CHAPTER FORTEEN: What Comes Around
Magic exploded.
Glass and crockery shattered around them. Mr Dursley's hand released Potter's hair as though it burned and in the same instant he was sent hurtling backwards into the wall with a crash. Draco was dimly aware that the same had happened to the fat Muggle behind him; his arms were no longer restrained. His wand was drawn and the magic pounded through him, demanding to be released in vengeance against these monsters.
He lifted a shaking hand, his wand pointed directly at the uncle. "You," he said, and his voice sounded dreadful and alien to his ears, "Will never again harm another living soul. You will never again lift a hand against your nephew. Each night in your dreams, you will relive what you have done to him as though it were being done to yourself. You will forever regret the day you first decided to abuse the wizard child in your care."
He turned to Dudley, who finally had the sense to look afraid as he stared up at a wizard's rage unleashed. "You," and Dudley trembled at the utter menace in his tone, "Will never again bully another living soul. You will never again feel the arousal that enabled you to rape your cousin or sleep with your girlfriend. You will be a snivelling shell of the boy you once were and your friends will be the first to turn on you, soon followed by your victims. You will forever regret the day you first decided to make Potter's life as miserable as you could."
He turned finally to the aunt, who had escaped damage from the blast but stood cowering against the wall, as pale as a ghost and shaking like a leaf. "And You. Sister of Lily Evans, entrusted with the care of her orphaned son. You who know more of the Wizarding world than you admit, and you who understand better than the men of this family how important is the life of Harry Potter. You who know full well that how you have treated him, and allowed him to be treated, is a grave and unforgivable crime. You will be plagued by guilt, haunted by green eyes and bowed with shame, for every day of the rest of your life. The memories of what you did to your nephew will be there at every turn. You will never forget, and you will never forgive yourself. It will tear you up inside. You will forever regret the day you allowed Harry Potter into your home, but refused him entry into your heart."
Draco slowly lowered his wand, and his voice was no longer laden with potent magic. "We are leaving," he said quietly, but in the silence it was almost deafening. "Harry Potter will never be returning to this house, unless it is to exact greater vengeance on you all more personally. What I have done is less than you deserve. Fear wizards, Dursleys, for the wards that protected your nephew have also been your protection, even if you did not realise it, and they are gone now. As we soon shall be."
He flicked his wand, knowing that at this moment he needed no incantations.
A few moments later a loud crash resounded from upstairs, and a closer one from just in the hallway. Potter's trunk arrived first, its lid popping open to receive a leather-bound photo album, a loose photo of Lily and James Potter, and a large stack of the letters Potter had saved over the years. An empty cage appeared too – its usual occupant already freed and released from one of the upstairs windows – and settled into the trunk. Potter's wand whistled through the air and Draco caught it neatly, tucking it into a pocket. Potter's trunk closed and then spun, getting smaller and smaller and lighter and lighter until it, too, could fit in a pocket. Draco's own trunk arrived soon after, followed by a stream of clothes and other belongings that were still in the process of packing themselves. Within a minute that trunk had shrunken as well and Draco tucked it away safely.
He then turned his attention to Potter, who had not stirred. The puddle around his head was thicker, wider, and still spreading.
Draco moved and dropped down beside him. It didn't look good, but he refused to give into the panic fluttering at the edges of his mind.
"You're going to make it, Potter," he said firmly.
He touched a hand to Potter's chest and momentarily closed his eyes, searching out with a different Sight for the intertwined coil of magic and soul he knew he would find there if he looked hard enough.
"There," Draco whispered. He allowed a tendril of his own magic to snake through his hand and link with the small pulsing golden light.
Potter's magic felt it, brushed against it uncertainly and then tugged.
Draco gasped, realising in that moment that what he'd just done had been incredibly dangerous. In unconscious desperation to keep Potter alive, his magic was using the link to drain as much power from Draco as it could.
"Oh, oh god," he stammered, feeling as though his innards were being forcibly pulled out of him. "P-Potter, god, that hurts…"
He bore it as long as possible, then wrenched his hand away to break the connection.
Potter was breathing, his pulse was stronger and his head had for the moment stopped bleeding. It wasn't enough, but it would have to do for now.
Gasping and wheezing, his whole body shaking as though he'd just run a hundred-kilometre marathon without stopping, Draco scooped Potter into his arms. Leaving the Dursleys frozen in place, staring after him, Draco carried his charge out of the kitchen, down the corridor – absently noticing that the door of the cupboard under the stairs now had a trunk-shaped hole smashed through it – and out the front door.
An unmasked MacNair was standing there, waiting for him, grinning. The Death Eaters knew that the wards had fallen.
Draco still grasped his wand, but he couldn't do any effective spell-work while holding Potter. He knew that he had only a split second to do something before they were both dead.
