Disclaimer: I own nothing.
CHAPTER THREE
When Hermione failed to arrive for dinner that night, failed to contact him in any manner, and further failed to attest for her absence by the following evening, Harry knew something must be wrong. Hermione, after all, was the responsible one. She was the one who had once used a rather dangerous magical object in order to take twice as many classes as everyone else. Hermione was the one who kept them all in line.
Harry gritted his teeth and stuck his head into the fireplace.
"Hello?" he called. He didn't bother going through the normal channels, as Hermione had given him access to this fireplace in case of emergencies. Though he fervently hoped otherwise, Harry had deemed this an emergency.
A moment later, a rather imposing witch came into view. Despite her cheery name, Merrily Merryweather reminded Harry of a harsher, and perhaps stricter version of McGonagall. Merlin help them all.
"Ms. Merryweather," Harry greeted, smiling tightly. "I was wondering if I could speak with Hermione Granger? It's a bit of an emergency."
Merryweather's severe eyebrows arched into an even more severe line. "You mean she didn't tell you?"
Harry blinked. "Tell me what?"
"Ms. Granger was accepted into a training program for the Department of Mysteries, Mr. Potter," she explained in a flat voice. "What she is learning is of the utmost secrecy, you understand. She'll be unable to contact anyone for six weeks."
Harry had never been particularly good at reading people, he supposed he still wasn't, but he was good at something else: predicting his friends. Disappearing into a secret training program, within a department she had never previously expressed an interest in, was not something Hermione was likely to do.
He stared for a long moment, letting a genuine display of shock sweep across his features, before saying anything further. "Um… alright. She's alright though? I mean, it's not anything dangerous?"
Merryweather chuckled, though the smile failed to reach her eyes. "Knowledge, Mr. Potter, is never dangerous. I assure you, everything is fine. Now, I must insist we free up this fireplace for other callers. I'm sure you understand."
No! Harry wanted to yell. I don't understand a fucking thing!
Instead, he simply nodded and withdrew his head.
Back in the quiet confines of his own flat, Harry sunk down on the couch and let out a slow breath of air. Dread and fear, real, gut-wrenching fear, were not emotions he was terribly fond of, and they were not emotions he was particularly acquainted with nowadays either. But something was wrong.
You think too much with your gut, Harry, he'd once been told. Quick-thinking, fast-acting, sheer acts of bravado were Harry's forte, and his gut instinct almost always right. Ron had always been at his side though, ready to lend a helping hand, Hermione at the other, ready with wit and knowledge that came quicker to her than many. Later there had been -
Harry shook his head, unwilling to let his thoughts wander into such dark territory.
He wouldn't call Ron, not yet, since Harry knew he would come charging back without a second thought. Really, there was no else he trusted that fully, aside from Hermione. And so he didn't immediately jump up and charge out the door. Harry thought. He really thought.
For several minutes he mulled over possible scenarios, each unlikely as the last, but his mind always came back to a similar point. Hermione had hinted at something, though Harry remained completely in the dark as to what it was, something she had been onto, perhaps a conspiracy of sorts. He had noticed her behavior change weeks ago. And now, with an idea that all of this was somehow connected, he remembered the one thing that had bothered Hermione enough to open up:
Draco Malfoy.
The Manor was dark. That was the first thing Harry noticed after Apparating past the wards. He supposed that shouldn't have come as a surprise, on one hand, considering the lateness of the hour. On the other, he half-expected Draco to be waiting for his arrival, annoyed, agitated, and just as worried about Hermione as himself. But perhaps not.
No one greeted Harry at the door, and he frowned. The wards, unless the Ministry had managed to completely rework them, were connected to the house, and more importantly, to the occupants within. Even if Draco and his mother were both asleep, the house-elves should have greeted him.
Harry held his wand steadily in front of him, allowing his eyes to roam the front room, or what little he could see of it given the limited lighting. It looked perfectly normal. Nothing seemed out of order, a bit formal maybe, but Harry suspected a messy Malfoy Manor would be considerably more alarming than this museum-like one.
"Hello?" he called, not bothering to stay quiet. A bell chimed in response, marking midnight.
"Is anybody here?" he called again. His frown deepened. Taking careful precaution not to disturb the room, Harry started forward. He swung his wand in a casual arc, back and forth, to see in front of him, though the moonlight streaming through the many windows did help. He called out every few feet or so, but the silence of the house remained stubbornly intact, and he quickly decided for a more direct approach. At the moment, he didn't much care about its invasiveness.
Harry placed his wand in the palm of his hand and watched it carefully. "Point me, Draco Malfoy," he said softly. His wand twitched, shuddered, and turned painstakingly to the left. Harry let out a breath and followed.
