Hell & Back

Harry Potter was completely and utterly exhausted.

He collapsed in his favourite armchair, finished with drawing up the plan of action for the next few months. The fact remained that, despite Voldemort being gone, there were a great deal too many Death Eaters still out there – perhaps even biding their time before they knocked out the Ministry and took over the world again.

And that was the last thing Harry needed.

He was in 12 Grimmauld Place, headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, waiting for the other Order members to arrive back for the meeting. He rubbed his eyes wearily. All day, he had been planning, scribbling out and writing. And still, he was no closer to deciding what to do. The other Order members had been out searching for any vital clues of Death Eater whereabouts, but Harry's hopes weren't high.

He knew that whenever the Death Eaters decided to attack again, he could do nothing about it.

He was resigned to the fact that he could do nothing. But he hated it.

As these thoughts clouded his exhausted brain, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep – his mind full of the brutal murders, the destroyed buildings and the massacres he had had to witness. And the screaming. The endless screaming.

Harry's eyes flew open. The first thing he registered was the fact that his glasses were digging rather uncomfortably into his face. But what had woken him up?

He was slumped in the armchair, hand draped over the side, head buried into a cushion. He raised his head slowly, his bleary eyes trying to make sense of the world around him. But what had woken him up?

And then he heard the knocking at the door.

"Knocking" would be putting it mildly. Whoever was out in the street was literally throwing their whole body weight against the wooden door, making the most deafening racket. Whoever it was, it couldn't be an Order member, because they all had their own means to get in. But who else had been told by the Secret Keeper? It didn't make sense.

Harry stood up quickly, ignoring the dizzying sensation he immediately got in his head. He gripped his wand, and headed out into the doorway, and towards the front door.

The door was quaking, as something outside was hitting it repetitively. If this was Ron's idea of a joke… Harry's heart was thumping, and his heart was beating faster. Who was it? Who was out there, in the freezing cold snow?

The small glass window in the door was covered in snow, blurring the outside figure's shape. Whoever it was, they were human – and they weren't particularly fierce looking.

Bracing himself mentally, wand gripped tightly in one hand – Harry opened the door quickly with the other one.

At first all he could see was the whirling snow, as white snowflakes whipped his face relentlessly. It was pitch black out there; the street lights had all appeared to have gone out.

And then a figure emerged from nowhere, rising from the blackness.

Before Harry could register a flash of whitest blonde or the glimpse of red, blood red, the figure had collapsed on the doorstep, shaking uncontrollably.

He had to get whoever it was, out of the cold. His Gryffindor traits took over any suspicions or worries about security, as he dragged the cloaked figure into the hallway – wand pointed at him at all times, of course. He slammed shut the door, and stared at the lifeless figure, melting snow dripping off their black cloak.

And then Harry noticed, with a shock so great it seemed to paralyse him, that there was also a deeper colour seeping from underneath the cloak. A dark red was spreading along the wooden floorboards, pouring out from the shivering figure on the floor.

Harry tore the cloak off the figure. It took nearly all his self control to prevent him from fainting right then.

The person, the deathly pale person, was covered in cuts and gashes – each seeping blood in earnest, as if someone had savagely hacked his body. A particularly nasty cut, which had torn the fabric of his robes, reached from his neck down to his hips, as if someone had slashed him with a sword. The wrists were the worst bit though, as they were slashed mercilessly.

Trying to control his shaking fingers, Harry at once cast a simple healing spell over the almost lifeless body, and watched with some relief as the cuts began to heal. He repeated the spell until the cuts and gashes had closed up, excepting the one starting at his neck. It refused to heal, and the person was losing a lot of blood by it. He knew that Hermione would know how to deal with it, as Harry wasn't strong on the basic healing magic, and so instead he improvised by doing it the Muggle way. Using some clean rags he found in the kitchen, he soaked them in water and bound the wound. That would at least hold until the others came back.

The black hood still covered the person's face, and it was carefully that Harry removed the black folds hiding his identity.

He almost fell over in shock.

He was looking into the unconscious face of Draco Malfoy.

