Jaded

This is only the fiftieth fanfic I've started, hoping to finish something without running it into the ground, so maybe this will be the one that'll let me WRITE finally.
***

I'm just like you
made by he
despised by they
I'm almost me
i'm nearly human
pity me I'm almost a human being (Almost Human, Voltaire)

The rain hits the pavement with a harsh smacking noise, thousands of them all around me, and all I can think of is that I wish it would stop raining so I could get my fucking cigarette lit.

Finally, I get it burning, and take a long drag. It flames at the end, lighting up the space around me for about three feet, and then I stop sucking in, and it returns to a soft glow. The smoke burns my throat going down, and sits hotly in my lungs, but as the nicotine seeps into my bloodstream all I can think of is that maybe this will kill me in a few years, and save the world of doing it more slowly.

I'm waiting on a bus, and the plexiglas shack they've got up to protect travellers from the weather is so broken down that the rain hardly hits it as it passes through on it's way to me. I feel suddenly like the raindrops are aiming for me, congratulating themselves on the way down my neck and shoulders for a good run. After a moment, I've deluded myself into thinking I can hear them, cheering happily as one of their comrades lands himself a direct hit into my iris.

Blinking back the sting of pain that accompanies the missile-like rain, I take another pull on my cigarette. The smoke clouds around my face, and I remember briefly a time when all I had to do was put my hand out. My hand, and... my wand.

I haven't thought about magic, or anything to do with it in such a long time that it's a simple matter to put out of my head, and just as I'm finishing up the too-short cigarette, the bus rolls to a stop in front of me. I stomp out the last embers left burning, and climb on, handing over my five quarters.

The bus rolls onwards, gently swaying, and I shift my back-pack to my lap to sit down without crushing anything contained inside. Not that there IS a whole lot inside. A couple hundred quid, some changes of clothes, and my gun.

I love my gun. A Browning Hi-Power, semi-automatic, single-action 9 mm pistol with jacketed hollow point rounds. I keep her loaded all the time, and have two spare magazines tucked into the pocket of my bag. A little bit of overkill; that's fourty rounds ready for action at any moment. I've been called paranoid before, but when they broke my wand...

I want another cigarette. I haven't thought this much about what happened back Then in months. This bus is disgusting, and I'm a little bit worried about spending any length of time on it.

The disease-ridden auto lurches to a halt not ten minutes after it picked me up, and I know for a fact that my stop was the last scheduled pick up on this line. The doors swing open, letting in a burst of cold air and rain spatters up against the dirty stairs, causing the new boarder to slip. I put my eyes on the back of the seat in front of me, watching the stranger out of the corners without seeming to. He stumbles a bit, looking harried and tired. He's got brown hair, but it's blond at the roots, and then he looks up and I realize that I've never really forgotten his face, just pushed it to the back of my mind.

Draco Malfoy just staggered onto my bus. In the middle of the fucking night, in the center of fucking muggle London, and I know that it's got to be a set-up. He's doing this on purpose, the blighted sod.

My time spent in America hasn't wiped the last of my British slang, I realize suddenly, even though I thought it had. Evidently I've changed enough that he doesn't recognize me as easily, or maybe he was expecting me to be here, and I think of and reject quickly the thought that he just didn't see me.

The scar is long gone, but there's no mistaking my eyes or ragged black hair. The hair is longer and wilder than ever, and my eyes have dulled through hard living - I never would have thought that the way you lived your life had any affect on your physical features, but when I'm down, my hair is lifeless and flat, though no less messy. Now whenever I look into a mirror, I'm reminded of the colour of the water in the swamps I saw in America, the colour of dying algae in swimming pools. I still remember the vibrant, clear moss green colour they used to be, back when life was good and I wasn't fighting off an addiction to heroin and alcohol.

Thinking back, my life got pretty bad right about the time I turned seventeen. I don't often think back that far. It was a year afterwards that they broke my wand, and cast me out of England.

Boy-who-lived. Saviour. Chosen one. They had so many names for me back then that it's enough to make me start laughing and not stop now. Even as the only other occupent of a dirty public bus, the thought of what I used to stand for brings a giggle welling up from somewhere deep inside.

I killed Voldemort alright, but no one had figured what would happen afterwards.

