” Lucius said, snorting. He tried turning around to get a look at Draco, but before he could Crabbe yanked on his arm to get his attention.

“Where’s Narcissa?” Crabbe asked, eating a chip. “I don’t see her.”

Lucius glared at him. “She’s in France,” he snapped.

“Yeah, that’s what they always say.” He snickered and jovially slapped Lucius’ shoulder so hard he nearly fell over.

“Pardon me?” Lucius sputtered, brushing himself off.

“Eh, you know. When the cat’s away…” Crabbe grinned.

“No, I don’t know,” he seethed. “Please explain.”

Crabbe blinked, sobering a little. “Um. See, when a wife is not… near her… husband… and the husband… looks like… yo-” He coughed.

“What are you implying?” Lucius demanded icily.

“Oh, look! Crackers!” Crabbe beamed, and stuffed a handful in his mouth. “These are really good, Lucius,” he garbled, consequently spraying Lucius with soggy Ritz crackers. “Have some?” Crabbe’s fleshy, hairy hand extended a few crushed crackers.

Lucius backed away slowly. “I think I’ll pass.”

Crabbe nodded, and Lucius took off. He scurried past a few more of his fellow members of Death Eater gentry, trying to locate Draco – who was probably off hoarding mini-soaps and shower caps from the men’s lavatory, come to think of it. He passed Voldemort and his crowd, inadvertently catching snippets of conversation.

“If you ask me,” Goyle was saying, sipping on a Shirley Temple with five or six cherries bobbing at the top, “he should have died. He would have been The Boy Who Died. That’s what should have happened.”

“Life is overrated,” someone added, and several people nodded their agreement.

Lucius was seriously questioning the wisdom of his chosen social circle when, “Dad?” He spun to see Draco staring after him nervously, the front of his robes bulging.

“Don’t talk to me until you put back the hand towels,” Lucius warned. “I am in no mood.”

Draco sheepishly reached into the front of his robes and pulled out a stack of the towels. He tossed them onto a nearby table. “They’ve got ‘LVR’ stitched onto them,” he needled. “All we’ve got are those lousy ‘Malfoy’ ones, in the forest green. I hate those ‘Malfoys’,” he added passionately.

Lucius tried not to growl. Growling was obvious. “Do you even know what ‘LVR’ stands for?” he questioned shrilly.

“No?”

“‘Lord Voldemort Rules’,” Lucius hissed, one of his eyes twitching dangerously. “In comparison, ‘Malfoy’ is a bloody sonnet.”

Draco looked thoughtful. “But,” he started quietly, and Lucius could practically *see* the wheels turning, “he does rule.”

Lucius was wide-eyed. “Don’t talk to me,” he wheezed. Draco looked up at him, and Lucius was about to snarl, when he noticed Voldemort watching. “I love you, son,” he choked out. “You perfect little Death Eater, you.”

“Um,” Draco said cleverly.

Pained, Lucius risked a glance at Voldemort, who was sneering with approval. The whole effect was rather spooky, because Voldemort didn’t really have lips, per se. Lucius scowled back, inclining the head of his cane, and Voldemort snarled his acknowledgement.

“Dad?” Draco asked. “What the hell are you doing?”

Lucius stopped making cutthroat gestures long enough to answer. “Paying my respects.”

“Okay,” Draco said sombrely, but Lucius knew he was secretly amused.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he barked. “Try it out.” He looked expectantly at Draco, who shifted under the scrutiny.

“I am not making funny faces at the Dark Lord, all right?”

“Yes you are, and they will be good.”

Draco screwed his face up into a grimace and said something that sounded like “grr arg.” Voldemort roared in response.

“Wonderful, son. I’m proud of you.” Draco looked absolutely stumped, so Lucius changed the subject. “Have you been making the rounds?” he asked.

“Mhm,” Draco nodded. He started ticking off names on his fingers, “I told Mrs. Crabbe that her hairstyle was simply divine, Greg came up to talk, and so I insulted his jacket, Helen McNair and I had a lengthy discussion on glasses, and how the majority of people who wear them are seriously fashion-inept…” he grinned broadly, obviously proud of himself.

“That’s…” Lucius struggled for a word to express his horror, but Voldemort was still watching. “Nice.”

“Great. Can I go charm the Dark Lord now?” Draco flashed another wide smile. “I promise I’ll be the most evil Death-Eater-In-Training that he’s ever seen.”

Lucius considered. “Fine.”

Draco pranced — there was no other word for it — up to the Dark Lord. Voldemort gazed at Draco with an odd mixture of hate and arrogance as Draco bowed and gave a charming Malfoy smirk.

“My Lord, I am prepared to do whatever it takes to be one of your faithful servants,” Draco said, and Lucius thought perhaps this would turn out okay after all. “I can eat death like nobody’s business.”

The room fell silent. Lucius pondered the best way to first kill Draco, then himself.

Rushing forward, Lucius grabbed Draco’s bony shoulder. “I’m terribly sorry, My Liege. Draco is just excited to finally be presented before you.”

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. Or would have, if he had had any skin on his face. “I’m sure, Lucius.”

“Neither Draco nor myself can wait for him to join the inner circle,” he continued.

Voldemort took a pointed sip of his wine. Then, he hissed merrily, “Pity that won’t be happening.”

Lucius goggled. Draco squeaked. “What do you mean, My Lord?” Lucius asked, trying to sound concerned and confused at the same time. It was quite an effort, because his gaze kept travelling involuntarily to the sharp utensils displayed on a nearby table. “Surely you can find a place for my son in your exceptional ranks?”

“It’s not that I can’t, Malfoy, it’s that I won’t.”

Lucius swelled like a peacock. “Begging your pardon?”

“Your son,” Voldemort began, sizing Draco up, “is a complete idiot.”

“Oh, most assuredly not!” Lucius gasped, horrified. “He has top-notch marks in Potions, and Charms, and…” Lucius looked back desperately at Draco for support.

Voldemort’s slits narrowed shrewdly, until they almost resembled eyes. “Snape teaches Potions, yes?” Lucius nodded. “Ah, yes, it is no wonder. He always did fancy that type…”

“Excuse me?” Draco bristled. “I am not a type! I’m –” but Voldemort cut him off.

“And any half-wit with a fondness for custom accessories excels in Charms, Lucius.”

“I’m third in Transfiguration,” Draco said weakly. “That’s not lip service.”

“You change birds into goblets,” Voldemort said bluntly. “Big deal. Crabbe can do that, can’t you, Crabbe?”

Crabbe sneered. “Yes, Master. And cups, too.”

Voldemort took a deep breath.

“But Crabbe is much more stupid than Draco!” Lucius protested. “And far less attractive!”

“Well,” Voldemort snapped sarcastically, “that seals it! Let him in!”

Draco mumbled something under his breath that Lucius couldn’t hear. “My Lord,” he started, and couldn’t think of anything. “My Lord, surely…”

“Lucius,” Voldemort growled. “Do not push my good will.”

“Yes, My Lord,” Lucius mumbled, bowing his head. He grabbed Draco firmly by the arm and started to drag him away.

“That’s it?” Draco whined. “We’re just going to give up?”

“Yes, unless you have a masochistic fondness for the Cruciatus curse,” Lucius hissed, stopping by one of the many tables of food. “In which case, I say go over there straight away, and demand to kill some dirty, rotten muggles!”

Draco looked appallingly thoughtful. “I could always get that Lestrange freak to do it for me,” he said slowly. “Lord knows that she likes to be Crucio-ed…” Lucius swelled. Draco deflated. “I’m sorry, dad,” he sighed, helping himself to a crab cake.

Lestrange walked by, followed closely by Mulciber and Avery. Lestrange was limping obviously, and Mucliber was muttering something about the Imperius curse.

Draco bit noisily into his crab cake. “These cakes are delicious,” he said loudly, and all three Death Eaters turned around to stare at him, “but I’d much rather be eating death.”

The three of them sniggered and wandered off.

Lucius fought the urge to strangle his one and only successor. “You are fighting a losing battle, boy.”

*

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Summary: Ron. Egypt. In the heat of summer, Fate pauses for no man. Spoilers up to and including Goblet of Fire.

The dusty, winding alleys of wizarding Cairo were fascinating even to a child like him. Their yellowed stone buildings and packed dirt roads, dry (blood) beneath his sandled feet, which were already dusted with sunburn from too much walking, smelled like burning spices. The hot air was thin. As he walked beside Bill, coal-eyed (except tom riddle’s eyes were green not glass black empty) children peeked at them from behind weathered corners.

Percy was several steps behind them, nose stuck in a thick tome. He occasionally stumbled on the back edges of Ron’s sandles, his leg breadth wider, but Ron proudly knew he was catching up in height. “‘The wizard community of Egypt began as early as 2800 BCE,” he read. “‘Recorded history shows that the earliest wizards may have migrated from the cities of Sumeria, which was a trading post with the civilisation inhabiting the Nile Valley; the Sumerian theocracy allowed little room for non-religious magic. Furthermore, several large groups of wizards have been recorded moving upwards from central Africa–’”

“You need to be careful.” Ron looked up at Bill. His older brother frowned. “They like to swindle tourists here.”

Ron touched (his chest where Scabbers was curled up hiding from flying fur and claws) the coin pouch pinned to the inside of his summer robes. He had managed to save ten galleons. For once he could buy his friend a gift with his own money. “But it’s Harry’s birthday soon,” he said excitedly. “I need to buy him a present. I won’t be cheated, Bill. Trust me.”

“This history is absolutely fascinating,” murmured Percy. “It’s so much older than that of ours. Who knows what kind of mysteries still lie in the sands?”

Bill sighed, but he didn’t protest. “I keep forgetting you’re a teenager now. You can take care of yourself.” Ron grinned.

They walked deeper into the alleyway, past booths of gold jewelry and crystal figurines, people calling out in (panicked whispers voldemort killed diggory no it was potter potter did it) halted English or jumbled Arabic. The crowds were thicker now. Bill put his hand on Ron’s shoulder protectively, even though they were nearly the same height. Percy’s pace quickened.

“You should put your money in the bank, Ron,” Percy chided. “Not spend it on your friends. Don’t you want something for the future?”

Rolling his eyes, Ron ducked into a darkened stall shadowed in black cloth. Behind him, he heard Bill speak to Percy: “That’s probably why you don’t have any friends.” Inside, smoke of incense coiled over long-necked copper pots. He waved his hand through one wisp, watching the cloud pass over heaps of gold and silver trinkets. A dark mass wavered in one corner, and with a start Ron realised (he wasn’t there) it was an old woman dressed in black robes, her pale brown eyes blinking brightly. They were outlined in heavy kohl. She stretched out one bronze, bony (wand) arm towards him (and there was blood everywhere someone was screaming and where was he where was he).

“American?” she asked in a thick accent. Her voice was raspy.

“Er, no. British.”

She nodded. His gaze drifted over the objects in the baskets, searching for one perfect for Harry. He picked up a cool silver bauble, seeing a reflection of (blood beating down on harry standing alone with nothing left but his wand in one hand and his forehead in the other fingers pressed against his scar) Bill’s tawny robes through the black line of the cloth and the brown stone wall. The colour reminded him of the Malfoys. He (dreamt) set it back down gently.

“Looking for a gift?”

He looked back at the old woman. She had brought a long tube to her lips and (where was he) was busy puffing at the mouth of it. The other end stretched to an incense pot beside her. The stall smelled like vanilla (flesh burning pink from hermione’s hand ron pulling her away) and spices and other things he couldn’t identify. It smelled like Egypt.

“Yeah,” he (was gone) replied, “it’s my best friend’s birthday.”

“Ron.” Bill’s voice outside. “There are other places we can look.”

“Boy are adventurous,” she said. “He wants an exciting gift. There are charms–”

Ron thought Harry’s life was exciting enough. He was rich; he had a smart broom; he didn’t want any books, like Hermione would. What Ron wanted to do was give Harry something he needed, so he could always look at it and (whisper hungrily avada kedavra) say, “My friend Ron gave that to me. It’s very handy.”

Through the mist of the incense, his eyes settled on a glass surface of a spinning top, trapped between a dirty Rememberall and a gold vase. He fished it out.

“Sneakoscope,” the old woman commented. Her amber eyes glimmered mysteriously. “Is your friend in trouble?”

Ron held the device in his palm. It was cool and smooth, textured differently than (he expected) the other trinkets. He brought it up to eye level, studying the way it refracted the sliver of light from the entrance. Bill pushed the black (except tom riddle’s eyes are greenbrowndarkness hiding harry is alone) cloth aside, stepping into the booth, and the whole thing brightened in an explosion of (green) light. Ron closed his (eyes forever) hands round it.

Ron said, “No. But he might be.”

*

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Thanks to my betas: Aja, Cassie Claire, and Altricial.

Summary: Ron’s a villain, Harry’s a hero, and Draco’s an evil sidekick. Pro-Ron, pro-Harry. Romance is for wimps.

I. I Was a Death Eater and All I Got Was This Bloody T-Shirt

Prologue. Doom, Doom, Doom

(During Goblet of Fire

“Bloody hell,” seethed Voldemort. He gingerly touched one cheek. “I’m hideous. Hideous!”

Peter Pettigrew, who was holding up the mirror before the Dark Lord with his shiny, new metal arm, cringed. “Oh no, Master. You’re…” He groped for the right word, and came up with nothing. “No, you’re right, you’re disgusting.”

Emitting a low hiss, the Dark Lord lunged at Pettigrew in fury, weakly slamming his fists on the portly man’s chest. Pettigrew looked down at him. He was astonished by Voldemort’s lack of strength; usually when Voldemort attacked him he actually felt it. Although lacking a body for quite some time would do that to someone, one would suppose.

“Master,” he asked, “do you need some help?”

“I’m not sure how, but this has to be Potter’s fault,” Voldemort muttered bitterly, panting. “Where’s Lucius when I need him?”

*

The Ministry of Magic was in an uproar. In the enormous, stone-walled hearing chamber, the numerous Ministry members screamed at each other from their benches, each voicing his or her own opinion on the situation at hand. Several heads of departments and higher-ups attempted to keep order.

“How can you deny Harry Potter’s account?” demanded Arthur Weasley. He was standing, red-faced, shouting at the panel seated before them.

“You-Know-Who has returned!” wailed one wizard.

“Order, order!” cried Cornelius Fudge, loudly.

The loud yells faded into angry whispers. Arthur sat and nudged Percy. “This is why I never brought you to a session,” he said. Percy nodded, pale and tight-lipped. His hands tightly gripped his Department of International Magical Cooperation documents. “It’s become a war between the paranoid and the delusional.”

Fudge stood, puffing out his chest. “We have no evidence to support You-Know-Who has returned.”

“What about Harry Potter?” Arthur yelled.

Fudge had been foolishly denying every claim of Death Eater action. Even now, his cheeks flushed and he snapped, “You-Know-Who has not returned. The boy doesn’t know what’s he’s talking about.”

Outraged, the Ministry members’ voices rose in the large chamber. Down the row of benches, the Dark Mark flared on Lucius Malfoy’s forehead. A few witches and wizards stared and scooted away quickly. Percy gasped, clutching at Arthur’s arm.

Fudge cleared his throat. The sound echoed loudly in the now-silent room. “Mr. Malfoy, you have a bit of evil on your forehead.” He gestured.

Lucius pulled a small compact mirror from his robes. “Oh, yes,” he drawled. “Pardon me, I must visit the loo.” He stood.

“As I was saying,” continued Fudge, “You-Know-Who has not returned.”

Arthur and Percy exchanged glances. They were doomed.

*

One. I Looked Up and I Saw My Place

(7 years later)

Music thrumming in his veins, mixing with the sweetness of the marijuana in his blood. Bodies pressed against him. Sweat in the air. Heat trapped in the thin line of his hips. Ron Weasley closed his eyes, moving in time with the powerful beat of music. He was dizzy and he couldn’t breathe, but he was loving every second of it.

They’ve stolen everything from me. There’s nothing left, my heart is black and empty.

The feeling of lips against his ear caused his eyes to snap open. It was Al, his friend who had scored the tickets to Plastic Wizard Kings. “I told you this would be brilliant, Ronnie,” he said, loudly. Jake, his other mate, nodded vigorously, taking a long puff of the joint they were passing between them. They were his only friends since he and Harry — Britain’s best Quiddich player and winner of the Biggest Ego Ever, not that Ron was jealous or anything, heavens no — had fallen out of contact over a year ago. The fact that his mum hated Al and Jake made them especially special, in Ron’s opinion. Always asking him why he never saw Harry anymore, why he never had a job, why he hung out with such losers. It made him sick.

