Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
!Warning! I don't use triggers in general. It is rated M.
Safe Risk
by Ydream08
Summary: If I knew my choice that day would come and bite me in the arse eventually, severely, I wouldn't have done it. Shite. I might have done it either way. The way he looks at me, I think maybe it will all worth it.
Prologue
His head is heavy on my shoulder. He might be asleep, I don't know. Ronald is simply spent. It is the first time I saw him cry, actually. He was terrified that one time Mr Weasley was poisoned, bitten, but when Ginny had broken into tears, Ron had been strong.
This time, I think it was only natural for him to cry. I noticed how Bill and Percy did not. The eldest brothers were stoic when they were stood by their family; all surrounding two members who are no longer with them.
Exhaling, I force my eyes against blinking. If I close my eyes, I know I will fall asleep. I didn't cry at all, and my brain needs a way to shut all of my jumbled thoughts and shake myself off the shock. Sleep is the most logical solution to my understandable exhaustion, too.
That isn't acceptable, though. I can't just turn-off. I have to be here for Harry, Ron and the Weasleys. Most importantly, I don't want the flash of images of those we lost. I will see them all if I dare close my eyes- and if I sleep, nightmares will haunt me. Awful ones. Not painful. Awful.
It has been some time since faces and bodies were covered, but it is just so easy for me to remember them. See their faces and count the dead.
My heart drops at the thought, but I can't help it. When the smell of dirt, dust and blood taints the Great Hall, which has one of its walls in crumbles, I can't just forget about the past hour or two.
Voldemort fell. Death Eaters were hauled up. If I listen closely enough, past the murmurs of many healing spells and cries of pained survivors, I can probably hear one or two sparrings from outside. The remaining Death Eaters are being shot down.
My eyes catch movement from the left, and I witness a woman falling into her knees with a shrill cry. She calls out a name which I can't quite distinguish, but with Madame Pomfrey who is close to the woman and a lying body, I understand the picture adequately. She must have lost her child.
"Ginny," Ron whimpers next to me and draws my attention. "Ginny, too. Not only Fred. Fred! "He lifts his head from my shoulder, then covers his face in his hands. Once again he cries for his sister and brother.
I don't know what to do. Yes, I held him the first time he saw both his siblings lying on the cold hard floor, dead, but even then, he broke away from my embrace to seek his mother. He needs his family.
My heart breaks a little -later I will name it as pathetic jealousy- but now, I know I can't do anything for Ron. I need to clear my head. I need to function. I need to make something of myself.
"Hey," Harry murmurs to me when I stand up. "Where are you-?"
"Outside. I need air," I say to cut to the point. I scrunch my face at my own harsh tone, but Harry only nods his understanding. He looks awful. Worse than Ron actually, and that's saying something. His eyes are puffed. Among many others especially for Ginny, I guess.
"I have to be somewhere else. Even if just a short while," I explain. "Will you-" I turn back to glance at a heaving Ron. I wince at his hiccups. "-Just look out for him, okay, Harry?"
Harry takes the place I vacated and it eases me that Ron talks to him. I don't know why I can't have him open up to me- but, I guess, it must be because I'm not Harry.
I didn't cry when I learned Fred and Ginny were dead. I didn't cry when I saw Professor Lupin and Tonks' bodies. I didn't cry when I noticed Colin lying on those rotten clothes.
I was the one who sent a fatal curse to the werewolf that killed Lavender Brown.
I was the one who magically shoved a Death Eater off the bridge.
I was the one who eventually cast Avada Kedavra.
As I drag my feet outside, minding my steps around cobbles and hefty rocks, I think of exactly when I shut everything. I don't know. I really don't. Academically evaluating the situation, I know it is a form of Occlumency but I know that I didn't cast any spells. Among the numerous books I read of warding against Crucio or warding the mind magically in general, I came across a detailed explanation on the levels of Occlumency mastery.
I just doubt transforming theoretical knowledge into practice can be possible subconsciously.
No matter, it is relieving to take stock of events but feel detached from certain emotions.
"Hermione! Hey-" I turn to find Dean. "-If you're going outside, check for survivors, yeah? We are short of people to help."
It is not a request I can decline. Although there are spells to check human presence, they won't aid me locating survivors. The spells get useless in vast places where people -in this case, the occupants of the Great Hall- are close by. It must be done manually- the reason Dean has asked for help, I suppose.
Shivering upon stepping outside, I hold my jacket tighter. The cold air refreshed me alright. Regardless of the burn behind my nose and slight slapping of the breeze on my face, it is better to be outside than the inside. Here it is still and quiet. Not like the Great Hall where cries and prayers fill the room and sorrow impeccably hangs in the air.