No one had counted on the Death Eaters retaining their status as a coherent threat after their head was cut off.

They not only formed a coherent attack, they divided up the British Isles and destroyed my way of life. Last I checked, the Ministry had taken a mighty fall, Hogwarts had been closed down indefinitely, and Diagon Alley was almost unrecognizeable.

I was on my way to the Leaky Cauldron now, and from there, I'd figure out what to do next. Now, with Malfoy on my bus, I was afraid.

Lucius was missing, Narcissa dead, and no one had heard a peep out of Malfoy Junior since I'd been chased out of England by the Death Eaters. I heard that he'd fought for the Order after I was gone, but I also heard that he'd betrayed them from the inside and smashed them. Later I heard that the traitor was Lupin, or rather Crouch polyjuiced into Lupin. My beloved teacher from third year was long dead. So many rumours flying at me from so many different angles, I didn't know what to believe.

Now he was sitting three rows in front of me, shaking from the cold, and something attached to his ear that I'd have sooner died than figured Malfoy to have.

Head phones, apparently attached to some muggle mp3 player; maybe an iPod.

My stop's coming up, and I stand in preparation. To my absolute horror, Malfoy looks like he's about to get off here, too. I hurry past him, thank the driver as the door opens, and make my way across the street, waiting for him to continue on before making my way into the Cauldron.

I can see it from my vantage point, however. The sign looks a little bit worse for wear, but after more than ten years, I'm not surprised. What is surprising is that Malfoy moves right past it, and goes into a muggle inn.

Relieved beyond words, I wipe the rain out of my face and walk across the street to the old pub I used to frequent in my younger days. It's looking a little down in the dumps, but as rumours had it, nearly fifty percent of the Wizarding population was decimated by the remaining Death Eaters. With so little people left to take care of the old stores and buildings, it was no surprise that they fell into disrepair.

I let myself in, and look around. It's damp, and deserted save for two people by the bar, and a strange man behind the counter.

"Hello, sir," he calls out, and I think that his voice is kind. "What can we help you with tonight?"

"Just a room," I tell him, and hand the money over. "I don't have any sickles, are quid alright?"

He accepts it; Wizarding coin fell into disuse as well, when muggle money became much easier to use and carry around. Conceal, as well, as the slips of paper are simpler to hide in your jacket pocket than a pouch of clinking coins. I'm expecting Wizarding bills to come into use any time now. Or maybe Wizarding currency will never get off the ground again, and more of the muggle will integrate with our society.

Either way, change is finally in the winds, and all I can think is that it's about fucking time. Jon hands me a key, and I feel the tugging towards my room, and gratefully allow it to lead my feet. I'm more tired than I thought, the fifteen hour flight grueling and jet lag is catching up. I stumble into the bed without even taking off my boots and pass out.

***

When I wake up, the sun is shining brightly through the window, and there seems to be no trace of the storm that raged last night. I reset my watch to Englisht time when I arrived, so I'm not worried about it when I see eleven AM when I glance at it. My stomach growls loudly, announcing it's emptiness, but the first thing I do is reach for my cigarettes.

Laying stretched out across the bed I just woke up in, fully clothed, and smoking seems almost indecent. I think that the only thing I'm missing is a bottle of whiskey, and then I have to stop thinking because whiskey leads to pot, and pot leads to heroin, and I stopped using almost two years ago. I stopped drinking less than six months ago, but I haven't been able to stop smoking, and the taste of whiskey always makes me want a joint.

I take my mind off this track, and get up once my cigarette's gone. I feel dirty, and messy, having worn the same clothes almost three days in a row without stopping to bathe.

When I heard that the last of the Death Eater Regime had been taken down, I finally felt safe enough to return to England, and hopped the first plane back. I strip slowly, savouring the feeling of the cool air in the room on my skin. First my jacket; a floor length black trench I found in a muggle mall, in a store called "Hot Topic". I've had a lot of clothes from them over the years. I also stopped wearing colours about eight years ago. Black suits both my needs and my moods, and I never have to worry about whether it looks good. After the jacket, I pull off my black tee shirt and simply sit shirtless on the bed for a few moments.