“I’m never going to be able to repay you,” Ron said. He refused to think about Harry Fat-Head Potter. They were so close to the stage he could touch it if he wanted, and he was there to party. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, but his head was so light. He pushed his sweat-stained hair back from his face, adding, “I don’t have a job, you know.”

Don’t you understand there’s only one way to go?

Al flashed him a wide grin. “Things will work out.” Had Ron had been more lucid, he probably would have wondered about that comment. But since he wasn’t, he let it slide.

Ron looked back to the front, the earth rolling slowly as he moved his head. Plastic Wizard King’s vocalist leaned over the stage, dry, throaty voice crooning into the microphone. The guitarists strummed once, twice, and the song ended sharply. Breathing hard, the vocalist shouted, “Are you ready to ROCK?”

“Yeah!” screamed Ron, throwing his fist in the air.

“Are you ready to PARTY?”

“Yeah!” screamed Ron.

“Are you ready to KILL SOME MUGGLES?”

“Erm,” said Ron, hand frozen in place, as the crowd shouted, “Yeah!” Al and Jake whooped. Sudden clarity pierced Ron’s hazy state, and he blinked wildly, looking at his friends. He grabbed Jake’s robes and snapped, “What the fuck? Didn’t you hear what he just said?”

“We’re just having fun, chum,” Al slurred. He waved a joint in Ron’s face, the minty smell temporarily masking the stench of smoke and sweat. “What’s your problem?”

Hey, hey, Muggle-born. Mudblood, you don’t belong here.

“We thought you were into killing Muggles,” Jake said seriously. “This is your favourite band. Your favourite song is, ‘Run, Muggle, Run.’ Don’t you ever listen to the bloody lyrics?”

“No, I only listen to music when I’m stoned out of my mind,” Ron said, shoving him away in disgust. “Why would you–?” A horrible thought struck him. “Don’t tell me you’re Death Eaters?”

“No,” said Al. Ron sighed in relief. “That’s why we’re here, to get recruited. We thought you knew.”

Hey, hey, where ya runnin, Mudblood? We’re on your trail.

“YOU BROUGHT ME TO A DEATH EATER RALLY?” he screamed.

“Calm down, you’re going to ruin the concert,” Jake said, trying to pass him the joint.

“OH MY GOD, I AM AT A DEATH EATER RALLY,” he went on. He clutched his head. “This is not happening to me.”

“Everyone’s staring.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ron spat, “the whole lot of them are Death Eaters. They can suck my cock.”

And we’re gonna BASH IN YOUR HEAD, BASH IN YOUR HEAD, BASH IN YOUR HEAD…

When Ron tore his eyes away to look onstage, what entered his vision knocked the breath out of him: A thin, reedy man, with a flashy, silver guitar wrapped in his slender hands and a cruel smirk on his pointed face. He looked different in a see-through black shirt and red pleather pants, but it was definitely him. Everything seemed to freeze round them, and Ron could hear his heart hammering between his ears.

“Sod’s law,” he shouted, without pulling his eyes away from the figure. His mates looked at him. “Shit, shit, shit, that’s Draco Malfoy up there.”

“Yeah, so?” Al asked.

Ron smacked his forehead. How could he have never noticed Malfoy in the line-up? “I am never smoking grass again,” he muttered.

“Oh, you say that now,” Jake said.

From above, Malfoy’s grey eyes slid down to look directly at him, and Ron felt his chest tighten. Hey, hey, Mudblood, we’re never going to let you get away. Malfoy’s lips moved to shape, “Weasel,” and then a haughty grin. Ron looked at that smirk and remembered all the horrible things Malfoy had done to his friends and him at Hogwarts, and anger curled his hands into fists. He pushed forward — “Where are you going?” Al shouted. “Ronnie, don’t do anything stupid!” — until the tips of his toes touched the stage, and raised his arms in the air. Malfoy bent and clasped Ron’s hand in his. His palms were hot and sweaty, and even though he was a good deal shorter than Ron, he managed to pull the redhead onstage. The crowd roared, their faces colourful blurs in the flashing lights, and the world slowed. Ron’s head spun, legs weak as the bass thundered beneath the stage. The rest of the band continued screaming and leaping, enthralling the audience.

“Weasel,” Malfoy repeated. It was burning hot on the stage. Malfoy’s tight shirt shimmered with sweat; his messy, white-blond hair gleamed brightly in the stage lights. Ron suddenly remembered he was livid, stoned, and completely without a plan. Hey, hey, Mudblood. You don’t belong here. Run, Mudblood, run. “I didn’t know you were a fan.”

The music swelled around them, nearing the end of the song. Malfoy dropped his hand to deliver a few cords on his guitar, body moving wildly with the thrashing of the music. Ron felt stupid standing there. The vocalist jumped, tucking his legs under himself, and sang, “Malfoy rocks!” The crowd erupted in shrieks and applause. Ron’s jaw dropped, and Malfoy laughed: “I wrote all the songs myself.”

*

“Are you a Death Eater?” Ron demanded.

He expected Malfoy to drawl, “Maaaaybe I am, maybe I’m not,” but instead the blond looked at him as if something had sprouted on his face. “Let’s think about that one. Rally. Band. Leather. Death Eaters. Yes, Weasel, I believe I am.”

“Oh,” said Ron. He paused, leaning against a wall. Even from backstage he could hear the screaming of the audience begging for an encore. He doubted one would come, as the band was packing up. Death Eaters were not very nice people, it seemed. “I thought rock ‘n’ roll was a Muggle thing?”

“Well, Death Eaters make exceptions for things we really like,” Malfoy said, turning away. “Delusion, and all that good stuff. Works wonders.”

Ron glared at Malfoy’s back. When they were younger he had always mocked Ron and his friends for anything Muggle, yet now he said it was okay if it was “convenient.” What rubbish. “Hypocrite,” he muttered.

“Oh, big word,” the blond shot back. “Don’t strain yourself.”

“This your friend, Malfoy?” Plastic Wizard King’s vocalist, Freddie, asked, handing Ron a bottled water. The man was much shorter in real life, almost as short as Malfoy, and his throaty voice was somewhat unpleasant. Ron accepted the water with shaking hands, feeling drained. The effects of his last hit were fading fast. He took a long swing of it.

“Him?” Malfoy asked, just as Ron said, “I think you’re brilliant.” Freddie arched an eyebrow. “No,” Malfoy continued, putting his guitar away in its case. “Just some bloke I went to school with.”

“The only chap you ever talk about from school is Harry Potter, and last I checked, he wasn’t a redhead,” the bassist said, laughing. Malfoy sneered at him.

Ron asked, “You still talk about Harry? Good Lord, Malfoy, you’re obsessed.”

“Fuck you,” Malfoy snapped.

Out on the stage, Ron could hear a new voice booming: “Attention! Those who want to join us for some Muggle-whacking fun, sign up for our month-long Death Eater training camp. The benefits of being a Death Eater are a pension plan, a set of ace robes, a nice staff in which to attack Muggles, and, if you’re lucky, a full-time job within our organisation. The form is right here… Single file, please, no shoving.”

The other band members finished putting things away and wiping off their makeup, all the while dodging roadies. “We’re on the piss,” Freddie said, face now clean and three-inch spike heels tossed in a bag. “You coming, Malfoy?”

Ron hoped he would say yes, so he could leave. “No,” said Malfoy, “the Weasel and I have business to discuss.” The band filed out, leaving them alone.

“I have nothing to say to you,” Ron growled. “In fact, I’m getting the hell out of here.”

“Wait.” Malfoy held up a hand. He licked his lips. “I have a proposition for you.”

Ron recognized that look. “No way, I’m not going to sleep with you.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “The mere thought of banging you repulses me, Weasel. Besides, you’re too fat.”

“I am not.”

“But we’re not here to discuss your weight gain.”

Ron pulled off one of Malfoy’s sneers. “So we’re not here to humiliate me? Pray tell, Malfoy, why did you pull me onstage anyway, or drag me back here?”

“For the same reason you came to the stage yourself: Because of a feeling you couldn’t deny,” Malfoy told him, placing a thin hand on Ron’s chest. His grey eyes were serious. “When I saw you here, I knew I wasn’t mistaken. I want you to join us. I think you’d make an excellent Death Eater.”

“What?” Ron asked, disbelieving. “Last time I checked, we hated each other.”

“Personal feelings have nothing to do with political alliances,” Malfoy said coolly. He smirked. “I’ve been keeping tabs on all my old classmates — just for kicks, you see; you never know when you’ll have to blackmail someone — and you have all the makings of a Death Eater. You’re bitter, you’re alone, and you’re a pureblood. You have absolutely nothing tying you to your current life, which, quite frankly, sucks. And,” he added, narrowing his eyes gleefully, “you hate Harry Potter.”

“No,” Ron protested, shaking his head. His mouth felt dry. “None of that is true. I have a life–”

“Weasel, you don’t have a job, you live with your parents, and your friends are complete losers. What do you have to lose?” Malfoy asked.

“My dignity,” Ron hissed.

“I repeat: you don’t have a job, you live with your parents, and your friends are complete losers.”

“Fuck you, Malfoy,” he snarled. “I won’t betray Harry like that. You don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t hate Harry for abandoning me, or for becoming Britain’s pride and joy, or for being perfect, or for forgetting me. It’s not his fault he’s always had all the breaks and that everything has fallen into his lap. It’s not his fault he’s wonderful and perfect and…” Anger shot through him, but he realised with a growing horror that it wasn’t directed at Malfoy; it was all towards Harry. His arms were shaking; he was clenching his fists tightly. He took several deep breaths and looked away from Malfoy’s smirk. “Bugger.”

“And you don’t hate Potter?” Malfoy mocked.

“I don’t hate Muggles though,” Ron said hesitatingly. “I mean, sure, they’re annoying and whatever, but I don’t hate them.”

“You don’t have to kill any Muggles, that’s just an old myth,” said Malfoy. “We’ve got plenty of people who’ll do that for us.”

“My dad likes Muggles,” he said.

“Your dad thinks you’re a loser.”

“Oh yeah,” he muttered. “I forgot that part.”

“Why not show him you can be something else?” Malfoy asked merrily. “Why not show everyone — even Potter? Can you imagine the look on his face when he realises you’re rich and important, and, best of all, it has absolutely nothing to do with him?” He stopped, eyes sparkling, and for the first time Ron knew why Malfoy had had his own fanclub back in school. “Or would you rather go back to your life of living at home and getting stoned all day?”

“Bugger,” Ron repeated.

Malfoy’s offer was disturbingly tempting. He didn’t want his life. He didn’t want to be a loser, a poor fool in someone else’s shadow. Harry Potter’s sidekick. Famous Harry. Rich Harry. Good Harry, kind Harry. Wonderful Harry. Harry who never had to lift a finger.

He wanted to be Harry.

“I want to be important,” Ron said, swallowing. He couldn’t believe he was agreeing to this. The whole situation seemed surreal. “I want to be The Boy Who Got Everything.”

*

“Young Malfoy,” Voldemort wheezed, “I hate rock music, and I really don’t like the idea of it being used to lure young recruits. These daft kids with their hair and their music.” His dry, red eyes narrowed suspiciously. Draco would have offered eyedrops, had he not feared for his life so. “I bet it’s just a plot for you to get laid. You will cancel your tour immediately, dismember the other players–”

“By dismember, you mean break-up the band, right?” Draco asked hopefully.

“DISMEMBER the other players, and make yourself useful to us.”

Lucius smacked Draco upside the head. “I told you you sucked.”

“I should have been a model,” Draco grumbled.

*

Ron slid his headphones on, cranking up the Plastic Wizard King’s CD. Embarrassingly, this was the first time he had listened to it without the influence of pot. “Christ,” he said, “all the songs end with ‘Malfoy rocks.’ I’m so laying off the weed.”

*

Two. I Looked In and I Felt No Hate

Ron looked slightly down into narrowed, grey eyes. The man’s thin lips were pursed haughtily. Black robes and slicked-back hair gave him a regal air. Even in the crowded atmosphere of the tavern with a wine glass in hand, he managed to make Ron feel as if he was about five years old. He just hoped he didn’t do anything embarrassing, like be himself.

Lucius Malfoy poked Ron in the chest with one long, slender finger. He was reminded of when Draco Malfoy had told him he was the perfect candidate for being on the bad side. “I don’t believe for one second you’re really evil,” Lucius drawled. “In fact, I’m certain this is a ploy by that dim-witted headmaster of Hogwarts. When I finish my drink I’m going to–”

“Oh no,” Ron said, “I’m very evil. Tell him how bitter and vengeful I am, Malfoy.”

From his position in the wooden chair next to his father, Malfoy already appeared bored with the entire situation. He cradled a teacup in his bony hands. “The Weasel’s been stoned for the past two years, Father,” he drawled in a perfect imitation of Lucius. “He doesn’t have enough brain cells left to be good.”

Lucius looked coolly surprised. “So that’s what happened to you.”

“What the fuck is that suppose to mean?” Ron asked angrily.

“I suppose you need to have an initiation of some sort,” Lucius said, narrowing his eyes and lacing his long fingers together. “See that family over there?” He nodded to a position over his son’s shoulder. Said family looked like the picture-perfect Wizard family, with a mother, father, and two quiet, well-behaved children. The whole lot of them was wearing identical blue robes and had matching blond hair.

“Yeah,” Ron said.

“They disgust me,” said Lucius. “Kill them.”

Ron’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “I– Last week I was rolling in my own filth, and now you want me to murder? I need a transitional period.”

“I want you to think big, Weasley,” the Death Eater said.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Father, you’re asking too much.”

“Shut it,” Ron snarled, fumbling under his robe for his wand. He was using magic on someone he didn’t know. No big deal. He would just pretend it wasn’t completely illegal. Closing his eyes, he tried to remember one of the twin’s old prank spells; he certainly wasn’t going to kill anybody, not even to get into a very evil, private organisation. Pointing his wand, he whispered, “Flavesco acredulat!”

A large pop sounded. When he opened his eyes, Ron saw each member of the family had become a person-sized, fluffy, yellow bird. They goggled in a confused manner before letting out tweets of shock. All activity in the tavern stopped as everyone stared in surprise at the source of the cacophony. Malfoy clamped one hand over his mouth, shaking with laughter, and promptly fell out of his chair.

“Uh-oh,” Ron muttered. He had expected them to turn into little birds, not freakishly giant ones. He glanced quickly at Lucius, who was watching the scene with a rather pinched look. Ron’s dream of a career as a Death Eater sputtered and died.

Lucius finally shifted to look at Ron, blinking. “That is the most fekking hilarious thing I’ve ever seen.”

“W-what?”

Malfoy climbed his way back up the table, wiping his eyes. “Did you see that, Father?” he asked, breathless. “Birds. Birds! Big, fluffy, worm-eating birds.”

“Yes, Draco, I saw the birds,” Lucius said, as if speaking to a child. “We all saw the birds.”

“So I guess I’m out then,” said Ron, resigned. “And I had really wanted to spite Harry, too.”

“Actually, Weasley, don’t be too sure. Death is so passé.” Lucius waved a vague hand. “That’s all those twats in the organisation know how to do. Hate someone, kill him. Need to get rid of someone, kill him. Get bored one Friday night, kill him. Really, it’s so…” He paused. “Lame.”

Both Ron and Malfoy gaped.

“We need more creative people like you as a Death Eater.”

“You hear that, Weasel?” Malfoy leered. His smile was sharp. “After all your shit in Hogwarts, you ended up exactly as you should be: Working for me.”

*

“Secretary,” Malfoy muttered, dazed.

“Secretary,” Ron echoed gleefully.

“Well,” Lucius told Ron with a slight shrug, “I had to do something to raise Draco’s self-esteem. He doesn’t really do much. Short of being a professor–”

“Eep,” Malfoy said.

“–He is good at with academics, isn’t he; got very high OWLS and NEWTS, even if he didn’t beat that Granger girl — he really can’t do anything else.”

“There is no god,” Malfoy moaned. “I’m going to murder you in your sleep, Weasel. I hope you sleep with one eye open.”

“Secretary,” Ron repeated.

Lucius looked almost sad. “I always wanted him to be a solicitor, and look how he turned out. I blame Narcissa for the faulty genes.”

Malfoy rolled his head back to gaze at the ceiling. “I really, really should have been a model.”

*

Ron surveyed his kingdom with a grin. His office was large and plush, with modern, stainless steel furniture. He had a glass-top desk, upon which sat several thick stacks of paperwork and magical tomes. An expansive window on the northern side offered a lovely view of London. It was much nicer than hanging out in his parents’ basement, which he had been doing for the last three years. He bet even Hermione, with her fancy Ministry job, didn’t have an office as nice as his.