The blue of the sky is occasionally masked by smoke, but I have to admit this is the brightest I have seen the world. The past month, even if the sun peeked through clouds or reigned the skies by itself, I never stopped to consider that days are not hopeless and dark.
The war is over. We made it.
The thought makes me smile but it is unfortunately easy to remember exactly why I once thought that I would not make it to see another day. When I slowly drop my gaze and recognize people dead on the floor, I remember.
It isn't just stones and pillars littering the ground. Not only dead bodies of wizards and witches. There are giants and werewolves. Centaurs and vampires. Creatures. Dead. All of them.
I evade my eyes to strictly look at my steps, but in my vision comes body parts. Arms and legs. A severed head.
I walk around it to continue. Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that Dean asked me to look around for survivors.
Among the hills of dead bodies, I doubt I can find a survivor.
My eyes search, either way. It gets easier to look when I separate the notion that bodies belonged to the living. Souls, I believe, are vital to what makes us alive. In search of Horcruxes, I learned and witnessed the proof that souls indeed exist. The locket I wore around my neck for days and Voldemort simply slipping into a constructed-body in the fourth year are enough evidences.
Gratefully, I don't pass by any dead body younger than myself. Occlumency or logic be damned, I might tip over the edge if that happened. Whether I would fall unconscious or cry uncontrollably, I don't know. I don't want to know.
When I return, all of us will likely go back to Grimmauld Place. I can knock back a Sleeping Draught and postpone facing reality. That is a nice plan.
Better than to walk around the dead. I should leave.
In my stupor, I'm not careful about deciding to return. The hand that I skipped over the first time, the one laying palm up and its owner hid elbow-up under other bodies, ends up in my way. I step on the wrist and nearly fall.
When I get my footing back, trying to suppress my gasps, a low groan reaches my ears. No way. Can it be alive? I mean, the hand? Its owner?
I get my hair out of the way and crouch next to the appendage. Maybe I can check for a pulse? Fingers on its wrist, the first thing I notice is that the skin is cold and clammy. Given, it wasn't a warm day for May, but someone who is not yet dead shouldn't be this cold.
It's not like I detect a pulse. Maybe I just misheard?
As if to prove me wrong, I hear another muffled groan. Then comes a sound similar to that of coming from a troubled chest. Wheezing, is it?
Whatever it is, I'm definitely sure that there is someone alive there.
Instinctively, I get a hold the body on top of it and push it away. The one I stepped on the hand of, is underneath two. All I see is its black clothes, but when I remove that first body of the survivor's legs, I notice the dense blood pool, half-clothed.
Just as I head to remove the second body, I slip on the red liquid. The squeak of my sneakers convulses my stomach. Seriously?
Nevermind. I successfully shove the second body, and finally, take a look at whom I revealed.
I gasp at recognizing the man. I can't believe-
There, lying on the cold stones, different than his usual pallor, his face blue-ish and himself donning expensive but dirtied robes, is no other than Lucius Malfoy. His scruffy white beard and ghastly face are nothing like how I remember him. Although on hindsight, he was like this back when I was brought to Bellatrix in their Manor.
It is this easy to know him because of his long silver-blond hair, though greasy and tainted with blood, curtains the floor and displays the trademark of the Malfoys.
He doesn't look alive, as far as I can see. Maybe I imagined the sounds?
I saw many dead faces today and so many were similar to Malfoy Sr here. His chest doesn't rise and fall, even.
I hesitate. Although my conclusion of his dead state is fairly sound, I am unable to simply walk away. I know his wife is dead- Voldemort killed Narcissa Malfoy on the spot, calling her a liar and traitor, when Harry rose to fight, very much alive.
Creasing my brows at the reminder of Voldemort, that cold-blooded bastard, I feel bad for the man on the ground. The only death I witnessed anyone close to me was that of Lavender's, and the girl has never been a friend of mine. I didn't see when Fred, Ginny, Tonks, no one when they were murdered- let alone see the one who did it.
I can't imagine what it's like to lose a wife in front of one's eyes. Then look back at the culprit but be unable to do anything. Because Voldemort was his master.
What happened to Draco, I wonder. He should have sought for his father, surely?
I look around for Malfoy, for no apparent reason. It is not like the blond boy will come out of nowhere to claim his father's dead body. He must be in the Great Hall, silently wrapping his wounds-
My eyes stop at the flicker of pale-blond colour on the ground- hair, to be exact. The light hit it just so. It is only a few feet away from Malfoy Sr.'s body.
This time drawing out my wand, I hold it up in front of me. It is an instinct to defend myself, not that I think dead bodies could rise and- okay, there were no Inferi here. Maybe I shouldn't read as much as I do.
Clearing my head off ridiculous thoughts, I simply wave my wand at one of the bodies covering top-half of my target, and it is removed. It makes me uneasy to hear my steps as I come closer and circle around to see the face.