There's something freeing in being only half-clothed, as though one is still 'decent' to be seen in public, but unclothed as well. I reach down and tug my boots off without unlacing them. They're another product of Hot Topic, and have entirely too many laces, straps, and buckles. I love them because they're solid and steel-toed, and make me look like a thug. People don't mess with people wearing black trench coats and huge, shit-kicking boots.

Socks come off next, and I still haven't gotten over my school-day habit of rolling my socks up together and tucking them into my shoes. They're black, too. When I said I stopped wearing colour, I meant everything. I have a pair of leathers in my bag, but for now it's just plain black jeans. They come off next, followed by the boxers, and then I'm just sitting in my room naked. I want another cigarette, but I'm almost out and I don't know when I'll be getting more. Certainly within the next day or two, but I've only got three left, and that's not enough.

Finally I get off the bed, and make it into the shower. Being in the shower is the only thing I love more than cigarettes right now. I love the feeling of the water falling onto my body, running down in warm rivers to my feet, washing away sin, crime, dirt, life.

I wet my hair, and use the bar of soap to wash it, then scrub my body. It feels amazing to finally be clean again, and I rinse the suds off and watch them flow down the drain. Stepping back into the cool air of the bathroom proper, I look myself over in the mirror.

I've never been muscular, or broad or anything. The past ten years spent doing smoking and forgetting as much of the world as I possibly could have not done nice things to my body. I'm almost skeletally thin, and my skin is pale. My hair is too long, and I'm built like a thirteen year old boy. The only thing I'm proud of is my cock; there's nothing thirteen year old about that any more. Still, for thirty years old, I could still pass off as a high schooler, and have sometimes. That's the thing about people, they want fantasies. They don't want to fuck their wife because all she wants to do is missionary in the bedroom, so they come to me for some coke and a chance to paddle a kid before fucking him over the dining room table. They come to me for their good fantasies, for their bad ones, the dark ones. Whoring my body out has never been a difficult decision for me. It bought my drugs and alcohol, and clothes, and house, and if I can't find a legitimate job over here, it'll buy my house and clothes and smokes again.

Still, I've got to get out there and find out what happened to Diagon Alley. I heard that a lot of it burned down, and I heard that it was flattened by spells, and I've heard that it's just uninhabitable now, but it's like the Malfoy rumours; I've heard so many, I don't know what's real any more.

I dress in clean clothes out of my back-pack in the same order I took them off; underwear, socks, trousers, boots, teeshirt, and trench. I take Anja - my Browning - out of the back pack as well, and tuck her into the pocket inside my coat. I've been thinking about getting a side holster for a while, but it's just too much of a hassle.

I pack up my dirty clothes, and take out a cigarette, but don't light it. Downstairs, Jon thanks me as he's wiping down tables, and I take in the hooded figure in the corner that's watching me.

That's alright, I can ignore them both. I take the back way out, and pull Anja from my pocket. If I close my eyes, I can still remember the sequence of the stones as Hagrid pushed them with the point of his umbrella. It's as clear in my mind as if it had happened yesterday, and for a moment I'm shocked to remember that it's been almost twenty years since the first time I came here. It feels like it's been millions of years, and yet only a few days.

The bricks roll away with more dust and debris than I recall, but the pathway opens. In my mind I see hundreds of shoppers, children, husbands, mothers, sisters, all bustling around for the things they need. I can hear the murmuring noise as those hundred voices combine together into one meaningless blur, and when I open my eyes again, I'm startled to see only three people hurrying nervously to and from various shops.

A lot of the storefronts are boarded up, some are broken, and most are closed. It's like an iron hand around my heart to see this once proud shopping district reduced to this.

"Do you have business here mister Potter, or should we all just start bowing now?"

The icy voice is a little rougher than I remember, but the distasteful tone is not. I turn, right into the business end of a wand pointed at my head. Behind the wand is an angry Malfoy, molten silver eyes glowering at me from under a hood.

"I thought I saw you on that bus last night, but it was late, and I was tired, and I knew for a fact that you had been dumped into the Atlantic ocean ten years ago. Imagine my surprise when you showed up in the Cauldron this morning as I was taking my midmorning tea. Of course, I had to be sure that it was you - that dreadful scar is gone, and that coat is likely to off itself at any moment, yet I clearly remember you wearing better clothes in school, which is really quite funny considering -"

I pulled Anja out and set my finger on her trigger. "Do you have something to say, Malfoy, or may I continue my business?"