He pushed the button for the intercom. “Malfoy,” he said, “I’m hungry. Go get me a ham sandwich.”

“Get your own bloody sandwich,” came the reply. “I can’t be arsed.”

“I know what you’re doing: filing your nails and being a waste of space. Now get me my sandwich before I personally tell the Dark Lord my wonderful secretary needs to be replaced.”

“Ham,” Malfoy said. “Gotcha.”

Although Ron wasn’t particularly ambitious, he did enjoy money and fame, which seemed to suit the rest of the Death Eaters just fine. There was a significant portion of the organisation that wanted him dead, but he just figured one couldn’t have everything. Many had warmed up after Lucius Malfoy had passed around the bird story.

It was common knowledge that Ron took more orders from Lucius than Lord Voldemort. The situation was fine with him; the crazy, old bastard kind of creeped him out. Besides, he felt better working for the second-highest evil in the world than for the first. All he really had to do was amuse Lucius and he didn’t have to kill anyone. Lucius also understood that what Ron wanted was admiration, not control over plebes like the rest of the bunch. And so he was respected, he was loved, and he was able to boss Draco Malfoy around. It was better than being Harry.

“Your father’s surprisingly nice, you know, for an evil killing machine bent on destroying a large portion of the population,” he had told Malfoy once. “Makes me wonder how you came from the same stock.”

“Malfoy’s are only nice if they want something,” Malfoy had scoffed. “One day he’ll be through with you, and we’ll see how high and mighty you are then, your royal Weaselness.”

Ron straightened his desk, waiting for his lunch. He checked his To Do list that Malfoy prepared for him each morning. “Paperwork, check,” he muttered, reading off the blond’s elegant scroll. “Plan next Death Eater seminar on how to kill in interesting manners, check. Kill Harry Potter.” He stared at the entry. He would have to talk to Malfoy about that one.

Half an hour later, Malfoy burst through the door, his black robes billowing menacingly behind him, and slammed a paper bag on Ron’s desk. “Here’s your bloody sandwich,” he sneered.

“Here’s your bloody sandwich, what?” Ron asked, smirking.

Malfoy’s lip curled in disgust. “Here’s your bloody sandwich, you hunk of man-meat, you. You’re such a wanker.”

“Who’s your daddy?”

“You are,” Malfoy choked out. His pale eyes narrowed dangerously. “I hate you. I’m going to sue for sexual harassment.”

“I’m sure that will go down well, suing a fellow Death Eater for sexual harassment. The courts will love that one. Besides, you know you like it.” Ron unwrapped his sandwich with one hand and pushed the To Do list forward with the other. “What’s this here?”

Malfoy adjusted his thin, silver-framed glasses. He didn’t exactly need vision correction, but he had told Ron they complimented his attire. “Father owled,” he drawled. “The Dark Lord wants a duel with Potter; he believes himself strong enough to take on the prat. Which is hilarious, if you ask me. The old fool is completely crippled. But I suppose lacking a body for a couple of decades will do that to you.”

“Why is it on my To Do list?” Ron demanded. He took a bite of his lunch. “Malfoy, what the fuck is this? You know I only eat from the deli on King William. This is from Frenchurch, you clot.”

“It’s a bleeding ham sandwich,” Malfoy snapped. “I’m not walking to King William. Deal.”

Ron took his half-eaten sandwich and smacked Malfoy across the face with it, hard. Malfoy’s mouth fell open. “Y-you just bitch-slapped me with ham.”

“I did,” he said.

“I’m telling my father,” said Malfoy, viciously.

“Your father finds me charming.” Ron leaned forward. “Deal.”

Malfoy sputtered.

“Now,” Ron said, tapping the To Do list, “what are we going to do about this?” As much as he resented Harry, he really didn’t like the idea of being responsible for his death. He needed to speak with Lucius immediately.

“How about you, I don’t know, kill him?” Malfoy said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Go owl your father and tell him I need to see him as soon as he’s free,” Ron told him.

*

“I can’t kill Harry,” Ron said.

He, Lucius, Draco, and, surprisingly, Voldemort sat round a small, polished table in the Malfoy estate, drinking tea. Voldemort didn’t appear to be one hundred per cent there, spending most of his time stirring his tea and staring blankly out of the large, eastern window of the Malfoy’s drawing room. While Ron and Lucius remained calm, Malfoy nervously tugged on his lacy napkin, because, as he told Ron, he figured the Dark Lord would punish him for insubordination as well when he found out Ron’s “betrayal.”

Lucius arched one pale eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“You want me to kill Harry,” Ron said. “I can’t. I do have a conscience, you know.”

“You do not,” Malfoy admonished. Ron kicked him in the shins.

Calmly folding his hands in front of him, Lucius said, “Well, the problem is that I do not wish Potter dead. He wishes Potter dead.” He nodded at Voldemort.

“Erm, my Lord,” Ron said, unsure of how to phrase this in a way that wouldn’t get him killed, “please ask someone else to help you defeat Potter.”

“What?” asked Voldemort loudly, cupping a hand around his ear. “My hearing aid broke, I can’t hear.”

“HE SAID–” Malfoy started to shout. Lucius smacked him. “Ow!”

“We never raise our voices in front of the Dark Lord,” Lucius said coldly.

“What?” asked Voldemort.

“You’re not the one killing him,” Lucius continued. “The Dark Lord is. All we need you to do is lure Potter to a certain location so the Dark Lord can defeat him in a final duel.”

Ron looked at Voldemort. The Dark Lord was staring at a hummingbird outside the window.

“Right, final duel,” said Ron, weakly.

Lucius leaned forward and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I know what you’re thinking: Our Master will not survive a duel with Potter. I believe you’re right.” His grey eyes glittered. “But who am I to argue with the Dark Lord?”

The implication dawned on Ron. “Oh,” was all he could say.

Lucius waved his wand and a map fluttered to the table. “We need you to escort Potter here,” he said, pointing to Hyde Park. “The Dark Lord will be waiting for him behind a grove of trees in the centre of it.” He paused. “Potter is to keep his wand and anything else he may have on him, and is to be completely uninjured. The Master wants a fair duel, after all.”

“Of course,” Ron said. His breath quickened; he was helping to plan the death of Voldemort, something not even Harry had accomplished. Score.

“My, my,” Malfoy said, “you don’t have any loyalties at all, do you, Weasel?”

*

Ron stared at the telephone. He hadn’t used one in years, since Harry was in his third year and he had placed that ridiculous call to the Dursley’s. Trust Harry to be the only Wizard in London who had a telephone. Maybe he often ordered take-away. “I can’t just ring Harry up after all this time and say, ‘Hey, old mate, let’s hop by a chip shop for a bit of a chat, you up?’” he protested.

“Why not?” Malfoy asked.

“I just can’t. It’s awkward. Besides, he was the one who broke off contact, that twat. Always thought he was better than me.” Malfoy rolled his eyes and picked up the receiver. Ron reached out. “What are you doing, you don’t know how to–”

With one finger, Malfoy dialed a number. After a pause, he said in a high-pitched falsetto, “Hallo, Mister Potter? Please hold for Mister Ronald Weasley.”

He held the phone out to Ron. Light breathing came from the other end of the line. Ron stared at it, then back at Malfoy. “What did you do?” he whispered angrily.

A timid, but familiar, voice on the phone said, “Ron?” When Ron didn’t respond, Harry’s voice continued, “Wait one bloody second, I recognise that squeak. Is this Malfoy? You’d better stop calling here, I’m not in the mood for another one of your obscene phone calls. If you call me again I’m dialling the police.”

A panicked look fluttered over Malfoy’s pointed face. He quickly hung up. The office was silent.

“There’s a really funny explanation for that,” he said finally.

*

Ron sat on the terrace of a cafe in downtown London, nibbling on a scone and watching the world pass by. The irony of meeting Harry at a Muggle establishment was not lost on him. Lucius had laughed when he had heard. Both Voldemort and Lucius strongly believed Harry would come merrily with Ron to wherever he wanted, walking right into their trap. Ron wished he could have felt that way; his Gryffindor courage felt strained. It seemed the only ones taking this thing seriously were Ron and Malfoy. Even Malfoy’s level of caution back at the office had surprised him.

“Take this,” Malfoy had said, displaying a flesh-coloured lump, “and put it in your ear. That way I’ll be able to see and hear everything around you, in case he decides to attack. It’s highly unlikely, seeing as how this is goody-goody Potter, but one can never be too careful.” He had handed Ron the earpiece. “And take your wand.”

Ron patted his wand, which was hidden in an inner pocket of his leather jacket. He doubted Harry would use magic on him, but Harry had made plenty of rash decisions when they were younger. He figured Harry would straight on attack him with his fists before using his wand. Actually, Ron hoped he wouldn’t get angry enough and attack Harry.

“Ron?” a voice asked, and Ron turned his head to see Harry standing at the side of the table, wearing a thick coat and his old Gryffindor scarf.

“Harry!”

They embraced, and Ron plastered a fake smile on his face. But when he got a good look at Harry it wavered. “Harry,” he said, “you’re… rugged.”

Indeed, Harry was now something of a dish, looking quite different from when they had last met. His thick, black hair was now chin-length. He had gotten rid of his glasses, either through contacts or a spell, Ron was unable to tell which; he was dressed very smartly, too, his clothing even nicer than Malfoy’s. The five ‘o’ clock shadow on his face was a nice detail. Now Harry really did have everything: Money, fame, and looks. Ron clenched his jaw and smiled tightly.

“Oh?” Harry asked, looking down, as if unsure Ron was speaking of him. “I suppose I am.”

“Oh, baby,” Malfoy’s voice said in his ear. He whistled. “It should be illegal for someone to look that good.”

“Shut up,” Ron hissed. Harry looked confused. “Ha, ha, just kidding.”

Harry started to pull out a chair, but Ron grabbed his arm. “No, I thought we could go for a walk in the park. There’s one nearby.”

“Okay,” Harry said, looking surprised. Ron noticed he was eyeing the bit of weight Ron had put on round his waist. Bastard.

They both took off towards Hyde Park. Ron put his hands in his pockets to stay warm. The crisp, London autumn air bit at his face, seeping in through his clothes. Harry hummed under his breath, seeming ridiculously happy. Surprisingly, their silence was anything but awkward; it felt almost like the older days, when they would walk in Hogwarts’ courtyard. Except Ron hadn’t been a Death Eater taking Harry to duel with You-Know-Who. He grimaced.

“Say something,” Malfoy whispered.

“I see you finally got a job,” Harry said, before Ron could even open his mouth.

“Yes,” Ron said between clenched teeth. Malfoy sniggered. “I have a very good job. Make loads of money.”

“Do you still live at the Burrow?”

“No, I live in London now,” he replied.

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? I never knew! We could have seen each other a lot more easily then.”

“If you had put any effort into it,” Ron said under his breath.

“What?” Harry asked.

Ron smiled thinly. “I was just thinking the same thing. Sad how we’ve fallen out of contact over the years, eh?”

They crossed the entrance of the park. It was a nice place in the pale, grey light, the thick, skeletal trees’ arms were already bare, red and brown foliage scattered on the ground. The grass was still green in most places. Harry pointed at the Muggles on soapboxes at the Speaker’s Corner, smiling in a silly, whimsical way. “Muggle lives are so simple.” Ron recognised a grove of trees on the right as the one he was suppose to take Harry to, and, thankfully, not many Muggles were drifting towards it.

“I’m proud of you, Ron,” Harry said. “All this time I thought you were… Well, as you had been.”

“As I had been?” Ron asked bitterly. “How had I been, then? Eh?”

If Harry noticed the sarcasm in Ron’s tone, he didn’t react to it. “Oh, you know, living at home, no job. Hanging round with all those losers.”

“Losers,” Ron muttered. On the other side of the earpiece, Malfoy howled with laughter. “Yes, such a loser, wasn’t I?”

Harry laughed. They were right outside the grove when Harry said, “Ron, you were such a loser.”

Ron felt his eye twitch as something inside him snapped. “Oh, loser, am I?” he bellowed. “Would a loser have gotten as far as I have? I’ve had TEA AND SCONES with the bloody DARK LORD HIMSELF, thank you very much.”

“Ron?” Harry blinked. “What are you on about?”

“Harry, listen to me,” Ron said, stopping the walk. “I am a Death Eater. In fact, I’m secretary of the entire organisation. Even Malfoy works for me. I am a. Very. Important. Person.”

A loud squeak erupted in his ear. “What are you doing, you idiot?” Malfoy shrieked. Ron took out the earphone and tossed it to the ground, crunching it beneath his Prada shoes.

Harry stared at him. “Why not head of the Death Eaters?”

“Are you kidding?” Ron asked. “That’s a load of work, and I’m much too lazy to be in charge. I’m a Gryffindor, not a Slytherin.”

“Right,” Harry said. He seemed thoughtful. “So a Death Eater, huh? May I ask why?”

“Remember when you last heard from me? I had no job, no money, and I lived with my parents. Malfoy offered me something else: A life. And,” he added, “I have years of repressed anger and jealousy to work with.”

“Anger and jealousy?” Harry echoed, brow furrowing. “That’s rubbish! You and Hermione were the only ones I could count on who thought I was human, that I was more than the bloody Boy Who Lived.” He put a hand on Ron’s shoulder, voice softening. “Ron, you’ve always been my best friend. I’m sorry if I made you feel like you were unimportant.”

Ron looked at the hand on his shoulder, and then at the sincere green eyes before him. Harry’s expression turned hopeful, and Ron knew he was waiting for Ron to say he was sorry.

“Oh, boo-hoo,” Ron said. “I’m crying on the inside, Harry.”

Harry’s face crumpled.

By all accounts, he should have felt bad; he should have been giving Harry a big hug, telling him how much he had missed him and begging for forgiveness for the error of his ways. Perhaps he had been around Lucius too long, or perhaps he really didn’t hate Harry, because all he felt was a strange emptiness. He had at least wanted to be able to do a Malfoy cackle.

“I hadn’t even heard reports of Death Eaters in London,” Harry told him, eyes narrowing. He seemed to be getting over Ron’s guilt very quickly. Slimy bastard, Ron thought.

“We’re in the old Coca-Cola office building in the City,” he confessed. “It’s a nice cover-up, don’t you think?”

“But I love Coke,” Harry said, horrified. “I drink a product of evil!”

“Shut up,” said Ron, “you sound like a loon. And now that I’ve told you everything I wanted, you have to defeat Voldemort.”

“What?” Harry asked.

Ron shoved him into the grove. He leaned against a tree, listening. A few passing Muggles sent him questing looks, but he ignored them; they weren’t daft enough to approach him anyway.

“Voldemort!” Harry gasped.

“We’re going to have one final duel,” Voldemort wheezed, “and this time, you will die.”

“I’ll defeat you,” Harry announced boldly, “because I am THE BOY WHO LIVED!”

“Oh, get off your high horse,” Voldemort said.

Ron shoved his hands back in his pockets and took off back towards the park entrance, humming the Hogwarts school anthem. He was a safe distance away when shots of magic began shooting round the tree grove.

*

Three. Where Do I Put the Love?

An hour later, Ron returned to the park. The sun was setting, turning the sky pink and violet. Silence came from within the grove, and when he stepped into it he wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Both Harry and Voldemort’s bodies lay on the cold ground. Harry was perfectly fine, but unconscious; Voldemort was looking like something Malfoy had attempted to cook, and very, very dead.

Ron stood over Harry, watching the rise and fall of the dark-haired man’s chest. Revenge didn’t feel as sweet as he thought it would; instead of feeling happy and evil, he simply felt uninterested in the whole thing. He slipped a blade out from the same pocket he had his wand, positioning it over Harry’s body.

He was about to do some permanent damage when several robe-clad Wizards entered the grove. One shouted, “Stop, Aurors’ here! We were informed there was dark magic being used here.”

Ron froze. “I was pulling this out of him,” he said, gesturing to the knife. “Really.”

“This is Harry Potter!” one Auror exclaimed loudly. “We need to get him to St. Mungo’s immediately.”

“That’s You-Know-Who,” Ron said, pointing. A collective gasp rose. “Harry killed him.” Another series of gasps.

“Who’re you?” an Auror demanded.

He looked them each straight in the eye, then proudly declared, “I am Ronald Weasley, Harry Potter’s best friend, and I came here to save him from certain death. Make sure you put that in your files.”

*

Ron and Hermione sat in the family room of St. Mungo’s, both sitting on cheap, lumpy chairs. The silence between them was nerve-wracking. Ron twiddled his thumbs. He missed his Relax O’Matic desk chair from his office. Hermione spent several minutes crossing and uncrossing her legs.