Several hallways and one staircase later, his wand moved a final time, pointing Harry directly to a set of elegant French doors. The doors were open ever so slightly. No sound came from within. Again, he raised his wand in a defensive gesture, preparing for whatever lay beyond. With his free hand, Harry gently pushed open the cracked door and stepped inside.
Over the course of many years, Harry had trained for the unknown, whether or not he realized it at the time. Defeating a possessed professor through simple touch, escaping a graveyard with his life intact, walking into a forest knowing his life would end - Harry didn't feel like much could surprise him any longer. And he had taken it upon himself not to let anything surprise him, ever again. Control was a commodity Harry had lacked for the majority of his life, and he therefore would not allow even the slightly shocking sight of an unconscious former schoolmate unnerve him.
Draco was sprawled unceremoniously on the floor, limbs arranged in such a way that left Harry with little doubt that he'd fallen, rather than lay down of his own accord. But he was breathing, Harry saw, crouching beside him.
"Rennervate," Harry said, waving his wand in a simple motion. Nothing happened, and Harry blinked. "Finite Incantatem," he tried.
Draco's eyes snapped open.
His gaze was instantly wild and alarmed, and he rolled away before Harry could react, his deep, panting breaths breaking the silence of the room. He coughed harshly, and he coughed more, seemingly unable to catch his breath. Harry feared he was hyperventilating.
"Malfoy," Harry spoke slowly, soothingly. "Calm down. I'm not here to hurt you. Just calm down, alright?"
Holding himself upright on shaky arms, Draco glared at him.
"Have you ever been subjected - " he paused to cough, " - to a prolonged sleeping spell, Potter?" Draco grimaced, turned his head away, and became promptly sick all over the floor.
Harry made a face, standing and stepping quickly away. He noticed Draco wasn't entirely able to miss his own arms and hands.
"What the hell happened to you?" Harry asked. He sat down, cross-legged, but didn't bother lowering his wand. Draco barely seemed to notice, or at least he didn't seem to care, as he continued to dry-heave for several more seconds. Finally, pale and trembling bodily, he managed to sit up, leaning heavily against the sofa opposite Harry.
"Why the fuck do you care?" Draco spat, staring daggers into Harry. "Why are you even in my home?"
Harry scowled and raised his wand threateningly. "Would you rather I put you back to sleep? We'll see how long it is before someone else comes to check on you."
Draco paled further, his eyes going wide, and Harry immediately felt like a bastard. He winced slightly and sat forward.
"Look, I'm not going to hurt you. I already told you that," he said, watching Draco carefully for a reaction. "I'm here for Hermione."
"Granger?" Draco's glare lessened somewhat, possibly in confusion, and his eyes flickered back and forth for a moment. "She left… earlier today, I think… Why would you think she's still here?"
Harry narrowed his gaze. "Earlier today? I thought she only met with you on Thursdays?" The answer jumped to mind almost instantly and Harry stared at Draco for several seconds. "Do you mean you've been lying there since yesterday?"
Any remaining dredges of color had vanished from Draco's face, making him appear nearly translucent in the dim light. He took a few deep breaths.
"It's Friday?" he asked.
Harry nodded. "Well, technically, it's Saturday. It's a bit past midnight by now. Malfoy, what happened? Did Hermione do that to you?"
"I don't know," Draco murmured, looking away. Harry watched as he squinted his eyes, as if he was searching for something, before shaking his head. "I don't think so."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means I don't know, Potter," Draco snarled. His glare resumed its full force. "I remember her leaving. Yesterday, apparently. After that –" He broke off, wincing, bringing a hand up to massage his temple.
Resisting the urge to knead away his own growing headache, Harry pressed on. "Okay, Hermione left. Then what?" Draco didn't answer, his eyes even shutting briefly. "Malfoy," Harry snapped.
Draco glanced up and Harry clenched his fists. The angry glare of seconds before had transformed, seemingly instantly, into a mask of shuttered indifference. This was the side of him Harry had never conquered, had never been able to understand. How could someone, especially someone with emotions raging so strongly through their entire being, simply shut them off?
"I don't know, Potter," Draco spoke evenly. His voice was cool and reserved. "I can't remember. I'm fairly positive it has nothing to do with Hermione Granger though, so you might as well leave."
"I'm not going anywhere until I figure out what the fuck is going on!" Harry nearly shouted, jumping to his feet. Draco may have been able to shelve away his emotions at a moment's notice, but Harry was not. "Hermione told me something was going on." He began to pace. "I don't know what it was, but I know both you and your mother have something to do with it."