A million and one ideas with all their pros and cons spun through his mind in a whirlwind, and one stood out prominently. He didn't have his Apparation licence yet and he hadn't even had any lessons, but he had side-along Apparated a few times and he knew the general principle. It was horribly risky, but better than standing here waiting to be murdered. He didn't even know what location to aim for – going home could well land them in the midst of even more Death Eaters, Professor Snape was undercover as a spy among the Death Eaters, pretty much all his friends had Death Eater sympathies (or at least strongly disliked Potter), Hogwarts was warded against Apparation, Saint Mungos was too public, and it didn't leave him many options…
Draco threw his last hope to the heavens and twisted on the spot even as a jet of red light was forming at the end of MacNair's wand.
They entered the crushing darkness.
ooOOoo
"Ginny, did you get a letter from Harry yesterday?" Ron asked as he entered the kitchen of the Burrow, a worried frown creasing his brow.
She glanced up from her toast, flipping her long red hair behind her shoulder to look at him properly. "No. Why? Didn't you?"
Ron shook his head, plopping down absently into a chair and picking up a sausage. He shoved it into his mouth, chewing distractedly.
"I didn't either," Hermione joined in the conversation, surfacing from the detailed explanation of Muggle elevators she had been giving to Mr Weasley ("They only go up and down, really? How peculiar!").
"Maybe he just forgot?" Mrs Weasley ventured uncertainly, turning her attention from directing the self-washing pots and pans.
"I don't think so," Hermione said. "He knows that we'd take four days in a row without any news from him as a sign that something was wrong."
"Something is wrong," Ginny said heatedly. "He's grieving for his godfather and he's living with people who wouldn't give a damn! I can't believe Dumbledore would force him to-"
"Don't forget about Malfoy," Ron interrupted, glaring fiercely.
"Harry hasn't said that things are bad…" Mr Weasley tried, sensing the growing agitation of his children and guest.
"Of course he wouldn't, this is Harry we're talking about!" Ginny exclaimed. "But there's no way they could be good, no matter what molly-coddling lies he comes up with in those letters. He's probably spent the past month beating himself up over what happened at the Ministry and we're not there to help him!"
"But there's no reason to think that anything worse is going on," Mrs Weasley said. "He's a very resilient young man, I'm sure he'll be able to bounce back from this okay…"
"He's missed his scheduled letter-sending," Hermione said. "We all agreed that would be a warning sign."
"Yes, dear, but maybe his owl just got lost or something…"
"Hedwig?" Ron said incredulously. "Not likely. She's about five classes above Errol and Pig – I don't think she could get lost. Besides, she's flown here loads of times."
"Yeah," Ginny agreed. "Something's up. I vote we go over there right now and find out what's going on."
"Let's not use the Floo this time, though," Ron said, smiling despite himself. "That didn't end up too well."
"Elektrik fireplaces!" Mr Weasley said, excited by the memory. "What strange and wonderful things these Muggles come up with."
"Arthur, dear, let's not get distracted. Harry's welfare is the most important thing at the moment."
"So we're going then?" Ginny said.
"Well, maybe we should wait a bit, talk to Albus about it first…"
The children in the room erupted with protests then, outraged at the thought of delay when their friend could be in trouble.
A loud and rather violent CRACK came from outside and silenced them all for a split second, before they were all yelling over each other different variations of 'What was that?'
"Sounded like someone Apparating," said Ron.
"Or a car backfiring!" said Mr Weasley eagerly.
"If it was Apparation, the person doing it isn't very skilled or experienced, because ideally one should be able to vanish and appear silently, or with but the faintest of popping sounds," contributed Hermione.
Ginny, quite logically, simply walked to the front door and opened it to have a look for herself. Then she shrieked.
"HARRY!"
The other inhabitants bolted to join her – and two sets of footsteps on the stairs indicated that Bill and Fleur were coming down to investigate as well – but Ginny had already sprinted outside.
"Harry, Harry, oh my god…"
Ron was trapped at the back of the group; he could hear the various sounds of distress and horror coming from his family and he knew it had to be bad, but he couldn't see anything, then Hermione said "Malfoy?" and Ron yelled "I knew it!" and finally burst through.
The first thing he noticed was Harry – gaunt faced and ashen and covered in blood that was dripping liberally from his sodden hair. He was unconscious, upright only because of the arms that held him… Malfoy's arms.
"Oi!" Ron yelled, but here too Ginny had already beaten him to it.
"What the hell have you done to him, you monster!" she was shouting, trying to pull Harry out of his grasp.
"Cut it out, you crazy bitch-" Malfoy was arguing.
"Hey!" Ron objected.
"-you're making it-"
"You can't call my-"
"-worse! Potter needs-"
"-sister that, you-"
"-immediate medical attention, not-"
"-evil git-"
"-a stupid tug of war between the two of us-"
"-I'm warning you, you bloody well better do what she says, and-"
"-so unless you know some damn good healing spells-"
"-let Harry go, or else!" Ron ended, but Malfoy was still going.
"-then I suggest you find someone who does! Potter could be dying!"