“You always thought you were better than me,” Ron said, breaking the stillness.

“Ron,” said Hermione, exasperated, “I am better than you.”

*

Harry Potter leisurely took note of his cream-coloured hospital room, pretending his friends weren’t staring at him as if was mad. “I’m really tired of passing out and waking up days later in hospital,” he said. “It ceases to be fun after the third or fourth time.”

“Did you hear what I said?” Hermione asked.

He combed his fingers through his hair, squinting at Ron and Hermione. “Unfortunately, yes. Tell me again: Whom did I kill?”

“Voldemort,” they both supplied.

“I see.” He paused. “And I accomplished this how?”

“No-one’s really sure,” Ron said. “The Ministry’s covered it up, you see.”

“You really don’t remember what happened?” Hermione asked.

“The last thing I remember is Snape yelling at me. ‘Watch what you’re doing, Potter. Careful with that, Potter. You were an accident, Potter.’ And suddenly I’m here.” He stopped when he realised his friends were looking at him with something akin to horror. “What?”

Hermione covered her mouth with one hand. Ron’s eyes narrowed darkly, and a strange feeling twisted Harry’s gut. As if there was something he should remember, but couldn’t. “Tell me,” he demanded.

“Harry, we haven’t been at Hogwarts for three years,” said Hermione, slowly.

“Well,” Harry said. He leaned back into his pillows, grimacing. “Seems I’ve missed quite a bit, then.”

“You have no idea,” Ron said, smiling thinly.

*

A house-elf carefully poured tea into the Malfoy family’s porcelain teacups. Lucius batted it away when he felt he had enough, then added exactly half a spoonful of sugar and five drops of milk. He stirred lazily. Draco added exactly four spoonfuls of sugar and poured enough milk to turn the dark liquid into a creamy brown. Lucius cuffed Draco’s fingers with his spoon.

“We need to keep Weasley close,” Lucius drawled.

“I thought you said we could kill him.” Draco frowned.

“There’s no telling how far he’ll go for his own gains.” He tapped a copy the Daily Prophet, the front page entitled, ‘You-Know-Who Defeated, Weasley Saves the Day.’

“Of course, Father,” agreed Draco, sipping his tea. “Although I’d fancied him dead.”

Lucius scribbled something on a notepad next to his teacup. “Now that I am in charge of the organisation, there will have to be changes,” he announced. “For one thing, no silly duels with Potter. Those are a complete waste of time.”

“Father, can I have an important job this time round?” Draco asked. “Weasley bitch-slapped me with ham, and–”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, certainly,” Lucius said, distracted. “I know what you can do. Go get me a sandwich from the King William’s deli.”

Draco screamed.

Four. I Know You’re Not the Truth

(1 week later)

Ron Weasley was exceedingly bitter.

Standing in the bedroom of The Boy Who Conveniently Forgot, Harry Potter ran a hand down the duvet that rested upon his ridiculously large bed. This was the first time Ron had taken him to his flat since he was released from St. Mungo’s. Coincidentally, this was also the first time Ron had seen Harry’s apartment, them being estranged and all. “I have a really nice apartment,” Harry had said when they first entered, spreading his arms wide in the drawing room that could have held more than half the Burrow. He had seemed awed by his own things, particularly the ‘Harry Potter of the Chudley Cannons’ posters stuffed in the back of the coat closet. Ron had felt pissy; Harry had had this grand place all to himself, while he had been living in his parent’s basement. And he had wasted a confession on a man who didn’t even remember. Sometimes life was so fucking unfair.

“This place is bloody huge,” Harry exclaimed.

“Yeah,” Ron answered honestly.

Ron, as it so happened, didn’t know if he was relieved Harry had forgotten he was evil. Not because he wanted to be Harry’s friend; it was just the opposite, really. Even if Harry couldn’t remember being a snotty egomaniac, Ron recalled every bit of the last three years, and it had felt good to tell Harry how powerful he had become. He wanted Harry to know how his Potter-free life was going.

“So I was– am, I mean, a Quidditch player?”

“Yeah,” said Ron.

“Watch Potter,” Lucius had warned. “We don’t know what the Dark Lord did to him; his memory could come back at any time. Don’t forget, you did reveal everything to him in a fit of rage.”

Harry picked up a photo of Sirius in Snuffles form off the nightstand, next to a snitch labelled, ‘Class of 1998.’ There were also old pictures from Hogwarts in the drawing room, Ron knew, but Ron had placed those face-down when he had walked in.

“Was I a good Seeker?”

“No,” Ron said.

Harry’s smile faltered. He gingerly set down the photo. “I wish I could remember everything,” he said softly.

“Kill him if he gives even a hint at remembering,” Lucius had ordered. A sardonic smirk had appeared in his pointed face. “Potter always fucks over everything.”

“Yeah,” replied Ron, placing a heavy hand on Harry’s shoulder, “me too.”

“Ron.” Harry squirmed. “You’re hurting me.”

*

“Whenever I look at Harry, I can’t decide if I want to laugh or cry,” Ron murmured. “Then I decide I just want to bash his perfect head in with his broom.”

“Bitter much?” Malfoy sniggered, heaping sugar into his tea.

“Why are we having this conversation?” asked Lucius.

He and the Malfoys took their lunch in their favourite pub in Knockturn Alley, the Evil Eye (“Oh, that’s not blatant,” Ron had said the first time he had been there), which was filled with black roses and a poster of Voldemort that said, ‘Lord Voldemort, R.I.P. May His Sadistic Horror Be With Us Always.’

“His flat is enormous,” Ron said. He drowned the rest of his lager and set the empty bottle down loudly. “All that time he was telling me to move out of the Burrow, and he could’ve offered me a place with him. Selfish wanker, probably afraid I was going to make him look bad.”

“Did you steal anything?” Malfoy asked. “I would’ve stolen something.”

“Yeah,” Ron said sarcastically, “I grabbed a handful of his underwear as I left. I plan on wearing it around the house.”

Lucius set down his drink in disgust. “Moving along, I think the organisation need a new name, since the Dark Lord has expired.” Ron and Malfoy both turned their attention towards him. He laced his thin fingers together atop the smooth, wooden table. “I’ve been considering this for quite some time, actually. We’re no longer Death Eaters; from now on, we shall now be referred to as Lucius Lovers.”

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. “Let’s name it the Malfoy Maniacs.” Lucius just looked at him until he lowered his head shamefully. “Sorry, Father.”

“Er, I’m a bit uncomfortable calling myself a Lucius Lover,” Ron said.

“Then it’s settled,” Lucius drawled. “Draco, send out a memo.”

“Shouldn’t I get some credit?” whispered Ron, moving forward intimately. “I did help get rid of Voldemort.”

“Don’t be silly, Weasley,” Lucius replied. “That’s like asking me if Draco’s ever going to amount to anything. We both know it’s a load of rubbish.”

“What?” Malfoy asked.

Ron frowned. “Yeah, I guess. But… Just remember, you need to careful of Harry. He’s not stupid. He always figures these things out.”

“Don’t worry about Potter,” Lucius said smoothly. “I have spies watching him at every moment.”

*

“You have spies?” Draco asked once Ron had departed.

“Not really,” Lucius admitted. “But it sounded better than, ‘I’m sending my son to play Peeping Tom on the Potter boy.’”

Draco blinked. “You’re sending who to do what?”

“I want you to keep an eye on Potter,” Lucius told him.

“I’m experiencing a keen sense of déja vu,” Draco murmured. “I don’t want to spy on Potter. He’s hideously boring.”

“You can dress up and pretend you’re stealing state secrets,” Lucius pointed out. “That’s fun.”

“No, it’s not,” replied Draco.

Lucius sighed. “You can break into his house and go through his things.”

Draco thought about it. “I can still dress up, right?”

“Whatever floats your boat.”

*

The Ministry office in central Wizarding London was terribly crowded for a Friday afternoon. Harry stood surrounded by all sorts of people in various robe colours, each scurrying to a specific location, while he was feeling somewhat lost. Certainly he had been here before — if only he could remember. He looked at the nameplates on each door, furiously hoping to see ‘Granger, Hermione’ on one. With a somewhat guilty feeling, he realised he probably should have asked Ron to come with him, because Ron would surely know where Hermione’s office was. But there was something about Ron that creeped him out. He had felt it as soon as he had awoken in hospital, with Ron looking down at him with a cross between anger and apprehension, as if maybe Harry shouldn’t have been there at all.

“Harry!” He turned. Hermione, her simple brown robes billowing behind her in a frightening fashion, was rushing down the corridor towards him. He felt instant relief. “I’m surprised to see you. What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see if you could let me into the records so I can see if there’s any information on my life,” he said.

Hermione seemed dubious. “I suppose… As long as you promise not to mess anything up. Countless hours have gone into those files.”

Harry was glad some things hadn’t changed. He smiled to himself as Hermione took his arm and steered him through the corridor, past a long series of offices and heaps of busy-looking Wizards and Witches, some who stopped and looked at him in awe. He and Hermione were about the same height; it was nice to talk to someone without craning his neck.

“Your hair’s not as bushy,” he noted, looking at her out of the corners of his eyes.

She touched her chin-length hair, which fell against her face in thick curls. “Yes, it’s been layered. It takes the weight off the roots, making it less frizzy.”

“Of course,” Harry said lamely.

When they came to a door labelled ‘Recording Department,’ Hermione led him in. The room was filled with papers, and several Wizards were scribbling furiously onto parchment. At the sound of the door one man raised his head, his eyes flashing angrily behind his thick glasses.

“Miss Granger–”

“This is Harry Potter,” she said coolly. “He wants to look up some history.” The man backed down, grumbling. “Now, Harry, ‘P’ is over here” — She opened a large, metal cabinet. — “and if you want to look up the Weasleys, ‘W’ is over there. I’m sure you can find the rest.”

“Hermione?” He paused. “Am I a poor Quidditch player?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t follow sports.”

Harry thanked her as she left. He went immediately to the cabinet with his records. First he read his parents’, discovering a few new facts about them, including his father’s many run-ins with the law for drugs. It had been the ’70s, after all. But when he read his own file, there wasn’t anything he hadn’t already been told by Ron and Hermione. Except for one thing: according to his track record, he wasn’t a poor Seeker. Ron had lied to his face.

He studied the outside of the ‘W’ drawer until his curiosity got the better of him.

He flipped through Ron’s records. ‘Current status, 2001,’ he read. ‘Secondary School: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, England. Num. of OWLS: 3. Num. of NEWTS: 4. Robe Measurements…’ “My God, Ron’s gained a lot of weight.” He turned a few pages, until something caught his eye. ‘Employment: Unemployed. Living Arrangements: With parents Molly McKinsey and Arthur Weasley. Yearly Income: N/A.’ He closed the folder.

Ron wasn’t unemployed. If he was, then he wouldn’t have been able to afford those nice clothes, and hadn’t he treated Harry to dinner the other night? Nor did he live at the Burrow; he lived right off Diagon Alley, near a series of good pubs and shops. “I have a very good job. Make loads of money.” Harry frowned, trying to recall when he had heard those words.

“I’m a. Very. Important. Person.”

Ron wasn’t good at playing a sneak. Harry shut the metal cabinet with an audible bang.

*

‘Dear Father, Today Potter went into the Ministry offices. After a round-about discussion with several clerical workers who had extremely poor grooming skills, I discovered he, along with the Mudblood Granger, went to the Recording Department. Their purpose is unknown. Sincerely, Draco.’

‘Draco, I think it’s time to go weasel hunting. Yours, The Highly-Esteemed Lucius Malfoy.’

*

Five. But Can You Save Me From Myself?

Back at the Malfoy estate, Draco waited for his father to finish his paperwork. The large, mahogany desk was covered in papers, folders, and quills. Lucius scrolled leisurely. Draco hummed under his breath and tapped one foot against the stone flooring, looking around at the moving portraits of past family members. Auntie Malfoy was making obscene gestures at him.

“So this weasel hunting you mentioned,” Draco cut in. Lucius cringed as the tip of his quill broke off. “Is this literal or metaphorical? Because I can get my hands on one of those Muggle rifles–”

“Figurative,” Lucius said without looking up. He tossed the broken quill over his shoulder. A house-elf scurried and picked it up.

“Bollocks,” Draco muttered.

“Point one,” Lucius went on, ignoring Draco, “Weasley’s not intelligent at all. Therefore, he’s also poor at hiding anything. He doesn’t possess the craftiness one associates with Slytherin. Two, being Potter’s pretend best friend, he spends a lot of time with the boy. If he’s not careful, Potter will figure everything out. For all we know, he already has. Three, Weasley’s beginning to annoy me. I think he’s filled my sarcasm quota for the rest of my life.” Draco sniggered. “Don’t laugh, I’m dead serious.”

“What’s the plan?” Draco asked. “I’m assuming there’s a plan.”

“I want Weasley dead,” Lucius responded. He finished his last file and set it aside.

“I thought you were going to let him live,” Draco said.

“I’m allowed to change my mind. So, we knock off Weasley.” Lucius frowned. “But there’s still Potter about.”

“What do you want with Potter?” Draco asked.

Lucius smacked him upside the head. “Fekking think about it for three seconds. Now, first we deal with Weasley, then we knock off Potter.”

“And then, the world,” Draco stated boldly.

“No, Draco,” Lucius scolded. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“So where do I fit in with this?” Draco asked.

Lucius sighed. “I suppose you want to help me kill off Weasley.”

Draco smirked. “Father,” he said sweetly, “you know me so well.”

*

Panting, Ron jogged up to the front of Harry’s red brick apartment building in Diagon Alley, trying to catch up with the brunette. The frigid evening air stung his face and throat, and it was even colder beneath the trees that lined the street. He decided he needed to lose weight, and soon, if he couldn’t keep up to Harry, who was decidedly shorter than he was. Harry shifted his heavy shopping bag in one hand and tapped an impatient foot. He flashed Ron a crooked grin.

“Beat you,” he gloated. Ron resisted the urge to give Harry the bird.

“Looks like you won,” Ron gasped, breathless.

Harry nodded absently. “Of course.”

Ron gritted his teeth. Harry set the bag down and sat on the brick steps, and looked up at Ron as if he expected Ron to do the same. He sat beside Harry, coughing to cover up that he was still breathing deeply. They fell silent as they relaxed on the stoop. Ron squinted against the sun setting behind the high buildings across the road. He could see the grocers from here, and a smattering of bespoke shops and restaurants.

“I’m rich,” Ron said suddenly.

“Uh-huh,” Harry murmured. He was silent for a few long seconds. “I wonder what happened to Neville.”

“And important,” he added.

“I always liked Neville,” Harry mused.

“I have a good job.”

“I think I should owl him later.”

Ron’s eye twitched.

Harry let out a deep sigh and ran his fingers through his black hair. “Ron, can you answer something for me?”

“Yeah,” said Ron, stiffly.

“Hermione took me to see the records–”

“So you and Hermione are ganging up on me again?” Ron demanded. “Well, what’d you happen upon?”

Harry’s face darkened. He scooted away from Ron, widening the space between them. “Just that according to your file, you’re a fat, balding loser,” he said lightly. “Care to explain?”

“First off, I’m not balding, and for another thing, you really like that word, don’t you,” Ron stated harshly. “I’m such a loser. Look at Ron, your loser mate, always in someone else’s shadow. Not at all like perfect, wonderful Harry Potter. He’s always been everyone’s favourite.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I’m not your friend, Harry,” Ron said, feeling his anger build. Suddenly he wasn’t looking at the modern Harry, with his handsome, glasses-free face, but instead the school boy he had attended Hogwarts with. The same boy who had forgotten him a year ago. “I reckon you don’t remember any of it, but you’ve been a complete arsehole for the last three years. It’s like– like the Harry I always knew you really were decided to show his true colours. I hate you, Harry, I hate The Boy Who Got Everything, and I can barely stand to look at you. If there’s one thing you need to know, it’s that I’m the only one who can see through your little perfection act.”

Harry turned away from him, frowning bitterly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know–” He stopped and his head snapped back so quickly, Ron thought it must’ve hurt. “Wait one bloody minute, ‘the Harry I always knew you really were’? Is that what this is about? You’re jealous?”

“For God’s sake, haven’t you been paying attention?” Ron shouted.

“I don’t understand, why did you even keep in contact if you don’t like me?”

“Personal feelings have nothing to do with politics,” Ron replied. Hadn’t Malfoy said that, backstage at the Plastic Wizard King’s concert? Great, now he was quoting the ferret. Harry’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Ron stood, sticking his hands in the pocket of his coat.