Draco watched him silently from his spot against the wall. Harry's irritation increased.
"Do you know what it was? So help me, Malfoy, if you've done something to her –"
"Where is she?" Draco interrupted, suddenly struggling to get to his feet.
Harry eyed him belligerently. "That's what I'm trying to figure out."
"Not –" Draco stumbled slightly as he took a step forward. "Not Granger. My mother. How did you get in here without her knowing? The wards…" He stumbled again; obviously his legs were not ready to support him so soon. Harry moved forward, ready to assist if he started to fall.
"Don't touch me, Potter."
Harry's hand froze in midair. Perplexed, he backed away a few steps, raising his hands in a motion of surrender. Draco's words had been soft, nearly imperceptible, but the utter malice in them unmistakable. Harry searched his face, frowning. A flicker of emotion passed there, but the cool mask fell smoothly back in place before Harry could distinguish it.
"I don't think she's here," Harry explained slowly. "Not even your house-elves greeted me when I came in. But…" He frowned again, this time at himself. "House-elves can't just leave, though…"
Draco blinked a few times, his gaze skittering across the room. "Not unless their master frees them," he murmured. "And I'm their master."
"You?" Harry asked. "Not your mother? Maybe she took them with her… wherever she went."
"No." Draco shook his head, not really looking at Harry. His face hardened. "I'm the only one who could tell them to leave."
Harry didn't understand, and as the situation passed further and further beyond his control, he felt a familiar anger tugging at his gut. It was telling him to act, to lash out, to do something.
"Potter…"
"What?" Harry snapped, jerking his head up. For a second, he thought Draco had moved out of the room, but he quickly realized he'd only taken a seat a few feet away. In Draco's hand, he held a half-full teacup, his grey eyes fixed steadfastly to it. And, though it didn't seem possible, he appeared even paler.
"What is it?" Harry repeated irritably.
Draco swirled the tea around, not looking up. "The wards just went off," he spoke softly. "I think it's the Aurors. You should probably go."
With something akin to fascination, Draco watched Harry's face harden with genuine anger, possibly even rage, his green eyes flashing brilliantly. His whole body tensed at the mention of Aurors, and Draco had no idea why.
"We have to leave," Harry snapped in a voice that threatened against any argument. "Now."
Draco leaned back, staring. "What the fuck are you talking about?" He clenched his fists, grinding his nails into his palm, hoping the china cup would shatter under the pressure.
"Malfoy," Harry paused with a glance toward the hall, "if they find you here, I don't know what's going to happen. Now get up!"
"No!" Draco shouted back, slamming the cup down. It broke, fragmenting jaggedly in his palm. Blood welled up and smeared on the glass. "You know I can't leave, Potter! I can't…" He trailed off, unsure whether it was a sob or laugh bubbling in his chest. A small tingle raced up his arms then – the wards informing him the Aurors had just entered the front doors.
"I hear them," Harry said, almost simultaneously. Moving quicker than Draco would've given him credit for, he grabbed Draco's arm with bruising force and pulled him to his feet.
Draco balked, struggling violently against Harry's grip, and ended up stumbling backwards and tripping to the floor. He landed with a grunt, but quickly scooted away as Harry took a step toward him.
Draco sneered. "Get the fuck away from me, Potter!"
"Goddamnit, Malfoy," Harry hissed. "I'm trying to help you!"
"Harry Potter?"
The room was abruptly bathed in light, causing Draco to shield his eyes, unable at first to make out the three silhouetted figures standing just inside the room.
"Auror Lamb," Harry greeted. He took a step that placed him slightly in front of Draco.
The foremost Auror, a tall wizard with a jagged scar running through one eye, cocked his head and didn't lower his wand.
"What the hell are you doing here, Harry?" he asked softly, coolly.
Harry shrugged. Though Draco couldn't see the expression of his face, he could see Harry's hand tighten around his wand, held tensely beside one leg.
"Visiting an old friend," Harry replied in an equally cool voice. "I didn't realize there was a law against that."
Lamb narrowed his eyes. "An old friend?" His calculating gaze shifted down, meeting Draco's. Draco stared back icily and hoped the confusion he felt didn't show on his face.
"Yes," Harry said tersely, "an old friend. Do you mind? We were having a conversation."
"You know as well as I do that he's on parole, Harry," Lamb continued. "No visitors allowed. So congratulations. You've just sent him back to Azkaban." He glanced back to Draco. "Good friend you've got there."
"Fuck you," Draco ground out, rising slowly, and a bit unsteadily, to his feet. He could feel his body shaking, from fear, anger, shock - he wasn't sure which. "Fuck you."