He lowers his wand slightly, and I realize how much bigger he is. We were always about the same height and build during school, but now I've retained that waifish image and he's broad-shouldered and mature looking. His face isn't as pointy as I remember, and he seems to have grown into his limbs, which always seemed too gangly and long for him. Now he evinces an easy grace, making me feel clumsy in comparison. Still, I could kill him before he could even think of the proper curse, and he seems to know it, as the wand lowers further.

"By all means, Potter, continue." His voice is saccharine and gives me the willies. I pull my lighter out in the same movement as I'm putting my gun away, and light the cigarette still hanging from my lips. Inhaling, I give a mental sigh. Nicotine, wonderful nicotine.

"A filthy habit," Malfoy scoffs behind me, and I flip him the finger without even turning around. I can hear some sputtering, and know that he expected a fight. I wander down the main street, looking at the shops. I'm good for clothes and food for now, but I'm going to need a new wand if I'm going to make it in the Wizarding world again. I'm aware of Malfoy tagging along behind me, and he's doing such a good job of it that if I weren't as paranoid as my old friends used to say I was, I wouldn't have noticed. He's being as unobtrusive as possible, and I'm just as happy to ignore him. Finally, I find Gringotts still open and hurry inside. There's no more than ten goblins here, and only one customer. I make my way to the nearest open booth, and the goblin glowers down at me.

"What can I help you with?" he sneers, but after a moment seems surprised. "It can't be... Harry Potter?"

God how long has it been since I've heard my name? I've been James Black in the US. "Yes, it's me." I tell him quietly, and he retrieves a box for me.

"This has been left for you, to be given to you in the event of your unlikely return to England." He shoos me away, and I take a seat on one of the nearby benches to open it.

I find a pair of keys, and a letter.

Harry, you have been like the son I never had, the nephew I never saw, the godchild that I could have had. I have loved you as a parent, an uncle, a teacher, and a fellow Order member. There have been rumours that you were killed in the first wave of fighting after Voldemort died, and we were sent your invisibility cloak in tatters along with your broken wand. They all have given up for you, and there is talk of a memorial in the Ministry. I do not believe you're gone. I cannot believe you are gone, because if you are, it would mean that everything meaningful in my life has died, and I cannot go on living if that is how it is to be.

With this in mind, this single-minded belief that you are not dead, I leave for you the vault keys for the Black and Potter vaults. Also, I hide at the bottom of this box, the key to your house. It belonged to Mr and Mrs Potter before they died. After Grimmauld Place was destroyed, we all - the remaining Order members and I - moved there. It was a complete surprise to us when we discovered that it was still standing, unsold and untouched. There is talk of dissolving the Order; there is simply nothing we can do any more. The Death Eater ranks number in the thousands, and we are barely thirty any more. Your loss has been a great blow to the people of England, and I hope I may find you well someday in Heaven, or wherever we will meet when at last we die.

Harry my boy, do not be afraid of death. A great wizard once said that death is nothing but the next great adventure. I have to believe that death is not the end, for what else do we struggle so to avoid it for? There is deeper meaning in life, and I believe that it lies in death. The death around us now is nothing but a new beginning. Take what you need from my house, even if I remain there when you read this. I am in Wiltshire, address enclosed below.

Please be safe, Harry. Please know that this is not your fault, and that you are not to be blamed for any of it. None of us could have forseen the Death Eater threat coming, and I pray that wherever you are, you've found the peace you always desired.

Ever yours,
Remus J. Lupin (Sept 2001)

Beneath the letter, I found a newspaper article someone had discreetly tucked in.

Death Eaters raid Order of the Phoenix HQ. No survivors. The location of the secret headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, an organization put together by Albus Dumbledore in the first war against Voldemort, was betrayed to the Death Eaters from within by Bartemius Crouch Jr, a notorious sneak and Order impersonator. Rumours tell that he killed the werewolf professor Remus Lupin and began taking over his life in the Order. Reports say he'd done it once before, abducting Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody, also a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and impersonating him nearly the entire year of Harry Potter's fourth year at Hogwarts. There are reports that say he rigged the Tri-Wizard Tournament, and that it was his efforts that made the return of the Dark Lord Voldemort possible.