“Wait,” Harry said, “we just can’t end it like this.” When Ron paused, Harry glared up at him like he was the lowest form of life on Earth, and proudly declared, “I hope you rot in hell, you stupid, fat bastard.”

*

When Ron stomped off, Harry just sat on the steps, watching the sun sink behind the cityscape. He felt like crap, there was just no other way to describe it. Putting his face in his hands, he groaned.

A bush about three metres away began shaking. Harry raised his head and stared at it. It shuddered again.

He pointed his wand. “Movere frutem,” he whispered.

Draco Malfoy fell out from behind the shrubbery, wearing, of all things, black jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt. His hair was even pulled back into a short, tight ponytail. Had Harry ran across him on the streets, he doubted he would have recognised the blond. Malfoy quickly got to his feet and dusted himself off. “Potter,” he sneered, displaying the haughty air Harry remembered.

His best friend hated him, his memory was erased, his Quidditch skills sucked, and his worst enemy — that was still living — had just fallen out of a bush. Moving quickly, Harry grabbed Malfoy by the front of his hoodie (‘I heart the Malfoys,’ it stated in gold glitter), pulling the thin face up towards his.

“Why are you following me?” he demanded.

Malfoy’s grey eyes darted around nervously. “I, er…” Harry shook him, hard. “Aaaah! Okay, fine, I’ll tell you the truth.” He paused dramatically. “I’m madly in love with you.”

Harry dropped him. “Come again?”

“We’ve been carrying on a secret relationship for the last three years,” Malfoy confessed. Shocked, Harry didn’t notice Malfoy’s hands moving down to his sweatshirt’s pockets. “It’s terribly scandalous.”

“Oh, well, Malfoy… Hey! No, we haven’t!”

Swiftly, Malfoy clunked him in the back of the head with his wand. Harry gasped and fell forward, and Malfoy took off down the road before he had a chance to use his own wand. He clapped his hand to the back of his neck, feeling a lump forming. “Shit!”

Grimacing, he watched the black figure until it disappeared. Why the hell would Malfoy be following him? Voldemort was dead, after all. “I hadn’t even heard reports of Death Eaters in London.” Harry frowned. When had he said that? “We’re in the old Coca-Cola office building in the City.” Ron’s voice this time, but Harry couldn’t bring the conversation to mind. “It’s a nice cover-up, don’t you think?”

Ron. Malfoy. Coke. Something was rotten in the state of Wizarding Britain.

“Well, never let it be said Harry Potter didn’t enjoy a good conspiracy,” Harry muttered to himself, taking out his wand. “Ron, my mate, we’re going to find out exactly what you’ve been doing.”

He Apparated to an empty alley in the City. A stray cat hissed loudly at him and scampered off to the road, towards traffic. Harry followed its path, coming out across the street from the Coca-Cola offices, which was a high, ominous building. Muggle pedestrians littered the pavement, walking at a brisk pace to get to their destinations, and Harry slid into the crowd. He was about to cross the road when a flash of white and silver caught his eye, and he turned for a second before throwing himself behind a parked automobile. Lucius Malfoy was walking out of the building, dressed in a sleek black suit, his white-blond hair slicked back modestly, every inch of him screaming, “Muggle at work.” It was unbelievable. Harry’s chest tightened as he realised what he was seeing: the building was a clever entrance to Lucius’ hiding place.

And Ron worked there.

“Ron,” he whispered, watching Lucius climb into a luxurious, Muggle sports car, “you are so dead.”

*

The next morning, Ron left his apartment early to go for a jog. He didn’t like jogging, really; he would have preferred Quidditch, but he didn’t know anyone to play with, other than Malfoy, an idea which was less than desirable. He knew Malfoy picked up a game at least once a week with some chaps from the Evil Eye, but Ron would rather have a clean, fair game.

He was starting to stretch when a person-shaped shadow fell over him. When he looked up, he saw Harry’s angry face.

“Oh, great, you’re here, too,” said Ron.

Harry was silent a few seconds, just staring at him. Finally, Harry asked, “Ron, are you a Death Eater?”

“Uh, no?” Ron said.

The expression on Harry’s face tightened. He looked like a cross between infuriated and physically ill. “I know you’re a Death Eater.”

“Bugger.” He could dodge Harry if he could make it around that corner–

“You’re a filthy liar,” Harry growled. He reached into his robe and removed his wand, which he held clenched in one fist. His hand trembled slightly, but from rage rather than anxiety. “I can’t believe I thought you were my friend.”

“Harry,” Ron said nervously, “put the wand down.”

Harry pointed the wand directly at Ron’s chest, his green eyes narrowing menacingly. “You said I was bad at Quidditch.”

*

Six. What I Knew Was Wrong Was You

He and Malfoy had an odd habit of eating lunch together, Ron reckoned, even though they hated each other passionately. In fact, they spent an awful lot of time together during the week. It was like Ron had a little brother, an annoying, snitty brother who ran off to tell on him whenever he did anything bad. It was then Ron understood why his older brothers hated him.

“Pass the sugar, please.”

“Yeah,” Ron said distractedly. He really needed some friends.

“I think you should go pick up the supplies for the next killing ritual,” Malfoy said. He tapped a bony finger against his teacup impatiently.

“I just ordered coffee,” Ron said, absently rubbing his chest. He was still painfully sore from the beating Harry had given him just a few days before. He had given Harry a good beating, too, so at least his aching wasn’t in vain. Although it hadn’t been fun staying in a Muggle jail cell overnight for “disturbing the public.”

Malfoy made a point of looking at his watch. “I really think you should go, Weasel. Like, now.”

“Lay off,” Ron snapped. “I’m not leaving until I have my coffee. Why’re you in such a rush? We just sat down a few minutes ago.”

Malfoy didn’t respond, but his thin mouth flexed slightly. The waiter returned, carrying a large mug of steaming hot coffee, placing it in front of Ron. The waiter’s eyes met Malfoy’s, and Malfoy nodded briefly. As the man backed off, Ron raised his eyebrows, wondering what the hell that was about. He brought his coffee mug to his lips–

His cheap Muggle Reliant Robin, parked parallel to the pavement, exploded in a ball of flame.

“Well,” said Ron, staring at the blackened scrap of metal, “that was subtle.”

Malfoy was leaning forward, an odd expression on his pointed face. Ron looked at his coffee mug, poised at his lips, then back at the blond, who gave him a wide, white-toothed smile. His car had just exploded. And a suspicious man had just placed a drink in front of him.

“Malfoy, take a sip of this.”

Malfoy’s expression froze. “No, thank you, I already have tea.”

Ron pushed the coffee towards him. “Drink.”

“I-I’d rather not.”

“Why is that?” Ron asked.

“Because it’s poisoned,” Malfoy muttered.

“This is fucking wonderful,” Ron said bitterly. “Looks like I’m signed up to be the next hit. I don’t get it, I thought Lucius liked me.” He pushed the coffee to the side.

“Of course,” said Draco, adding more sugar to his tea, “he adores you so much he wants to kill you. Didn’t I warn you? When you’re no longer useful to my father, he’s going to get rid of you. You should have listened to me.”

Ron’s anger peaked. He slammed his coffee mug on the table and started to push his way through the cafe crowd. Malfoy swore, tossed a few Muggle pounds on the table, and started to follow him.

“Hey!” Malfoy shouted, his nasal tone cutting through the buzz of the other voices. “Don’t do anything rash.”

He stopped. Malfoy walked right into his back. “Don’t do anything rash?” Ron repeated angrily. “Oh, I won’t. I’m just going to murder your father.”

“Yes, that– that would be rash.”

Ron growled under his breath and continued moving. So Lucius was planning on killing him, was he? After all he had done for him, he was just going to toss Ron away. Ron heard Malfoy calling his name as he slipped through the rush of Muggle pedestrians, heading towards the entrance of the tube. “Very sorry,” Malfoy was saying. “Excuse me. Sorry. Pardon me.” Ron was going to–

“Weasel!” Malfoy’s voice was right behind him. “You don’t even have a plan. You just can’t storm in there and demand he spare your life. Don’t be stupid.”

Malfoy was right. Ron cringed; he wasn’t the type of man to plan things. When he stopped in his tracks, Malfoy slammed into him again. “Oof.” Grabbing Malfoy’s arm, he dragged him into a side street. They stood alone between the two brick tenament buildings.

“I want you to kill Lucius,” Ron said, voice low.

Malfoy looked at him like he was insane. “Kill my father?” he asked, aghast. “Did the lard cut off a blood vessel to your brain?”

Ron grabbed Malfoy’s robes and slammed him against the brick wall. Malfoy gasped, hands reaching up to claw at Ron’s tight grip. “You’re my secretary!” he shouted. “You kill people when I tell you to!”

“No,” Malfoy snarled, pushing him away with some difficulty, “I make you sandwiches and answer your phone. And occasionally write your name on your underwear. I don’t do murder.”

“Fine, but you’re going to help me,” Ron snapped.

“Why the hell would I do something like that?”

“You’re going to help me, because otherwise I’m going directly to the Ministry and telling them everything. I don’t care if I get sent to Azkaban; I’m going to take the whole lot of you down with me. Especially” — He poked Malfoy in the chest. — “daddy dearest.”

Malfoy drew in a sharp breath through his nostrils. There was a long silence as he contemplated Ron’s words. “Father’s resourceful,” he said finally, each word drawn slowly. “Any plan of his is bound to be extensive. I can’t help you.”

“Fuck,” Ron muttered.

Malfoy ran his fingers through his blond fringe, expression sliding from grave to sardonic. “You know who can help you–”

“No,” Ron protested.

“It’s the only way.”

Ron shook his head vehemently. “No, I won’t go to him.”

“This is so funny,” said Malfoy, gleefully. “Did you ever imagine, Weasel, that Potter would be recruited to save Death Eater Ron Weasley’s fat arse?”

*

The door to apartment 137 opened a crack. Ron could make out a single green eye peering at him from the darkness of the flat, and it flashed angrily at the sight of Ron. “Harry,” he said, pushing forward. “I need– I know I’ve been, well, evil, but–”

The door slammed shut.

“Well, can’t say we didn’t try,” said Malfoy, sticking his hands in the pockets of his robe. “Looks like you’ll have to die after all.” He started to turn away. Ron grabbed his sleeve and roughly pulled him back to the door, ignoring the blond’s squeaking protests.

“You try,” he growled.

Malfoy straightened his robes, sniffing delicately. “Fine.” He knocked loudly, calling, “Potter, this is Draco Malfoy. From Hogwarts.”

“Oh, really?” Harry asked sarcastically.

“No need to get snitty,” Malfoy shot back. “Listen, I know you hate me, I hate you, blah, blah, blah, but the Weasel here’s going to be offed by the Death Eaters unless you help him. And I know you; you’re not the type to let anyone die, even if he’s a stupid git who doesn’t understand the concept of discretion.”

“Must you?” Ron asked.

“Yes.”

The door opened slightly. “Let me guess, you and Ron work together?”

“Unfortunately,” replied Malfoy. “But don’t take it personally.”

There was a deep sigh from within, and the door opened wide enough to allow both Malfoy and Ron to enter. When it shut behind them, Ron pushed Malfoy into Harry’s drawing room, who ‘hmph’-ed and looked around in approval. Harry stood next to the hallway opening, arms crossed over his chest, looking everywhere but them. The rage coming from him was almost tangible.

“So what do you want me to do?” he asked coolly.

“He needs a place to hide,” Malfoy replied. “Father will–”

“No,” Ron interrupted. Malfoy looked at him curiously. “Harry, I need to speak to you in private.”

“The hell you will,” Malfoy snapped. “I’m not going to let you conspire behind my back. What you need to do is get out of the country immediately, not attempt to widdle your way out of a death warrant. Nothing you come up with can possibly match my father’s plans.”

“Did you just say ‘widdle’?” Ron asked.

“Yes. Widdle. Widdle, widdle, widdle.”

“Oh my God,” Harry said. “You two are barking mad.”

Ron angrily took Harry’s arm and steered him out of the drawing room and into the bedroom. Malfoy called back at him loudly as he slammed and locked the door — “Don’t even think you can plan against me, Weasel!” — just as Harry wrestled out of his grasp. “Get off,” the dark-haired man snarled. Something rammed against the door, followed by a barely audible, “Ouch.” Ron wrenched the curtains shut violently before leaning against the darkened wall, away from the window. Harry stood off to the side, breathing hard, and something flitted across his face that could have easily been mistaken for pain.

“This has to be between us,” Ron said. “This is a no-ferret zone,” he added, raising his voice loud enough for Malfoy to hear. A series of sputtered curses erupted on the other side of the door.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

Ron dropped his voice to a whisper. “I know how to stop Lucius Malfoy, but I need your help. We can’t let Mal– Draco, whatever, know the details, or else the entire operation is over, and my head’s on a silver platter.”

“I’m sorry, are you plotting?” Harry asked. “I reckon Evil Ron has more talents than Good Guy Ron, eh?”

“Your mom,” was the only thing he could manage.

“Do you want me to help you or not?” Harry took out his wand and sent a silencing spell round the room. He pointed the wand at Ron then, and a glint of moonlight reflected off his front teeth. “Just to let you know, I’m only doing this because I’m a good person.”

“Harry,” Ron said, “you’re a fucking saint.”

*

The next morning at the old Coca-Cola building, Ron pushed into Lucius’ spacious office. The blond man looked up in surprise as Ron dropped a stack of paperwork on his desk.

“Hallo, Lucius,” Ron said cheerfully. Lucius’ face tightened momentarily — although Ron would have missed it if he wasn’t looking — before breaking out into a polite smile. “I’ve got that information on the Department of Muggle Relations you asked for.”

“Of course.” Lucius seemed to have recovered well. His grey eyes narrowed slightly. “Where’s Draco?”

“Haven’t seen him,” Ron lied. “Prolly out playing Quidditch.”

“He always fancied a game over real work,” Lucius huffed. He smoothed out his parchment and continued writing. “That’s why he’s a bloody secretary and not, well, you.”

“Yeah, you know Draco and work,” Ron agreed. “He’s never done anything right.” There must have been something in his tone, because Lucius paused in his writing and raised his eyes to meet Ron’s. They narrowed even further. Ron smiled thinly to hide the knot forming in his stomach, and quipped, “Well, then. Got loads of work to do.”

“Right,” Lucius drawled.

Ron left the room, trying to appear casual. But as soon as the door shut, he let out a breath and muttered, “Blimey, I am so, so going to die.”

*

Malfoy turned down the lights in Harry’s kitchen as he, Ron, and Harry pieced together the plan.

“What’re you doing?” Harry asked.

“Atmosphere,” Malfoy replied.

It wasn’t a particularly good plot, but it would hopefully work. Ron had never been good at planning; he was more of the acting type. Actually, he was somewhat disappointed Harry hadn’t offered any better ideas.

Ron rubbed his Dark Mark with the sleeve of his robes. Once he got rid of Lucius and ran off to Scotland with the handful of expensive trinkets stolen from the Malfoy manor, the mark would hopefully fade. It had already begun to lighten since Voldemort’s death. Harry looked at him, horrified. Ron dropped his hand.

“Okay, so here’s what we do,” he said. “Malfoy.” The blond raised his head from off the kitchen table, looking bored. “You take your father to this delightfully abandoned warehouse by the docks. Then Harry comes in and kills him.”

“Kill?” Malfoy asked sharply. He got to his feet.

“Did I say kill?” Ron asked. “I mean, hurt him very, very badly.”

“I thought you were killing him, Ron,” said Harry. “I don’t want to kill anyone.”

“You’ve killed people before,” Ron snapped. “Get over it.”

“Never intentionally,” Harry muttered.

“Go back to the part about killing my father,” Malfoy demanded coldly. “You said we were trading Potter for your life.”

“You what?” asked Harry. “You told me you were going to kill the entire Malfoy family.”

“Mummy,” Malfoy gasped.

“Uh,” said Ron.

“Stop dicking with us, Ron,” Harry growled. Both he and Malfoy took out their wands furiously. “Tell us the truth, what were you really planning on doing?”

Ron took a step back. Malfoy jabbed his wand under Ron’s chin, pressing the wood against his adam’s apple. “You sneaky rodent,” Malfoy hissed. “I can tell you what he was planning, Potter: he was going to get you to kill my father, then he was going to get rid of both of us. Too bad you’re too stupid to actually carry it out, Weasel.”

“No,” he protested. “Harry, I was going to get rid of the Malfoys, but not you. Don’t you agree they deserve it? All the horrible things they’ve done to people…” Harry looked sceptical. “For God’s sakes, Harry, what the hell was I suppose to do, sit around and let him kill me? You can’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same thing.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t,” Harry said dryly. “Seeing as how I would never be a Death Eater.” Malfoy sniggered. Harry looked at him. “Well, I guess it is kind of a good plan.”