Harry had dragged Draco into the only spare bed in the house, in the room he shared with Ron. It was strange to see Draco Malfoy's face arranged in an almost peaceful expression – without the trademark smirk, or an expression of hated. It looked as if he was sleeping, his head poking out over the thick covers of the bed. His white blonde hair was the same as ever, if rather dirty. Dried blood covered his face, but Harry could still see the Malfoy-pale skin standing out underneath it. Scars decorated his face, but apart from that – it was the same old Malfoy.

Harry watched over him, keeping a careful eye on him - in case he woke up. Harry's mind was overflowing with questions: Why had he appeared at Harry's doorstep? Why was he so badly injured? Had he cut himself, or had someone else?

Why Draco Malfoy?

As his mind was pondering, he heard the front door slam downstairs and realised that the rest of the Order had returned.

"So, let me get this straight", started Ron, face rearranged disbelievingly. "Draco Malfoy turned up at this doorstep, collapsed, bled all over the floor – and now he's in my room, unconscious?"

Harry nodded, fully aware of the stares he was getting from the Order members.

"I don't believe it".

Harry had just finished telling his story to his friends, who's faces had changed from disbelieving, to shocked, to disgust – and to worry.

"Is he –well, is he safe?" asked Ginny nervously. "I mean, he is a Death Eater isn't he?"

"I don't know, Ginny", responded Harry. "He doesn't have a Dark Mark".

The entire kitchen breathed a sigh of relief.

"But still", started Ron angrily. "He is definitely not on our side, is he? He's not fighting for us. He's a dirty ferret, who as good as killed Dumbledore. I think he should go".

Harry stood up, and faced Ron.

"This is my house, Ron, and Malfoy stays here. There's something not quite right about this whole thing. And we can get information out of him, useful information that could prevent us from running around in circles so much".

"Whatever you say, Harry", said Hermione, smiling weakly.

"Only if you're sure", said Lupin. "He could be trouble".

"I can handle it", replied Harry, curtly. "Now, Hermione. I was hoping that you could have a look at this cut…"

"Lead the way, Harry".

It looked as if he was sleeping, curled up bed. His hair lay limp over his bloodied face, and it didn't even look as if he was breathing. Hermione felt for a pulse, and she smiled reassuringly at Harry when she felt one.

"Let's have a look at this cut then, shall we?"

Draco was wearing a spare pair of Harry's pyjamas, which Harry quickly unbuttoned. Hermione gasped at the sheer extent of scars patterning Draco's pale white body. He was covered in thin lines, and in some cases – larger gashes which were only just mending. The neck cut, which almost reached down to his hips was still open, and it looked cruelly painful.

Hermione raised her wand and muttered a few words. No change. She frowned. She muttered some more words, and waved the wand over the cut, but still – no other change. Hermione sighed, and looked at Harry.

"This is dark magic, Harry. I can't heal it…"

"But we can't just leave it like that! Look at it!" burst out Harry, looking at the cut in disgust.

"There's one more thing I can do", replied Hermione.

"And that is?"

"The Muggle way", replied Hermione grimly, reaching for her First Aid Bag.

"You don't mean?"

"Stitches", responded Hermione, pulling out a terrifying looking needle out of the bag.

After they had finished sewing up Draco Malfoy, which – surprisingly – worked, Harry and Hermione made their way back to the kitchen where the Order meeting was taking place. Before they went in, however, Hermione stopped Harry, and beckoned him into the Drawing room.

"What is it, Hermione?"

"What do you think happened to him?" asked Hermione, biting her lip in worry.

"I honesty don't know. Hopefully he can tell us soon. Do you think he'll get through?"

"Hopefully. I've never seen such horrific wounds before, but you healed them well – and, he's well looked after here. Do you think he'll be useful?"

"I hope so. He could be the missing link in this whole puzzle".

"Don't be too hard on him, Harry. It hasn't been easy for him…"

"Hermione, he -"

"Yes, Harry. I know what he did. And I also know what he didn't do. He didn't kill Albus Dumbledore. He isn't all bad".

"You might be right".

As Harry lay in bed that night, listening to the storm lashing against the windows outside, his thoughts kept drifting back to Draco Malfoy. He hadn't thought about him in almost 4 years. But now it was all rushing back.

No matter how hard he tried, Draco Malfoy remained persistently in his thoughts, no matter how hard he tried to push him out.

Draco Malfoy.

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