Remus Lupin's decayed and ravaged body was dumped into the main foyer of the Ministry of Magic late last night in a last defiance by the Death Eaters against their enemies, the Order. He has been laid to rest at...

I couldn't read any more, and dropped the box. I had known it would be bad. I had known what I was leaving behind when I fled England twelve years ago. I had spent the next ten years trying to forget that I'd ever lived in England, much less run away in terror from a people who were expecting me to be their hero.

I'd told myself at the time that it was all I could do. I'd done what they wanted, I'd killed Voldemort, why couldn't they be happy with that? The Death Eaters were their own problem now, but it wasn't. The Order struggled futilely against the Death Eaters, and in the end they were crushed.

At least I'm still alive, right? It's not much of a life, but it still belongs to me. At least that's what I'm telling myself.

I take the keys, and return the box to the goblin who'd given it to me. "I don't want to see that any more," I tell him, and ask to be taken to the vaults. The goblin who escorts me to the trolley is silent, and as we're stepping on, I ask him if it's possible for me to empty these two vaults of whatevers left in them, and deposit it all into a single vault in my own name. He assures me that it's not only possible, but easy, and we stop at the Black vault.

Inside I find a large pile of galleons, sickles, knuts, and several stacks of quid bound together with rubber bands, along with family heirlooms, paintings, knick knacks, even cutlery. It seems that Remus emptied number twelve out before it was destroyed. I found photo albums and personal effects as well. "I want all of this removed, and placed into a vault of my own."

"Very good, sir," the goblin says, and we close the vault before heading over to the Potter vault. This is the one I was taken to on my first journey into Gringotts too, and the piles are smaller, but in no danger of running out.

Something in the back glints red at me in the light from the goblin's lamp, and I step off the trolley and into the vault. Nestled in the back, amongst more jewels, boxes, and what-have-yous, is the philosopher's stone.

Christ almighty, Dumbledore, did you want me to die an early death?! It's all I can think, and I leave the stone where it is. "This too," I instruct the goblin, and he takes both my keys. The vault is closed again, and we return to the main lobby. I am instructed to wait, so I return to my seat on the bench and watch people come in and out the doors. A familiar face at last, even if it's not entirely welcome. It seems Malfoy has tired of waiting outside for me, and comes in to look.

He nods to himself after seeing me, and then goes up to one of the goblins. I can't hear what they're saying, and I don't try to listen. After a few moments, a goblin girl comes up to me and hands me another key.

"Mister Potter's vault key, sir," she says. "Would sir like me to take him to the vault now?"

I consider this. I've already seen everything both vaults contain, but I suppose it shouldn't hurt to check it out one last time, maybe grab some extra cash while I'm here. I do, after all, need to do a bit of shopping.

She takes me to the vault, and I check inside. The stone twinkles back at me from the corner, and I ignore it while I gather up some of the galleons and place them in my back pack. The goblin girl - and I realize that I never even thought of there being girls in that species; she's even worse looking than the males if that's possible - stans quietly while I take care of my business.

All in all, I think that there's enough in this vault to last me the rest of my life, easily. Returning to the bank proper, the first thing I want to do is get myself a wand. Afterwards, I'm thinking of a pet. I can't live anywhere by myself, and since I'm here...

I go into Ollivander's grateful that it's still working. There's a young girl behind the counter, and she smiles warmly at me.

"Welcome to Ollivander's, sir," she says. "Papa, there's someone here," she added, turning to shout down one of the aisles. Ollivander himself shuffles forth, and smiles at me.

"Harry Potter," he says, and she gasps and turns red. "I'd feared you dead, boy," and I'm swept up into a great embrace. "They never found your body, I never believed it. And now look, back again. I'm glad I could have lived to see this day. Now, I hear tell your last wand was broken, so we'll just get you another. I know just the wand."

He shuffles off, murmuring to himself, and the girl - his daughter, I suppose - is still gasping to herself in horror that she didn't realize who I was right off. The bell over the door tinkles, and I glance back to look into the smirking face of Malfoy.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" I ask him rhetorically. He answers anyway.

