Okay, the reviews I've been getting lately have been asking questions, and I feel I should talk about a few things. If you have been asking me about what or when so and so will happen, remembering you're assuming that your idea will happen. I can't and won't say, I'll pull the just wait and see card.

Secondly, someone asked me what was with the Malfoy/Potter, thing, that does get covered later, as does the response to "who do I think is the more dominant person?" Actually that gets answered below, basically that person read my mind!

Thank you to everyone who reviewed, and I am nearly done with this story (posting-wise) and venturing tentatively to end it's sequel, hoping that the latest book does not kill it entirely.

Chapter Ten:

Using the Floo Network wasn't easy when there wasn't an adult wizard helping you. Remembering his first disastrous try, Harry spoke loudly and clearly, but still managed to land firmly on his bottom. The others, who had all gone before him were standing in the large upstairs hall of Malfoy Manor. Draco extended a hand to Harry and he did not hesitate to take it. The two boys stared at each other before the cracking sounds began. Many people were Apparating downstairs.

"They've come," Hermione said, walking out to the balcony so that she could see what was happening downstairs. "Professor Lupin and Professor Snape and Ginny and Charlie and --oh-- " Hermione gasped, seeing herself hugging Seamus.

"Well," Draco said, amused. "Seems like me and Harry aren't the only relationship in the Alliance."

"Shh," Harry hissed. "I can't hear what they're saying."

Plans, carefully executed and studied were being made downstairs. Harry listened to his own voice, in the future-present, voicing fears about everyone but himself, but especially Draco.

"We'll use Harry and Draco as bait," Remus said hesitantly. "We'll charm the house, and some of us will have to go out and find them. The last one -- who isn't injured, that is, must tell them where Harry is. This way we ensure the safety of the other aurors who aren't in the Alliance or the Order, or they'll kill them off one by one searching us out."

And then Harry heard Weston, known only to them as some elusive figment volunteering herself to find the Death Eaters responsible for what had happened. Ron, in a hesitant voice, filled with fear, agreed to go with her. Then Seamus, boldly, despite the loud cry his wife gave.

"Seamus!" Hermione's voice lost its adult poise, and the child Hermione, sitting at the foot of the stairs took in a deep breath.

"I've got to, Moines," he said, almost proudly. "We've got those snots you claim are my children-- we've got to give them a nice, peaceful world too. Don't even say you are going with me. Children need a mother more than a father."

These were the Aurors, they realized. The saviors of the future, the protectors of the wizarding past. In some even more distance future their names would be written down with praise, and school wizards would study them with envy.

But only they would understand. The final battle had begun, and they had willingly set themselves as the first causalities.

Both the children upstairs and the adults downstairs knew it was only the beginning.

Draco didn't dream. Harry used to call him the "dreamless wonder" when they first began to spend nights together and he had flinched about it, a sore spot. Either Harry forgot or didn't tease him about it any longer, seeing he was sensitive.

But this was no dream. He was walking through the halls of his first apartment, a dingy flat with a tendency for murky water, that had been his home before his parents had died, after they had disowned him in everything except their wills.

The living room was as he remembered, bare and yet welcoming, and there was someone crying in the corner. Horrified, Draco walked towards the edge of the room. He realized that Harry was already there, comforting the person.

"Don't cry," Harry said mournfully, touching the figure's shoulders. "Please don't."

The figure turned. It was a man with a skull like head and red, reptilian eyes. He laughed softly. "You are dead, Potter."

"No!"

Draco's eyes bolted open. For a moment he stared at the ceiling, shocked. The tiles stared back, impassive. His mouth felt faintly used, he was sure he had screamed the no aloud. Finally, his eyes turned to Harry, deep asleep.

He had strived and succeed. Harry would never know how much he needed him, everyone would always remember Malfoy as proud and distant, the "what does he see in him" type of relationship. Now it seemed too late to change anything, or everything. Draco sighed as he watched Harry's eyes move quickly under their lids. Dreams. Hesitantly, not to wake the spell of sleep, he put his fingers against the mouth beside him softly.