“I don’t believe this,” Malfoy snapped. “Does no-one care that my father’s life is at stake?” No-one replied. “Ugh. You people.”

Ron asked, “What’re you–”

Malfoy Disapparated.

*

Seven. My God, I Would Be Damned

As soon as he and Harry Apparated to the office building, Ron ran faster than he ever remembered running before. The lifts were out of commission, so he hurried up the stairs to get to the organisation’s floors. His heart pounded in his chest, and his limbs ached, but he moved on. Harry made it to the fifth story before him and when Ron caught the look on his ex-friend’s face, his heart lurched. But he knew what he would find before he even made it to the door:

The floor was completely empty. Not even an owl feather was left behind.

He placed a hand against the metal door frame, gasping for air. A patch of his right torso was tightened painfully. “Shit,” he wheezed. “Shit. They whole lot of them have taken off.”

“Malfoy was faster than we imagined,” Harry said.

Ron thought back to the look Lucius had given him earlier that day. “No,” he said, “I think Lucius figured it out even before Malfoy did.” He threw the door shut, kicking it in sudden fury. “Mother fucking–”

“There’s a note,” Harry cut in, taking down a sheet of parchment that was pinned to the back of the door. “It’s addressed to you.”

‘Dearest Weasel,’ it read in Malfoy’s curly writing, ‘You suck goat’s balls.’ Immediately beneath it, in a less-than-familiar scroll: ‘Weasley, I’m not impressed with your attempts at a coup. You should have just let me kill you; I’m sure it would have saved you the years of pain and rejection to come. At any rate, the organisation has blatantly taken off for less-charted grounds, but you can be sure that when the revolution arrives you’ll be the first we’ll come for. Ta-ta for now, the Highly-Esteemed Lucius Malfoy.’

He crumpled the note in his hands. The Malfoys were gone, his luxurious job was ruined, and he was in an empty building with the person he hated most. Ron was cheesed off. “And here I thought he liked me.”

“Yeah,” Harry said bitterly, “people are like that.”

“Oh, get off your high horse,” Ron snapped. “No-one wants to hear it.”

Harry startled, the expression on his face seeming to freeze. “W-what did you say? I’ve heard that before…”

Ron muttered, “Bugger.” Voldemort had said that right before he and Harry had dueled, hadn’t he? Wonderful. Harry pressed one hand against his forehead and bent over at the waist. “Harry, this really isn’t the place to be having a flashback.”

Harry straightened suddenly. A determined glare formed on his face, much like the look he got during Quidditch, or when fighting evil overlords. “I remember everything,” he said softly.

Ron threw his hands in the air. “Brilliant!”

“You know what I’m really glad to remember, Ron?” he asked. “That I’m so much better than you, you pathetic, fat bastard. I can’t believe I wanted to be your friend again.”

“That it!” Ron snarled. “I’m not fat!”

He dropped the crumpled note and leapt at Harry. They fell in a heap on the hard floor, Harry yelling, “Ron! Ron!” and Ron exclaiming, “I’ll show you a fat loser!” But when he finally wrapped his hands around Harry’s much-smaller neck, the doors on all sides burst open, and a wave of black-clad Aurors came running in. “Stop, Death Eater! Auror’s here!” Harry’s fist smashed into Ron’s jaw, throwing him off, and about five Aurors jumped on Ron at once. Smothered beneath black robes and heavy bodies, Ron could only clutch at the end of Harry’s pants leg.

“I’m not resisting!” he shouted. “Get off!”

Harry kicked him in the face, and everything went dark. The last thing he heard before he passed out was an Auror say, “Oh, I guess he really wasn’t resisting.”

*

Draco picked himself off the ground, rubbing at his scratched elbows. He looked around at the unfamiliar rolling hills, squinting. Was that a cathedral in the distance?

“Oh, bugger,” he said. “Are we in France?”

“Oui,” Lucius replied, using his wand to clear the dust from his robes. He smirked.

“But, Father, I don’t speak French,” Draco protested.

Lucius just looked at him, clearly annoyed. “Good. More reason for you to shut up.”

*

A few hours later, Ron awoke to the feeling of someone poking his arm. In particular, the arm which held the Dark Mark. Skittish, he drew it away. Professor Dumbledore leaned over him and gave him a friendly smile.

“It’s you,” Ron breathed, relieved. “It’s good to see you, Professor.”

He sat up gingerly, holding a cool hand to his bruised cheek. It was then he realised he was in some sort of holding cell, one probably meant for keeping enemies of the Ministry like himself. His grin faded as he remembered what had transpired in the office building. He was going to Azkaban, if he was lucky; otherwise, it was the Dementor’s kiss for him.

“Harry informed me of your… allegiance,” Dumbledore said, still smiling. “I know you’re a good boy at heart, Ron. You’ve just strayed.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “I’m just bitter and vengeful, that’s all.”

“Exactly,” said Dumbledore. “A deal with the Ministry has been made to set you free. However, I’m afraid it calls for the eternal enslavement of your soul.”

“But it’s better than Azkaban, right?” Ron asked.

Dumbledore looked at him very seriously. “It depends on how you look at it. Tell me, how do you feel about children?”

*

“And now,” said Dumbledore loudly, the Great Hall amplifying his voice, “I present to you the new Herbology teacher: Ronald Weasley.”

Ron quickly put out his fag and smiled thinly at the students, who were looking at him in curiosity. “Hallo.”

The first day of the Hogwarts’ school year in the autumn of 2001 wasn’t very different from when it had been in Ron’s time, three years previous. The Sorting Hat still did a new song every year, placing the students in their appropriate houses; the older students snickered and attempted to play pranks; the teachers sat in the front of the Great Hall in a table that reached from one side to the other. Severus Snape glared daggers at Ron as the redhead took a seat beside him. Ron pointed to the place where the Dark Mark was hidden beneath his sleeve, and Snape’s black eyes widened. Ron grinned and helped himself to the chicken.

“He’s also the new Hufflepuff house leader,” Dumbledore added.

Ron cringed. “Professor Snape, do you believe in karma?”

Snape just looked at him, one eye twitching slightly. “Every day I wish I was dead,” he muttered darkly.

“Right on,” Ron said between bites of a drumstick.

Eight. I’m So Far Below It

(2 months later)

It was precisely three days, twelve hours, and forty-seven minutes before the end of the world.

But Harry Potter didn’t know that. He only had two things on his mind, neither of which dealt with destruction: he was hungry, and he was unemployed. Harry had been kicked off the Chudley Cannons for not showing up to practice four times in a row. He had figured thwarting the Lucius Lovers and beating the shit out of Ron Weasley would have been a good excuse, but the captain of the team had seemed to think otherwise. “I was out defeating evil,” he had told them. The next day, Harry was replaced; he had found his broom in a nearby rubbish bin.

Currently, he was in a local Muggle grocery right off Elephant and Castle, busy picking up items for a light dinner. Deep in thought, Harry didn’t notice that another hand was reaching for the same pear he was. He met with a bony, pale hand, and when he lifted his head, he saw that Draco Malfoy stood on the other side. Malfoy’s face seemed to twitch, and he gave Harry a strained smile.

“Nice cucumber,” he leered.

Harry’s eyes narrowed.

Draco’s smile turned into a smirk. “You never saw me, Potter.”

“Yes, I did,” Harry replied coldly.

There was a silence. Malfoy slowly drew his hand back. In one swift motion, Harry took out his wand, pulled the blond forward, and pressed the wooden tip against Malfoy’s side. The fallen pear rolled awkwardly around his feet. “If you go for your wand, I’ll hex you before you even know what’s happening,” he warned quietly.

“Got it,” Malfoy said tightly.

With one hand clenched in Malfoy’s Muggle-style shirt, he took the man over to the checkout counter.

“‘Lo,” he muttered to the cashier, who looked at them in disdain, her bump of a nose turning up. When Malfoy noticed the cashier’s gaze, he smirked and pressed himself full against Harry. “Shove off,” Harry hissed in Malfoy’s ear. He smiled thinly at the cashier, who all but sneered at him.

“Bloody queers,” she muttered, just loud enough for them to hear, “can’t go anywhere nowadays without seeing them.”

Harry snatched his bag with his free hand and pulled Malfoy out of the store.

“Imagine that,” Malfoy said. “A bitch, that one. I have a mind to walk right back into there and–” Harry shoved him through the smattering of pedestrians. He pushed his white-blond hair out of his eyes and glared fiercely at Harry over his shoulder. “There has to be a good reason why we keep coincidentally running into each other, Potter. With the rate we’re going, you would think the gods wanted us to be together.”

“Shut up,” Harry whispered to the back of Malfoy’s head. Malfoy smelled like soap, probably from whatever he had used to wash his clothes. He wasn’t wearing the hoodie and jeans from the last time they had met, but the man’s modern Muggle outfit was surprisingly un-Malfoyish. “It was really stupid of you to come back to London, especially in a place so close to the Leaky Cauldron. You should have known you’d be caught eventually.”

“I didn’t expect to run into you at a Muggle shop,” sneered Malfoy. “Aren’t there plenty of places near you? Or did you get kicked out of that fancy flat?”

“I wanted some fruit. Wizard grocers don’t carry anything good, God knows why.”

Malfoy said something under his breath that sounded like, “Damn my love for Muggle chewing gum.” Louder: “Where are you taking me?”

“The Ministry,” Harry replied. “I don’t normally allow evil to go walking the streets. They’ll put you in a nice holding cell until your trial.” Even from behind, Harry could see Malfoy’s jaw clench. He began struggling to free himself from Harry’s gasp. Harry pressed the wand harder into the small of Malfoy’s back. “I’ll turn you into a ferret, so help me.”

“Wait!” Malfoy turned quickly, facing Harry, who was forced to stop in his tracks. Someone bumped into Harry from behind, muttering, “Arsehole.” “You can’t do this,” Malfoy breathed. “I’m on a mission to save humanity from the Weasel!”

“From Ron?” he asked, incredulous. “You must be joking. Besides, what idiot would send you to save the world?”

“My father–”

“Oh.” Harry took him by the arm and spun him again. “Keep walking.”

“Potter, listen to me– Ow, ow, I don’t think the human body can naturally bend that way. Listen, if you don’t let me go the Weasel may accidentally blow up the entire universe. Do you want that on your conscience? The destruction of the entire universe?”

Harry faltered. Malfoy’s voice sounded sincere — well, as sincere as a Malfoy could get, anyway. However, he couldn’t let Malfoy just roam the streets, knowing exactly where the blond had placed his loyalties.

“No, I suppose not,” he admitted slowly.

“Having a moral dilemma?” Malfoy asked gleefully. “What is it, can’t decide if you should trust a big, bad Malfoy to save the world? Do you let me go and risk losing me forever, or do you take me to the Ministry and possibly kill us all?” Malfoy knowing him so well made Harry feel uncomfortable. The other man’s voice had taken on a strange, dreamy tone, and Harry contemplated whether or not punching the bastard would make him any less of a good guy. “Are you torn up about it, Potter?”

“You’re a complete sicko,” he said. Malfoy “hmm”-ed merrily. Harry knew he only had one choice; he just hoped it wasn’t the wrong one. He pulled Malfoy out of the flowing traffic of people and closer to the windows of a record shop, keeping his wand out of sight. “I’m listening. Talk.”

Malfoy began, “When Weasley and I planned on saving his life–”

“By giving me to your father,” said Harry, coolly. “Yes, I remember that part.”

Malfoy wrinkled his nose. “The Weasel stole a heap of relics from my family’s grounds; he must have planned on selling it for money to get out of the country. Unfortunately, one of the things he snatched was a Dark Arts artefact. One that could, if used incorrectly, end life as we know it. I’ve been sent by the Lucius Lovers to get that artefact back so we don’t all die.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Why would someone create an object that could destroy the universe?”

“Don’t get technical, Potter.”

“Let me see if I can get this straight: your father owned something that could end the world,” he said, frowning thoughtfully. “Ron stole it. And now Lucius wants it back so as to possibly cause even greater destruction.”

“Something along those lines, yes.”

“Ron’s not responsible,” he mused. “He would probably use such a device for evil. Or if he was really, really bored.”

Something like a smile curved Draco’s mouth, and he looked at Harry in elation. “Exactly. But if the Weasel was caught with it…”

“He’d be in a lot of trouble,” he finished.

He had never been a particularly vengeful person, but the sting of Ron’s betrayal was deep; the one person Harry had trusted above anyone else had sold himself to their enemy. Ron had walked away clean for it, too.

Harry licked his lips. “I think I need to pay Ron a visit,” he stated, feeling a jolt of excitement. But Harry Potter didn’t do bad things, although sometimes he did the right thing for the wrong reason. The Ministry would be interested in this relic, certainly; if Ron happened to get in trouble for it, well, it was just an added bonus. He looked back at Malfoy, whose eyes were sparkling, probably sure he had fooled Harry into his plan. Harry smirked. “But first, I’m going to take you to the Ministry.”

Malfoy protested shrilly all the way to the Leaky Cauldron.

*

In the teachers’ lounge in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Ron Weasley stood at an open window and puffed on his fag. He could see part of the courtyard through the grey wisps of smoke, and over into the treetops of the Forbidden Forest. Glancing at the clock, he saw he only had at least half an hour before he had to get to the greenhouse for class.

Class. He blew out a long stream of smoke. Ron didn’t particularly like his job. He wasn’t fond of screaming, bratty children; he didn’t particularly like teaching. Being the secretary of the Death Eaters/Lucius Lovers had been so much more interesting, even if he hadn’t agreed with all their ideas, such as killing Muggles. Even more annoying was the fact Harry could easily gloat over Ron’s failure, and his debt to Dumbledore. “You’re a fool,” Hermione had told him briefly after his trial, “a stupid, self-destructive fool. After all we’ve been through together, you throw it away for a bit of power.”

But it had been for more than just “a bit of power.” He had had a nice place to live, he had eaten nice food every day, and he had had more money than he had known what to do with. He had been something of a hero to them, Harry Potter’s turncoat best friend, even without doing much work. Now he didn’t even have a future.

Ron had tacked up the recent article on Harry — his being thrown off the Chudley Cannons — on the wall next to his desk, where he could gaze at it every day. He was falling back into his old habits, too; it had taken all he was worth to refuse Snape’s offer of drugs when he had first arrived. Now he went through a pack and a half of browns a day, which killed most of his appetite, and Snape’s sinister smirk was becoming tempting.

Grimacing, he put out his fag on the windowsill. “Bloody Harry,” he muttered to himself.

“Speak of the devil,” came a voice. Ron stiffened. “What’s wrong, mate, can’t an old friend drop by?”

“Harry,” Ron said snidely. “Damn, I was hoping you’d be too humiliated to show your face round… well, anywhere public, after what happened.”

The Boy Who Lived’s footsteps approached, loud in the now-silent lounge. He leaned against the windowsill. A gust of wind blew his dark hair away from his face, and when finally Harry looked at Ron, his green eyes were glittering with an unidentifiable emotion. His face was oddly naked without the thick spectacles. Ron winced and reached for another fag.

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you,” Harry said lightly.

“What do you want?” Ron growled. He drew the cigarette to his mouth. “Came to make me feel bad, did you?”

“Not quite.” Harry straightened. “You stole something from the Malfoys. I need it back.”

“I didn’t steal anything,” Ron lied. He had, in fact, every trinket still in his office. A reminder of what had happened. But he wasn’t going to let Harry get his filthy hands on any of it; Ron had stolen it fair and square.

“I…” Harry’s eyes searched his face for a long pause. “Don’t believe you.”

“Who died and made you the boss of me?” Ron demanded. “I don’t believe for an instant that the Ministry picked you up in the week since the Cannons kicked you off. Get the fuck out of here before I owl the Ministry and tell them you’ve been harassing someone the Council judged innocent.”

“Fine. I’ll go check out your office myself.”

That said, Harry left the lounge.

Shocked, it took Ron a few seconds before he bolted after the man, calling, “You think just because you’re the hero you can do whatever you want! If you touch my things I’m going to… I don’t know what I’ll do, but I reckon it’ll be bloody awful!” He chased Harry through the corridors until Harry used magic to open Ron’s office door. When Ron entered the room, Harry was pushing papers off his desk. Furious, Ron snatched them back up. “You’ve got a lot of nerve.” He grabbed Harry’s shoulder as the dark-haired man opened the drawers, checking inside each, and Ron resisted the urge to pull Harry’s hair. Harry passed over some of the things he had stolen from the Manor — a gold mirror, a fine glass — without a pause.