Lamb's face split into a malicious grin. "Verbally abusing an Auror, Malfoy. Tsk tsk. You should know better than that."
"Both of you," Harry snapped. "Shut up. Lamb, what the hell do you want? You know I came here on my own, not because he asked me. What do you want with him?"
"I have my orders, Harry." Lamb sneered. "Not that you would know anything about following orders. Or so I've heard… Stupify!"
The spell flew forward - a bolt of red light that should have moved too fast for Draco's eyes to follow - and dissolved into the nothingness of the shield Harry had erected without saying a single word. Draco stared, first at the shimmering blue shield, then at Harry. Harry's eyes were intent, focused, full of power and control.
"Potter –" Draco started.
"Shut up, Malfoy!"
The Aurors scrambled for their wands and began firing spell after spell, each bouncing or dissolving into the blanket of silver-blue light surrounding both Harry and Draco.
Has Potter always been this powerful? Draco wondered bemusedly.
"Malfoy," Harry said sharply, his voice slightly strained. "In a second, I'm going to drop the shield and Apparate. You can either hold onto my arm now or I'm going to drag you out of here. Got it?"
Part of Draco wanted to argue about how he was doing this, another wanted to stay and face the Aurors, face the inevitable, and still another part wanted to grab a hold, much as he'd done one fateful night three years past, and ride out of there on the whirlwind that called itself Harry-Fucking-Potter.
Draco wrapped his arm through Harry's. "You better not fucking splinch me, Potter."
A half-smile formed on Harry's lips and he dropped the shield.
Side-Along Apparition was, by far, not Draco's favorite way to travel, especially when the person doing the actual Apparition had little or no time to prepare. After their bodies had realigned once more, Draco stumbled to his knees and wretched. He coughed and gagged, wishing his insides didn't feel like a bludger had been rampaging through them. He was only vaguely aware that Harry had dropped to his knees beside him and still held tightly to his arm.
"Are you alright?" Harry sounded apologetic. "I'm sorry. I'm complete shit at Side-Along."
Draco managed to sit up a little more. He swiped at his streaming eyes, not really caring if Harry saw.
"I had to Side-Along Ron once," Harry kept talking, almost rambling. "He'd eaten something bad, so I was taking him to St. Mungo's. He threw up so much after we Apparated though, I think he got it all out of his system before we even got to the Healers."
"Potter," Draco groaned. "I'm feeling a bit nauseous right now, and horror stories about the Weasel and his putrid self really aren't helping."
Harry's grip tightened slightly on his arm. Draco winced and turned his head away.
"Sorry," Harry said. His voice hardened. "Come on. There's a bed you can sleep in. We'll talk in the morning."
Draco didn't see that he had much choice in allowing Harry to help him up, so he didn't resist. He wasn't entirely able, however, to quell the shivers that coursed through his body each time a bit of Harry's warmth seeped through his touch. Harry gave him an odd look, which Draco met stubbornly, and said nothing.
"Where exactly are we?" Draco asked, glancing around. He didn't recognize the house, but there was something oddly familiar about it nonetheless.
"Grimmauld Place," Harry answered as they maneuvered slowly up a flight of stairs. "It belonged to Sirius Black. Now it's mine."
Draco didn't reply. There had been a lot of rumor and speculation surrounding Sirius Black, even more concerning the nature of his relationship with Harry. Draco supposed, now, there was probably more truth to it than he'd realized.
"But…" he glanced sharply at Harry. "Surely the Ministry knows you own it. They'll find us in no time."
Harry shook his head. "No. They won't." He paused to open a door. "You can stay in here. The bathroom's connected."
Shrugging free of Harry, Draco walked into the room. Save for a canopied bed and a sparsely threaded rug, it was completely empty.
"Real nice, Potter," he quipped. "It's –"
Harry was gone. Feeling irrationally angry for being dismissed so quickly, Draco slammed the door shut and listened to it echo satisfyingly down the hall.
"Fuck you, too," Draco muttered, wrapping his arms around himself. His hand twinged and he glanced at his left palm, which still bled sluggishly.
The bathroom, as he soon discovered, contained nothing but toilet paper, a towel, and a washcloth. Nothing else. Not even toothpaste. Shaking harder than before, Draco ran his hand under a stream of lukewarm water and proceeded to wrap it as best he could with the washcloth. He cursed loudly when the makeshift bandage barely circled his hand twice.
Cold and miserable, refusing to entertain the dozens of thoughts racing through his mind, Draco crawled into the strange bed and closed his eyes.
TBC