"Harry," he said, looking at the ceiling and not where his hand lay. "I need you."

He felt the lips curl before the words came, hot and moist against the whorls and turns of his fingertips.

"I know you do, Draco." He opened his eyes, in the barely risen morning sun they glowed golden between little spurts of green. "You know, sometimes I think you want me more than I want you." There was mischief twinkling in the corners, eyes large and lovely without the shield of glasses.

"Don't be absurd, gorgeous," Draco laughed bitterly.

"I'm not being absurd," Harry said. Draco tensed. He was always so simple, so direct. "And you do think I'm gorgeous."

Draco looked at the ceiling. It was once again impassive. Look back at him. His head commanded him. Now. He looked at Harry, twisting his head upward, as he was higher on the bed. It literally ached sometimes to look at him, and the pain in Draco's neck was nothing compared to the ache in his chest. He was lovely, Potter was.

"You are gorgeous," Draco pronounced quickly, putting his lips chastely against Harry's. "Gorgeous, Harry Potter."

Harry's eyes widened, but he said nothing as Draco's arms pulled him close. He smelt warm and safe and deep, like the musk waiting scent after a rainfall. Harry breathed in deep and let the scent overwhelm him, and the half-formed nightmares disappeared and he was home, a home created in sleep and comfort.

Only Draco lay awake, clutching the sleeping body to his possessively. He remembered they were in Malfoy Manor. He remembered there was a war still raging silently, dying slowly behind them. He remembered another idiot wanted his gorgeous Harry dead.

"Goddamn everything except Potter." He said, and finally allowed his eyes to close warily.

Paris, New Years, 12am, 2007

Weston walked past the gathering Muggle crowds, mindless to the hugging and kissing taking place all about her. She walked down a narrow alley, one of the few in the wide, open streets of the French capital and waited.

No one would be looking tonight, she reasoned correctly. And not for her, dressed like a Muggle coming from a party in a dark overcoat coving a slinky navy sequin dress. Annoyed at her contact's lateness, Weston scratched at the cheap blonde bob wig she had gotten to cover her trademark black curls. Contacts and heavy makeup nearly disguised every distinguishable feature she had, along with some careful magic.

Damn, Weston thought. They had strict rules, the Alliance. Five minutes at any location and then it was considered unsafe. It was going on three and her contact had never been this late before. Weston dared to look at the crowd of Muggles, trying to search out anyone that would look faintly like him.

But of course he wouldn't look like himself, either, would he? Weston rested her body against the stone wall; her high heels were nipping at her feet mercilessly. She had protested wearing them, but Draco had insisted. Cigarette in mouth, he had frowned and told her Muggle girl's loved high shoes.

Four minutes. Shit. Weston was becoming fearful. The Alliance had an unspoken agreement. If a contact was late, they were to assume the worst. Weston didn't want to think about that. She pushed the thought far back in her mind. He was just a little late, was all. Maybe it was hard to find a place to Apparate with all the Muggles partying.

30 seconds. Weston bit down on her lip. Merlin.

10 seconds. Weston felt a tear forming in her eyes. He wasn't the first Auror to die that she had known, but-- Weston swallowed a knot forming in her throat and looked at the cheap Muggle watch she was wearing.

Time. She heard the watch beep once, and instinct took over. She walked out into the street and waved her hand out like she had done hundreds of times growing up in the city. Sitting back in the taxicab, Weston closed her eyes and told the driver the address of the hotel she was staying in.

"Mademoiselle, are you all right?" The cabby asked. Weston's eyes were heavy with tears she wouldn't allow to appear. "You look as though you lost a beau."

The French and love, Weston mused to herself bitterly. Strange obsession, she thought, but true this time. Weston nodded her head curtly, and the driver paid her no more mind, instead focusing on the crowded streets. Weston realized she had loved him, wholly, completely, their strange, hateful, hidden relationship was the reason she kept on when she had no more strength.

And yesterday he had told her he loved her and she had said nothing in return, she was so happy and afraid.

And now Ron Weasley was dead.