“You’re so immature, Ron,” Harry scoffed, sorting through a selection of liquor in Ron’s bottom drawer.

“You’re the one tearing my room apart,” Ron retorted. He pulled out his wand, ready to shout, “Stupify,” but Harry stopped, having searched the desk thoroughly.

Ron wrenched Harry’s arm back, bringing him to his knees, and Ron was delighted when he saw Harry grimace. But Harry’s eyes still swept over the room. His face seemed to tighten.

“I guess you don’t have what I’m looking for,” Harry said slowly. He looked directly at a Muggle lamp on Ron’s desk — also stolen from the Malfoys — and shook his head, as if it wasn’t worth contemplating.

“I told you.” Ron shoved Harry hard enough for the other man to fall over.

“Draco lied to me,” Harry muttered, pushing himself to his feet. He massaged his arm.

“What about him?” Ron asked sharply. That was a name he hadn’t heard in a while. He should have known Malfoy had had something to do with this; Malfoy would sell him out at any opportunity. It seems Harry had fallen for whatever the blond had planned for him.

Harry looked at him curiously. “I didn’t realise you two were friends.”

“We’re not,” Ron replied. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, uncomfortable. “We just used to spend a lot of time together, you know? Kind of like having an annoying brother you want to kill all the time.”

“Oh, new best friend?” Harry asked.

“Don’t start with the ‘pity me’ routine,” Ron snapped. In his fury, he didn’t hear someone approaching the open door. “Besides, you dumped me, remember?”

“I dumped you because you were a loser,” Harry retorted. “You had no job, no ambitions, no home… Everyone else had moved on, and you were stuck in the past. I needed more than that.”

They glared at each other, both breathing hard.

“Well,” said Professor Snape from the office entrance, “I would have pegged you for the straight one, Weasley.”

“Shut up!” they both shouted at him.

“Get out of my office,” Ron snarled at Harry.

“With pleasure,” Harry replied icily. “Till next time then, best friend.”

He pushed his sleeves up dramatically. The seconds ticked by as he just stood there, staring at him. Ron and Snape exchanged glances, and Ron asked, “What the hell are you doing?”

Harry blinked owlishly. “Er, sorry. Forgot we can’t Apparate here.”

“Brilliant, Harry. Brilliant.” Ron sniggered.

Harry’s face reddened. He pushed past Snape and marched out of the office. Ron scooped up some of the loose parchments on the floor, willing his anger to go down. He rubbed at his arm with the pads of his fingertips, not noticing his hand was right above the Dark Mark.

*

Harry Apparated directly to the Ministry offices in London. He breezed into the holding cells, only stopping to give the guards a withering glance as he checked in his wand, each taking note of the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. He wasn’t in the mood to negotiate over his rights to speak to Draco; after all, the Death Eater’s son had lied to him about something as significant as the end of the world.

When Harry made it to the cell, Malfoy was laying on the stone floor behind the bars, legs and arms spread. He appeared to be asleep. His Muggle clothing had been exchanged for a set of simple, black robes.

Harry pulled out his wand and poked the blond’s leg, hard. “Malfoy, you lying sack of shit, get up.”

“Can’t,” he murmured. “I’m meditating.”

“You know, Malfoy, I think you’ve only gotten weirder since school.”

“Because you’re the poster boy for being normal,” came the sarcastic reply. “Lovely article on you in the Prophet, might I add.”

“What?”

With one hand, Malfoy gestured to the wrinkled newspaper near the edge of his cell. Harry snatched it up, finding, ‘The Boy Who Got Shot Out of the Cannons,’ as the headliner. “They said you got kicked off for being slack,” Malfoy added. “Although they phrased it nicer than that.”

Actually, they hadn’t. ‘Potter was let go because of his inability to commit,’ it stated. Harry cringed. Well, there went his dating life. ‘His current whereabouts are unknown, but he was last seen with an old classmate of his, one Draco Malfoy…’

“I find it very difficult to believe no-one else realises you’re a Death Eater. Erm, Lucius Lover.”

“My father is known for contributing large amounts of money to various causes,” he drawled haughtily. “When the Ministry is getting heaps of galleons from some of the Wizarding world’s richest, they tend to overlook the little things.”

“I suppose being one of Voldemort’s followers is a ‘little thing,’” said Harry, exasperated. He slid the newspaper back into the cell through the bars.

Malfoy got to his feet. “So you found what the Weasel was holding, then?”

Harry frowned. “Don’t change the sub– oh. No. It wasn’t there.”

“What do you mean, it wasn’t there?” Malfoy demanded, eyes narrowing to grey slits.

“I didn’t see anything evil at all,” Harry replied. “Unless you count Ron slowly becoming Snape.”

He let out a deep sigh. “Potter,” he began with exaggerated patience, “when I say, ‘evil object of immense destruction,’ what comes to mind?”

“Big, evil disc of doom?” Harry asked.

Malfoy bristled. “Do you think my father would own something that would be so blatant?”

“Well, yes,” he admitted.

Draco rocked back on his heels. He looked at Harry very seriously. “You need to take me to the Weasel.”

“No way.”

Malfoy reached through the bars and grabbed Harry’s wrist tightly. “You have no choice. I’m the only one who can point out the artefact. For all we know, you looked directly at it and didn’t even realise.”

Harry shook his head. It would take a lot of bargaining for the Ministry to let Malfoy go, even if Harry was there to guard him. He would probably have to enlist Dumbledore’s help. “If you’re wrong–”

“If I’m wrong, you can throw me in Azkaban.” His voice lowered. “Trust me, I’m absolutely sure about this.”

He searched Malfoy’s stern grey eyes. While Harry didn’t trust Malfoy as far as he could throw him, he wasn’t keen on accidentally letting the universe get destroyed by Ron. “Okay,” he said, resigned, “I’ll see what I can do.”

*

Ron didn’t have a lot of patience when it came to reading reports. Eventually, he had gotten a nice ‘No marks’ stamp that he used with red ink. “Patrick Lowell,” he muttered, reading the name on the scroll. Zero. “Anna Kipping.” Zero. “Howard Peters.” The dark-haired boy’s face, complete with frighteningly familiar black specs, floated in Ron’s mind. Double zero. To Peters’ best friend, the tow-headed Ryan Welshberg, Ron gave full marks.

There came a knock at his door — the only ones who knocked were students and Dumbledore, and he wasn’t particularly in the mood for either. He set his stamp down. “Yes?”

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy glided into the room, both wearing dark robes and equally dark expressions. Ron sat up straight, mouth falling open. “The hell?” he sputtered.

“You look for it,” Harry told Malfoy. “You’d better hope you find it.”

“Oh, I’m trembling,” Malfoy said sarcastically. He walked to the fireplace mantel and began checking out the various objects.

“What’s going on?” Ron asked. “Why are both of you here? Hey, wait, Malfoy, didn’t you take off somewhere with Lucius and the others?”

“Something like that,” Malfoy murmured. Finished searching the mantel, he turned to face Ron. Ron felt an uncanny relief while gazing at Malfoy’s pointed face. After all, it was difficult going from seeing one person constantly to not at all, especially when that person had fled the nation in an attempt to escape the government. The blond sneered at him, and Ron found he had even missed Malfoy’s haughty expressions.

“Weasel. Good lord, what happened to you? Someone get this man a cake. Wait, it might put him back on the wagon.”

“I hate you,” Ron said.

Malfoy’s eyes darted to Ron’s desk. His back stiffened, and he grabbed Harry’s sleeve, pulling the dark-haired man close. He whispered something into Harry’s ear. Ron felt funny; Malfoy’s lips were awfully close to Harry’s skin.

“It’s the lamp?” Harry asked a few seconds later, drawing back.

“What’s the lamp?” Ron demanded. “What are you two doing?”

“But it’s an ordinary Muggle lamp, although God knows why a former Death Eater uses a Muggle lamp for lighting,” Harry said to Malfoy, ignoring Ron, who clenched his papers angrily and muttered, “Ha, ha.” “Why would a Muggle lamp be the artefact?”

“It’s glowing,” Malfoy drawled. “Muggle lamps don’t glow, especially not in such an evil manner.”

Ron and Harry both looked at the lamp.

“So it is,” Harry said. “I, er, suppose you’re right. Ron, you stole an evil lamp.”

“I didn’t mean to,” protested Ron.

“You didn’t realise it was glowing?”

“It never crossed my mind.”

“What about it EMITTING EVIL?” Malfoy asked.

“I didn’t really think about it at the time,” Ron snapped. “It’s not like I go round picking up objects and saying, ‘Oh, is that evil I see?’ I just shoved it in my pocket and ran.”

Harry sighed deeply. “Ron, you are so stupid. Only you would aim for the dark, glowing object when stealing.”

“That’s the most evil object in creation,” Malfoy stated, pointing. “I’m afraid we have to compensate it.”

There was a long silence as the three of them gazed at the black, glass Muggle lamp. It seemed terribly ominous now. Harry laughed awkwardly. “This is all pretty stupid, when you think about it. We have to save mankind from a lamp.”

“Remind me of that when we’re all interplanetary goo,” Malfoy said.

“Most evil object in the world, eh?” Ron murmured, looking at the lamp thoughtfully.

Harry must have realised Ron was about to do something, because he reached out for the lamp. Ron knocked his hand away. He and Malfoy grabbed it at the same time, both trying to pull it towards himself. Malfoy was surprisingly strong for a little bloke.

“Give it up,” Malfoy growled.

“It’s mine,” Ron grunted.

“It is not, you stole it from my house!”

Harry grasped it in the centre with one hand, tugging it towards himself. Ron’s hands slipped off its glass surface, and both Draco and Harry stumbled backwards. The lamp fell out of Harry’s hand and shattered on the floor.

A collective gasp rose. The three of them jumped back, each horrified.

“We’re doomed!” Malfoy wailed. “Doomed!”

“Er, my fault, sorry,” Harry said sheepishly.

“Great, Harry,” Ron said, “you’ve killed us all.”

“I said I was sorry,” Harry retorted.

Ron stared at the glass pieces. “Nothing’s happening yet,” he whispered. “Maybe it’ll be okay. Everyone just back up… slowly…”

*

The universe exploded. It was, needless to say, the worst day of Ron Weasley’s life.

*

Nine. I Think I’m Gonna Bash His Head In

#1

When Draco opened his eyes, he was laying down, his cheek pressed to the cold, stone floor. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the high, unfamiliar ceiling. The first thing that occurred to him was that he wasn’t dead; the second was that if he wasn’t dead, then where was he?

“DRACO,” his father’s voice boomed.

He sat up quickly. About ten metres ahead of him was a throne of massive proportions, and perched on top of it was Lucius, wearing flowing robes and a golden crown. Lucius observed him from above, his grey eyes flaring.

“Why is the room purple?” Draco asked.

Lucius pointed at him. “SILENCE!”

Draco could have sworn the walls shook as his voice reverberated round the chamber. He recoiled. “So, er, where did you get the loud voice?”

“CAME WITH THE HOUSE,” Lucius drawled. He spread his arms wide, and Draco had never been more afraid in his entire life. Lucius’ voice reduced to its normal pitch. “Son, welcome to Great Luciusdom.”

*

After the world had ended, Ron found himself on a comfortable mattress, his eyes squeezed shut. He clenched at the cotton sheets around him tightly. He really wasn’t sure what happened when you died, but he was pretty sure it had nothing to do with beds. A hand on his shoulder jolted him to open his eyes: a curly-haired woman was shaking him gently.

“H-Hermione?” he asked.

“Are you all right?” She seemed concerned. “You seemed to be having a bad spell.”

If you counted immense destruction “a bad spell.” “I’m really, really confused right now,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He finally took a good look at Hermione. Her hair flowed over her shoulders, and one thin strap of her nightgown had slipped off. His mouth went dry. “In more ways than one.”

“I was reading this fascinating book on dreams the other day,” she said, “and it discussed the feelings one has after a dream. Perhaps if we talked about it–”

“Hermione,” he interrupted. “I reckon this is something a book can’t fix.”

She snorted. Ron was abruptly flooded with a sense of déja vu. He missed Hermione a lot; she didn’t like evil Ron any more than Harry did.

Okay, so in this weird dream world he was sleeping with Hermione. He could live with that. Maybe it wouldn’t be so weird after a while. He leaned over to kiss her, and his eyes traveled down her bare shoulders– “Wait.” He grasped her arms. A tattoo of a winking Lucius Malfoy stared at him from her shoulder. Lucius Lovers. Malfoy.

Ron sighed heavily. “This is the second worst day of my life.”

*

Meanwhile, Harry was having his own problems. He found himself standing in a child’s bedroom, a crib in the centre. The grey robes he wore were wrinkled, and when he touched his face he had a five ‘o’ clock shadow, neither of which were on him before they had broken the lamp.

He rubbed his eyes. “The afterlife is a child’s nursery,” he muttered to himself. “I feel cheated.”

“Harry, are you in?” came an unexpected voice from the doorway. He jumped, caught off-guard. “You pulled a late night again, didn’t you.”

His mouth fell open when he gazed upon the woman at the door. “Mum?” he gasped.

Indeed, it was his mother. Her face was exactly like it had been in his photo album: she had a bright smile and warm eyes, and Harry felt his throat constrict. Lily spread her arms to embrace him. His eyes teared up as he hugged her tightly, pressing his face against her sweet-smelling hair. She pushed back his head and moved some of his fringe out his face.

“Hullo,” he said softly, sniffing. Maybe this was the Heaven the Dursleys often told him he would never get to.

At that point Lily raised her face and kissed him on the lips. With tongue.

“Aaah!” Harry shoved her away, bringing a hand to his mouth. He stared at her, aghast.

“What’s wrong?” Lily asked, putting a hand on his arm. He shuddered. “Harry, are you okay?”

“You kissed me!” he cried. “You’re not suppose to do that!”

“I’m your wife–”

“My wife?” It was like the floor fell out from beneath him. He drew in a sharp breath. “Where am I?” he demanded hoarsely.

“Harry.” She put a hand on his arm. “You’re in your son’s room.”

Horrified, Harry leaned into the cradle and read the name painted in blue on the inside.

James Harry Potter.

“Goddamn it.” He covered his eyes with one hand. He had married his mother and begotten his father, and he hadn’t even gotten to be king. Harry had seen pretty weird things in his lifetime, but this beat them all. “What kind of sick joke is this?” he shouted.

Baby James stirred, his little pink face scrunching up, and he let out a fierce wail. “What’s going on?” Lily asked, picking up James. “You’re starting to scare me, honey.”

“Mum,” he said, “I mean, Lily, I mean– I don’t know what the hell I mean. I need to find Lucius Malfoy immediately.” She opened her mouth. “I really can’t explain now. But please realise it’s very important that I see him.”

“Harry, you and the Great Lucius work together. Why don’t you just take a portkey?”

“‘The Great Lucius’? I’m helping evil? No.” He raised his hand hastily. “Don’t answer that, I’m sure I don’t want to know.”

He slowly backed out of the room, entering a small corridor. He slammed the door shut quickly. There was a staircase to the right, and he went down into a comfortable-looking lounge, filled with soft colours and modest artwork. It screamed of a woman’s touch. A playpin sat in a corner, near what Harry thought had to be the kitchen.

Beside the door was a key rack labeled ‘Portkeys.’ “How discreet,” he said under his breath. Making his way to it, Harry studied each object on the rack — which ranged from a child’s shoe to a set of Muggle car keys — until he found a small, silver dragon. Attached to it was a sticky note that read, ‘LM.’

“Harry?” Lily’s voice came from upstairs.

He quickly picked up the dragon. Immediately he felt a familiar tug behind his navel.

*

Hermione hadn’t exactly believed Ron’s story about breaking the lamp, and she had believed even less about him betraying Harry, who seemed to still be his friend here, but she had helped him dig out a portkey that would take him to what she called Great Luciusdom. This so-called Great Luciusdom looked exactly like south London, Ron had asserted from the window of Hermione’s bedroom, while she had gone on about alternate planes and black holes and whatnot.

As soon as he used the portkey, he found himself standing in a grand hall. “Hullo?” he called.

A loud clash erupted from the opposite side of a door. Harry stumbled out of what appeared to be a closet. Ron reckoned there was irony in that, somehow. Harry brushed his black hair out of his eyes.

“Ron?” he asked, surprised, “I hate to say this, but I’m actually glad to see you.”

“Ditto,” Ron said. “This is a pretty shitty afterlife.”

Harry took a good look round the hall. “No, I don’t think this is the afterlife at all. I think it’s… something else. Like maybe a different plane altogether.”