He lies face down, and even before I turn him, I know it's Malfoy.
Looking back at the father and son, my heart shatters hopefully one last time today. It is an easy conclusion to come: After losing his wife, Lucius Malfoy and his son were reunited to die together. Tragic.
War indeed breaks apart families.
At least, Malfoy Sr. doesn't have to live with the death of his son, as Molly and Arthur do with their two children.
The Malfoys deserving their fate or not, I can't help but feel for Malfoy. He was young. As old as I am.
Just when I think my business here is done, I'm alerted by a faint sound. A whine.
With my wand in hand, this time I realize how I can actually cast diagnostic spells on Malfoy Sr. I'm an idiot.
Even before I cast any spells, this time I am properly convinced the sound comes from him and the man is indeed alive. I can't imagine all of it.
I rise from beside Malfoy and walk to Malfoy Sr. There are no visible wounds on his face, but he has bled considerably, mostly on the ground. The front of his robes is soaked, too. I press my free hand there and for once I'm not surprised I cause the man to groan. In pain.
Shite. He is alive, isn't he?
I cast every spell I know and conclude, yes, Malfoy Sr is indeed alive, but he is at risk of dying for good.
Apparently, he was stunned at one point. Not that the spell hasn't faded. But it would explain why the man had not gotten up and sought help himself before his condition had worsened to this extent. He is heavily injured, not so severe that I can't save him, but enough that he would die if left for his own devices.
And really, if it wasn't for me, he would have died for sure. Nobody would miss him. The Malfoy name is among the ones that will never be uttered. This man has sided with Voldemort, pursued the eradication of my people, and made the aim of his life to remind Muggleborns that we don't belong in the Wizarding society.
It is all his wrong choices that got him bleeding on the ground, half-dead, his wife and son already gone.
This predicament seems fit to be his punishment, I can't help but think. And it wouldn't be my fault or lack of virtue to leave him like this to accept his fate. Lucius Malfoy deserves it.
The man stirs. By no means, he is able to rise, but he moves his face slightly towards me. His eyes find mine in difficulty. I see the slight movement of his lips and hear the strained voice, but it isn't anything coherent.
I lean to hear him better just when he forces to speak louder, "Draco."
It takes all my willpower not to glance at the body not so far away from us. Does he know? Gazing to his rather expressive eyes, I know he knows. I just do.
And it is a fact I can't easily let go. Has Malfoy Sr. lied here, unable to move, waiting to die, knowing that his son was dead next to him? Has he been here when Draco was killed? Has he tried to protect him? And failed to do so?
He has been fatally injured, in between all of that.
For once in my life, I don't know what to do. Yes, I thought of leaving the man to die, and I know that I can make peace with that choice eventually, but I just can't. Even in this state, the man sacrificed his meagre energy to ask for his son. All he had. Used to have. It is family first, for Malfoy Sr.
And knowing especially that, I want to try an alternative; but nothing comes to my mind.
I can heal Malfoy Sr and turn him in, but the remaining years of his life in Azkaban would be the more cruel option compared to simple death. With nothing but to think of his family's death, on top of all of his blasted choices, I wouldn't be doing any favour in the end.
Dammit, there has to be something I can do.
Lucius Malfoy feels not so distant to me with how he helplessly lost his loved ones. Maybe mine was choice, wiping away my parents' memories, but no one but I know the grief of family like Lucius Malfoy knows. I did what I had to do to protect them. My parents are my everything. I lost them all the same, but they are safe. Not like Draco and Narcissa.
I didn't experience loss anywhere close to what Malfoy Sr feels right now, actually.
And maybe it isn't me who can judge a man and give his sentence. As a muggle-born witch who fought for her life, if I can't decide for Malfoy Sr, the Ministry people who know nothing about loss or who undermine guilt and grief, was definitely not the ones to decide here. They didn't know anything about us- not before the War, not during the War, and even with Kingsley a prospective Minister, they wouldn't be fair after the War. They know nothing. We survived a war.
And that's when I think of a third option- not death or Azkaban. I can walk away with a clear conscious for this man at the verge of death who was at my mercy. I can provide him with a second chance, and no one would be affected by it. No one but the life I would save.
I raise my wand at him, noting how his pupils dilate in distress.
"It is going to be fine," I assure him. Both of us aware the colour of the light at the tip of my wand could as well be the green of Avada. "Promise."
It is white, instead.
I will send Dean to find him, is my last thought as I clear my head to get to work. It won't be a simple task. "Obliviate."
THIS IS MY FINAL WIP. At least before I finish a few.
SO, hope you enjoyed it. This is a style I haven't used in AGES. First person AND present tense? Wow. Curious to your thoughts ;D
Ydream08