"Potter, don't you know that I have an unpaid favour to return? After all, you spent every waking moment sixth year following me around, didn't you? Convinced I was up to something, weren't you? Well, now the tables are turned. I've been instructed by the Minister to find out what you're up to, and I intend to do it."

I almost laugh in his face. "You could have asked," I tell him, and Ollivander comes back with a slender box.

"Give this one a try, my boy, I think you'll find it --"

He stops talking as I swish the wand gracefully and a painting flies off the wall. "Hmm, not right, eh, alright, not a danger, we'll get you this one instead..." He returns to the stacks, and Malfoy has tears in his eyes he's laughing so hard.

"Buying a wand again, just like you're eleven. Going to catch the Hogwarts express up to Scotland again - wait, I forgot, Hogwarts burned down. Shame, isn't it?"

It's all I can do to grit my teeth and not answer, or pull my gun on him again. He knows what Hogwarts meant to me, the sodding bastard, and he's baiting me deliberately.

As if the thought is a bucket of water dumped over my head, my rage evaporates, and I tune him out as Ollivander returns with another wand.

This one turns out to be a match, and I pay him for it, overpaying but happy to do it. Having a wand again is like having it for the first time all over again, except that now I had six years of schooling behind it, and knew what to do with it. I could still hear Malfoy laughing in the background as I performed simple spells such as wingardium leviosa and lumos, but it felt so good to have the magic flowing through my fingers and into the wand that I didn't care. I hadn't asked him to tag along, after all.

Having solved several problems all at once - money, a place to live, and having a wand - I was feeling pretty good about myself. I pulled my wand out, and apparated from Diagon Alley out to the area I believed Remus' house was. It turns out that I ended up in his backyard, and invited myself in the front door.

Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust, reminding me that this house hasn't seen life in years. Still, it has that homey, Remus-y feel about it, and I feel instantly comfortable. I comb through the house, and find old picture albums and records, and clothes, and there's even a basement that has suspicious claw marks on the inside door. There's nothing down there beside a few tattered blankets, and I don't like to think what he used it for.

Returning to the upstairs, I make the decision to stay there. I know I've got the Potter estates to go to, but I don't feel like staying in some musty old mansion by myself. This cottage needs enough work done on it that it'll keep me busy for a while. I hear a popping noise outside, and flick the curtains aside. An angry Malfoy is strolling up Remus' - my - walkway.

"Apparating away like that was not very nice," he says, and I almost laugh.

"You think I'm going to offer you my arm and whisper my intimate secrets to you?" I ask him, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. He makes another disgusted face, and I blow smoke rings in his face. I'm down to one cancer stick, but I figure that since I've got to get back into Diagon Alley later anyway, I'll just head back out through the Leaky Cauldron and into muggle london for my cigs. "How did you find me so fast, anyway?"

"The minister has some ties to you, and when you vanished, I went to him and asked." He's being awfully forthcoming with information; it makes me nervous.

"And the minister is...?"

"Arthur Weasley." I choke on the smoke I'm trying to get into my lungs, and decide that I've been away too long.

"Pull the other one, Malfoy," I say, and try to get back into the house and shut the door in his face before he can tell me anything else I'm not willing to hear. Last I'd heard, most of the Weasley's were wiped out in the war.

"I'm not joking," he says, and he looks entirely serious. It worries me.

"So why the fuck are you following me?"

"I told you. The minister was alerted to your return, and considering the proximity between the fall of the Death Eaters and your quiet return to England, he was suspicious. He's been keeping tabs on you while you were in America, and we'd all figured you were pretty settled over there. When you suddenly came back, it was a shock; hence, I'm here to find out what you're up to."

I laugh. "I'm sorry to break it to you Malfoy, but there's nothing sinister about me. I found out that it was safe to return to my home, and so I have. And I'd like not having Ministry dogs hounding me the rest of my life-" His eyes flare with anger at my words - "So if you'll be so kind as to remove yourself from my premises?"

To my complete surprise, Malfoy leaves, apparating away as soon as he's reached the end of the property line. I immediately set to cleaning.