Now Harry was sounding vaguely like Hermione. Ron frowned; he knew bugger all about science or technology. He could barely work the Muggle microwave they had had at Lucius Lover’s headquarters. “How could breaking a lamp send us into an alternate dimension?”

“I don’t claim to understand it, all I know is I have to defeat it,” Harry said, nodding grimly.

He rolled his eyes at Harry’s bravado. “I guess that would explain why I seem to be involved with Hermione.”

Harry’s eyebrows rose. “So we’re both in incestual relationships, then.”

“What? What’s that suppose to mean?”

The dark-haired man started walking down the corridor, calling over his shoulder, “We need to find Lucius. He may be our only way of getting out of this. I wonder why we remember everything but no-one else does?”

“Well,” came a haughty voice from above, “you did break the universe.”

Ron and Harry looked up. What Ron had originally assessed to be a block of stone in the centre of the hall was actually a high throne. Lucius was sitting on it, looking down his nose at them. It was amazing how they didn’t see him before.

“Lucius Malfoy,” Harry spat, “what did you do?”

“My dear boy, I didn’t do anything,” Lucius drawled. “If I remember correctly, you three were the ones who botched this up.” Just as Ron muttered, “Three?” he waved his wand. “Accio Draco!”

A shrill “Aieeeee!” grew louder and louder. Draco fell from a hole in the ceiling and landed hard on his back. Ron and Harry gaped. “I think I broke something,” Malfoy muttered. Harry, ever the brave hero, helped him up gently, letting the blond lean against him. “Father, you couldn’t have just yelled for me?”

“A Malfoy doesn’t yell,” Lucius replied. “Besides, the booming voice ceased to be interesting about half an hour ago.”

“Where are we?” Harry demanded.

Lucius studied them coldly. “You’re in an alternate universe.”

“A what?” Ron asked.

“One where I’m king,” he continued. “I knew it would happen, of course; that’s why I sent Draco in the first place.”

Ron and Harry looked at Draco, both fuming. “I-I thought I was suppose to bring the evil artefact back to you,” Draco said, pushing away from Harry. “That’s what I was informed to do.”

“I sent you knowing you would fail and the lamp would get knocked around, ending in the universe changing.” His face settled back into the usual snotty Malfoy sneer. “I’m good like that.”

“Then fucking send us back, you son of a bitch,” Ron shouted. He wasn’t in the mood for any of Lucius’ games.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. You ended your universe when you broke the lamp.” Both Ron and Draco glowered at Harry, who looked away in embarrassment. Lucius picked up a lamp from beside him. It was identical to the one they had destroyed in Ron’s office back at Hogwarts. “Allow me to demonstrate how this works. When you insert a charmed lightbulb, you’re sent to an alternate dimension. There’s a different one for every bulb.”

Harry pointed upwards to the lamp. “That is the most evil object ever. I’M MARRIED TO MY MOTHER!”

Ron sniggered. Draco said, “Disgusting, Potter.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” Harry snapped at them.

“Seeing as how the lamp is back in my possession, I’m afraid you’re stuck here, lads,” Lucius drawled. “You might as well get used to being my slaves, forever doomed to serve my evil purposes–”

“LUCIUS!” A woman’s voice echoed throughout the chamber.

Lucius’s back stiffened. “On second thought… Draco, your mother’s back,” he muttered darkly. “If she sees I’ve messed up the universe again, I am so dead.”

“Again?” Harry repeated.

Draco tried to look around the massive throne. “Mummy?”

“Accio lightbulb!” A green-tinted lightbulb flew into Lucius’ hand. He picked up the lamp with the other and smirked in a very frightening manner. “Hold onto your wands. Pun intended.”

“What?” Ron asked.

*poof*

*

#2

The world came together with a maddening snap. Draco gasped. Once his eyes focused he made out that he was sitting in a cozy kitchen, a warm cup of tea before him. A red-headed woman sat across from him at the table.

“Who are you?” he demanded. She startled, but he continued before she had a chance to open her mouth: “Red hair,” he said critically. “You look vaguely familiar… Don’t tell me you’re a Weasel? Oh my God, I did a Weasel! It wasn’t even a male one!”

“Draco!” Ginny exclaimed. “What are you on about? We’ve been married for years.”

He looked up at the ceiling. “Father, you sadistic bastard!” he yelled.

“I’m working on it,” grunted a voice. Draco turned to see Lucius on a stool in the corner, viciously trying to insert a yellow lightbulb into the lamp. “Bloody Muggle inventions. Can’t live with them, can’t screw up the universe without them.”

The bulb finally slid into place.

*poof*

*

#3

“I’m a chicken sandwich!”

*poof*

*

#4

Draco pulled the sheets back desperately. He growled, “If we keep ending up in these–” The person under the covers tugged the sheets back. “–stupid situations, I’m going to have to do a re-evaluation of my sexuality.” He kicked the person on the other side of the bed, and the figure stilled. “Stop that! I’d at least like to see who I’m stuck with this time. You’d better not be a Weasel.”

Harry popped his head out of the sheets, face flushed. Draco squeaked and nearly fell backwards off the bed. “I’m going to pretend this never happened,” Harry said.

“Well.” Draco’s eyes flickered over Harry’s bare chest, trying to peek below the sheet. “I suppose I could’ve done worse.”

Harry bashed him in the face with a pillow.

*poof*

*

#5

It was dark. Ron could hear dripping in the distance. Whatever was against his back was soft yet firm, and he brought one hand up and pressed it to his forehead. He slowly cracked his eyes open, cringing in the harsh light.

He was in his dormitory at Hogwarts.

*

Ten. He’s On His Back

He had waited in his dormitory for a several long hours, expecting to be sent into another plane, but that had yet to happen. By the time he managed to stumble his way to Dumbledore’s office it was nightfall. There was a horrible aftertaste in Ron’s mouth — from what, he didn’t know, but it was almost like chicken. His head throbbed, and it only served to make the dark, winding corridors from his office to the headmaster’s seem even longer. Dumbledore would know what to do; he had taken care of Harry for all those years while they were students. Surely he would be able to tell Ron where he was this time.

The worst part was he couldn’t find his cigarettes anywhere. He had torn apart his room, even going as far as searching behind the toilet, but there wasn’t a pack in sight. He hadn’t had a smoke in hours.

A lone figure lurking in shadows caught his attention as he neared the gargoyle. “Snape?” He pressed a hand to his temple, feeling heat rising from his skin. “Do you think I could have a potion–?”

Snape’s lips curled in disdain. “Why are you speaking to me?”

“What?” Ron asked.

“As much as I do enjoy your utter lack of eloquence here, I must now return to a more productive business that requires you to be very far away from me, Weasley.” Snape hissed. Then, drawing his cloak back menacingly, he stalked off down the corridor, leaving Ron to stare at his back. Obviously, in this universe, Ron wasn’t evil enough to gain Snape’s respect. This worried him.

“Mentos: fresh and full of life.” At the sound of the password, the gargoyle moved, and the wall slid open. Ron traveled up the spiral staircase until he got to the oak door. He pushed in without even knocking, startling the headmaster, who sat at his desk reading a large tome. The phoenix squawked unhappily.

“Professor, I have to speak with you.”

“About what, Ron?” Dumbledore asked innocently.

He sat in the seat across from the old man. “I– I don’t know how to say this, exactly…” Actually, he did know how to say it; he was more worried about Dumbledore’s reaction than anything else. He took a deep breath and braved forward: “I was a Death Eater and I stole a lamp from Lucius Malfoy and it ended up being a Dark Arts artefact and Harry dropped it and we blew up the universe but then I woke up in a completely different universe and I was, uh, very close to Hermione, literally, and Lucius was king and he sent us to another place with a lightbulb and then I was a sandwich and then I woke up here.”

He stopped in his rant, panting.

“That’s a lot to take in,” the headmaster said, smiling. There was a sparkle in the old man’s eyes which left a lingering feeling in Ron that Dumbledore somehow knew.

“Um, yes,” Ron said.

“You’re not a Death Eater, Ron. At least, not here. You came to me after you left school and asked to work here, since you hadn’t had any success in another field. You wanted to make something of your life.”

“So I was never evil?” Ron asked numbly. “Are you telling me that after all I did, betraying Harry, becoming a Death Eater, I just ended up in the exact same situation?”

“You tell me. Are you?” When Ron didn’t say anything, Dumbledore continued, “Lucius Malfoy hasn’t been seen since Voldemort was struck down by a lorry after the end of your seventh year.”

“Hit by a–?” He broke off. The Dark Lord killed in a hit-and-run? Ron thought he must be going mad. “Am I still the head of the Hufflepuff house?”

“Why, yes.”

Ron groaned. “Dammit, that lamp can’t get anything right.”

*

Ron had quit his teaching position shortly afterwords. If he wasn’t there because of a punishment granted for being evil, then he wasn’t going to stay in a job he hated. Now might even be a chance for him to get a real job, since his name wasn’t marred from his involvement with the Death Eaters and the Lucius Lovers. Maybe he could become The Boy Who Got Everything without anyone else’s help. In this universe, he still had a shot at being better than Harry.

Less than a week later, Harry came through Ron’s door. Ron knew Harry would come see him eventually; it wasn’t like the man to just let things go. Harry stood before his desk and watched him drop tomes into a large box.

“I reckon we’re going to be stuck here for a while,” Harry said finally. “How’s your universe going?”

Ron’s hand wavered in mid-air. What did Harry expect him to say, that being in a completely new universe was great? “I hate myself, I hate the children, but most of all, I hate the plants.”

As usual, Harry ignored his comments. “Mine’s excellent, of course. Seems I’m still on the Cannons in this world.” Ron’s head snapped to where he had previously kept the Prophet article on Harry’s unemployment. It was gone. Harry suddenly seemed shy, grinning stupidly. “You won’t believe this, but Malfoy’s on the team as well. He’s been, er, almost-kinda-sorta decent lately. I think the trauma of being a chicken sandwich has affected him.”

Ron rubbed his upper arm, sans Dark Mark. It still ached at times. Phantom pain, Dumbledore had told him. “So you’re friends now?” he asked, voice low.

“No. You two hadn’t become friends after working together, right? But…” Harry shrugged slightly. “This is an alternate universe, who knows what can still change.”

It seemed he wasn’t allowed to have anything to himself. Obviously, Harry wasn’t satisfied besting Ron in every way. Now he had taken the only other person in Ron’s life he had given a remote damn about in the last two years; Harry hadn’t even liked Malfoy until they blew up the universe.

Things hadn’t changed for Ron at all: he was still stuck here in Hogwarts, and Harry was moving forward in life, getting the lucky breaks. It seemed even Malfoy thought Harry was better than he was. Hot, boiling rage curled in his veins, and he longed for a fag.

Harry regarded him earnestly. “Too bad you’re stuck here, eh?”

“I’m leaving, actually,” Ron quipped. He smiled at Harry grimly. “You know what I decided when I found out that no matter where I am, I never accomplish anything? That I’m not going to let that stop me. I’m going to go out there, and by God, I’m going to be better than you.” Harry blinked. “You might have your fame and your money and– and Draco Malfoy, but I’ve got something you don’t.”

“Which would be?” Harry asked slowly.

“I don’t know what it is,” Ron retorted, “but trust me, it’s something really good.” He pushed open the door with one hand. “Now get the fuck out of my office and out of my life, Harry James Potter.”

Harry had the same hurt/disgusted look about him from when he had confronted Ron about being a Death Eater. He walked to the door, but paused before leaving, and he moved so close that Ron could see specks of gold in those hard, green eyes. Ron’s hands felt clammy. Harry whispered, “You always wanted to be me, Ron, but you never had the courage. You’re going to end up exactly where you were before: a pathetic loser living with his parents. And I’m going to laugh really, really hard when you do.”

The door shut. Ron clenched his shaking hands.

*

Later that night, a lone figure stood in the London Zoo, sweeping away elephant dung. He pushed his white-blond hair out of his eyes and brushed his dirty hands on his coverall-encased thighs. Another man, shorter but just as pale, approached.

“Father, it’s me,” Draco announced, stepping up beside Lucius. He observed Lucius’ grey coveralls and blanched. “Good God, after all that…”

“Yes,” Lucius said somewhat bitterly, “it seems the universe has a sense of humour after all.” He paused. “This must be the dimension where Narcissa gets sick of my evil ways, then divorces me and takes me for every sickle I’m worth.”

“My new stepfather is nice,” Draco offered. Lucius looked sour. “Very, ah, non-evil. Not that there’s anything wrong with that; it’s just going to take some time to get used to.”

His father took hold of the broom again. “Lovely. Draco, shut up.”

“Why don’t you just change the bulb?” he asked, although part of him was hoping Lucius wouldn’t. This universe was shaping up to be pretty decent.

“I had to sell the lamp on E-bay to pay for my mortgage.” Lucius sniggered. “Muggles will buy anything.”

“We’re poor?” Draco asked, aghast. “But what are Malfoys without money and prestige?” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I’ll have to start up my old rock band to spread the Malfoy name. The Plastic Wizard Kings are on a come-back!”

Lucius smacked him.

*

Mad props to Altricial for her fabulous beta job. She’s the best Ron ever. The chicken sandwich and the Mentos were totally hers, and I shamelessly stole them. Without her help, most of this would suck.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Go West

Spoilers: Season 3 finale
Summary: Hunter, Michael and the long road ahead.

They stopped at a McDonald’s in some town called Muddy Ridge, Pennsylvania. Population: One-hundred forty-seven. Plus two, Michael added mentally, as Hunter slurped loudly on his Coke. Brian’s borrowed corvette caught the stares of many of locals, and Michael was pretty sure they were gazing inside and wondering about the two lunatics eating Big Macs in the parking lot in a car that probably cost more than these people made in their entire lives.

“You figure out where we’re going yet?” Hunter asked. His cheeks were still flushed from the quick dash to the car from the restaurant, and he had a smear of mayonaise on the tip of his nose. Brian was going to kill them both if his car got messy. The stench of fast food alone was enough to send Brian into heart palpatations; Michael could already hear the lecture: “What sort of drug were you on that made you go to MCDONALD’S in my ‘VETTE?” Well, it wasn’t like Brian really needed his boyfriend-replacement car any more, with the boyfriend being back and all, and besides, they’d probably be caught as soon as they crossed the border into — what state was next to Pennsylvania? he knew he should have paid more attention in high school — wherever it was they were going.

“We’re going…” Michael squinted back out at the highway. “West. We’ll keep going until–”

“Until we drive into the Great Lakes?” Hunter said dryly. He threw himself back against the seat, rattling the ice in his drink. “Great! Super! Fan-fucking-tastic!”

So that’s what bordered Pennsylvania. Michael needed a map, and he needed a plan even more. He glared at the kid. “Listen, smart ass, I’m keeping your sorry butt from getting stuck in a state home. Or worse, with your mother. Remember?” Hunter frowned sweetly, and Michael was reminded just why he was throwing his life away for some street kid, some hustler, he had almost given up on a few weeks ago. “If you’re so great at geography, you tell me where to drive.”

Hunter gaped. “I knew you didn’t know where we were going!”

“I know exactly where we’re going: we’re getting away from Pittsburgh.”

He snorted. “The devil is in the details, huh, Mikey?”

Michael stuffed his mouth full of fries before he smacked the boy. This had been a bad idea from step one; Ben had been right. Either they would be caught, or Michael would push Hunter out of the car while speeding down the highway, and he’d really didn’t want to explain to Ben why their kid was dead.

“We should’ve just hid at Brian’s until the cops went away,” Hunter muttered. He rolled down the window and threw his empty soda on the ground.

Michael blinked. They should’ve– fucking hell, they should have. “Oh my God,” he said loudly, and Hunter looked at him funny. He cleared his throat. “We’d have to hear Brian and Justin fucking though.”

“Mmm,” Hunter said. “I could live with that.”

Maybe, but Michael wasn’t quite sure he could. Brian naked, sure, but Justin? He had to draw the line at voyeurism somewhere. Not that Justin wasn’t a good-looking kid, but Michael already had enough Brian issues. “Brian never has any food.”

“Ben could bring us left-overs from dinner.”

Hunter smiled thoughtfully, and their eyes met.

“Where to, Flash?” Michael asked, putting the corvette into gear. He wanted to see Ben. He wanted to see Brian. He wanted to go home, to his comics and his DVDs and his warm bed, and Hunter did too, but they couldn’t. And Hunter knew it just as well as he did.

Hunter fastened his seatbelt and turned up the heater. He pointed to the highway. “West.”

*

Disclaimer: Not mine. Everything belongs to Cowlip.

Sidenote: There really is a Muddy Gap, Wyoming, and I’ve been there several times.