The effort takes me the rest of the day, but when I'm finished, the house is habitable again. I've done laundry, chucked out everything I didn't want or need, and the only thing left is to go shopping and get something decent for eating back into the cupboards.

I follow Malfoy's earlier example and apparate away from the edge of the front walk, right back into Diagon Alley. It's almost completely deserted, with everything closing down early, but I can still get back out of it into the streets of Muggle London, which is exactly what I'm trying to do. I hear a popping noise behind me, and then Malfoy's ingratiating voice rakes across my nerves.

"It's a good thing you're so popular with the Ministry, Potter, or else I might have had to bring you in for questioning. As it is, the Minister has accepted your story, and welcomes you back to England."

I ignore him, moving through the Leaky Cauldron as though I own it. My boots make a lot of noise as they hit the floor, and my coat flaps around my legs, and with my long hair I just know I look like a movie villain. The thought is nearly enough to make me burst into laughter, the only thing stopping me is Malfoy's continued presence.

He follows me into the street and then again into a store. The first thing I do is pick up more smokes, and then I concentrate on food shopping. I'll need homey things like a television that's less than five years old - the one Remus had was probably one he'd taken from his parents' home when he moved out - and some newer bed sheets, but the things that are there I can deal with for now. On a whim, I pick up a bottle of single malt Aberfeldy whisky, earning myself a queer look from Malfoy.

"I thought you'd given up drinking?" He asks, and I scowl at him darkly.

"What I do with my life is none of your concern." I tell him flatly, and continue on with my shopping. Once I've paid, I head outside with my bags and light a cigarette, drawing in a deep breath of smoky nicotine. I hear Malfoy behind me making noises of disgust, but ignoring him is becoming easier, and I apparate back to Remus' house.

I have maybe an hour of peace and quiet, before there are people knocking on the door. I have an untouched glass of whisky sitting beside me on the little side table, and an unlit cigarette hanging from my lips. It's probably around eight in the evening, and I've changed into pajama pants that are far too large for my skinny body, and hang down almost obscenely low. They and my boxers are the only things I'm wearing, but I don't care, I go to answer the door anyway.

"Yo," I say, opening it. Malfoy's standing there, looking put out. Next to him is a tired looking woman, who immediately squeals upon seeing me.

"WOTCHER, HARRY!" She shouts, and throws her arm around me. The cigarette falls to the floor.

"Tonks?" I can hardly believe it. Without the vibrant hair, and the added lines around her face, I barely recognized her.

"When Malfoy and the Minister told me you'd come back I could hardly believe my ears. May I come in?"

I consider briefly, my eyes touching with Malfoy's. "You can, he can't."

"I'd rather eat shit than spend any time inside this --"

"Malfoy!" Tonks and I both yell at the same time, and he backs off, retreating to the mailbox to sit grouchily on the ground. I invite Tonks in, and offer her a drink or a fag; she refuses both, instead settling herself on the empty seat.

"It's been so long, Harry," she whispers. "I thought you were dead. Most everyone else is... gone."

"Dead?" I ask, not wanting to know but unable to keep the question inside. She shakes her head.

"A lot of people simply vanished during the long death. A lot fled the country, and haven't been back. Of course, we've only just overthrown the Death Eater regime. I'm surprised you came back so quickly. It only happened two weeks ago that the Minister proclaimed us free once again."

"I may have been physically exiled," I tell her, taking a small sip of my whisky. "But my heart's always been in England. I kept a watch on the papers, and my ears to the rumour-mill always."

She begins crying. "I'm so glad to have you back, Harry," she whispers, and I embrace her, another cigarette already back in my mouth. "You've changed so much. I heard you did awful things in America."

"I did," I tell her. I'm not ashamed of what I've done, what I've become. "I'm not in America any more."

"You know it won't be easy, readjusting to life over here. A lot of things have changed."

"Take Malfoy for example," I cut in with levity. "He's finally grown into his nose."

----
End

WOW. I have no idea where this came from, or what was going to happen. Maybe I'll keep writing, since I finally CAN. (Seriously, I have had this giant chunk of writer's block sitting on my chest for WEEKS.)

Epilogue
Draco sits under the window, listening to Harry and Tonks catching up. Angrily, he shouts,
"Potter, I heard that!"