That shocking pronouncement froze Ron still for a split second, and then he was shouting again. "That's just what you want, isn't it? You've been trying to kill him for years and now you've finally managed to catch him off guard-"
"It wasn't me, you idiot! Do you really think I would be stupid enough to hurt Potter and then bring him here myself so you could all murder me? I know it's hard for you, but try for once to use your head-"
"ENOUGH!" the normally docile and laid-back Mr Weasley bellowed. Ron froze in the act of launching himself at Malfoy.
"The who, how and why doesn't matter right now," Mr Weasley continued when he was sure he had everyone's attention. "As Mr Malfoy has said, Harry needs urgent medical attention – that looks to be a serious head injury. Molly, go inside, grab all the healing potions we have. Ron, put a clean sheet on the couch in the lounge room. Ginny, Floo-call Hogwarts and check if Madam Pomfrey is available – if she is, get her here as soon as possible, if not, Floo-call St Mungos and ask for Healer Freeman. Bill, check the wards, make sure we're not about to receive any more unexpected visitors. Mr Malfoy, please pass Harry over to me, I'll carry him the rest of the way. And Hermione, look after Mr Malfoy – he looks about ready to collapse."
Everyone scurried to obey his orders. Once he had been transferred into Mr Weasley's arms, Harry was whisked inside. Malfoy watched him go with an odd expression on his face. Then his legs gave way beneath him.
Hermione automatically darted forward to catch him before he hit the ground, but withdrew her hands as soon as she was able so that the pureblood-maniac wouldn't have time to complain about being touched by the hands of a Muggle-born. Oddly enough, the thought hadn't even seemed to cross his mind.
She noticed for the first time, then, that Malfoy was dramatically pale and the blood that covered him wasn't just from Harry. A chunk of flesh was missing from his left arm.
"What happened to you?" she asked, even though what she really wanted to know was what had happened to Harry.
"Splinched myself," he bit out, looking down briefly at his arm before hurriedly moving his gaze elsewhere. It wasn't a pretty sight, but it wasn't nearly as bad as Harry so Hermione wasn't as bothered as she might otherwise have been.
"You Apparated without a licence?" she asked, already knowing the answer from the novice crack they'd heard before and the fact that Malfoy's birthday wasn't for another few months.
"Didn't have much of a choice in the matter," he grumbled. "At least I didn't lose anything more important."
"Like Harry?" Hermione asked, in a tone that was deceptively mild.
He shot her a look, then said shortly, "Yeah."
Ron might have been surprised by the reply, but Hermione was already convinced that Malfoy hadn't been the one to hurt Harry. He looked so worried, he'd risked splinching himself and being torn apart by a mob of protective Weasleys to bring Harry here, and a true Slytherin – which Malfoy certainly was – really wouldn't be so stupid as to show up carrying the evidence of his crime with him.
"So how did-"
He raised a hand to stop her.
"I'll explain once, to everyone, when Potter is out of danger," he said. "If it isn't already bloody obvious," he continued in a mutter.
Hermione frowned, but didn't ask again.
"Do you want me to fix that for you?" She pointed to his arm.
He arched an eyebrow. "Do you know how, Granger?"
"Well, I was reading up about Apparation because I knew we'd be studying it at school next year, and I came across the issue of Splinching, so I thought I'd research the remedies and healing spells for it just in case-"
"Granger!" Malfoy snapped exasperatedly. "Can you or can't you? It's a simple question, not an essay topic requiring five roles of parchment!"
Hermione coloured. "Yes, I can."
"Then do it." A beat of hesitation before he reluctantly added, "Please."
Hermione was pleasantly surprised by his unexpected use of manners. She cast a quick spell to numb the area first, and he breathed an audible sigh of relief. It had been hurting him more than he'd let on, then, which was yet another thing that was out of character for him today. She used an adapted form of 'Scourgify' to clean out the wound, and carefully wove a series of enchantments to regrow the flesh and blood vessels and nerves that had been lost, covering it all with an expanse of smooth, unscarred skin.
"Good as new," she told him. A few drops of Essence of Dittany would have worked just as well, but she didn't have any on hand and it was more satisfying to wield the magic herself, especially since she hadn't used her wand all holidays. Technically, using magic outside of Hogwarts while still underage was forbidden, but Hermione knew that The Trace was unable to distinguish between adult and minor magic usage, so while in a wizarding household like The Burrow her actions would go unnoticed by the authorities. Even so, she wouldn't have broken the rule just for the sake of it.
Malfoy rolled the shoulder experimentally, stretched him arm out to the side and finally ran the fingers of his other hand over where the wound had been.
"Good job," he said grudgingly, as though he had hoped to be able to find some reason to criticise her work but had come up empty. "It feels much better. Now if only Potter's condition could be dealt with so easily…" He blew out a sigh and combed a hand back through his dishevelled hair.
"Your hair!" Hermione gasped. She'd never so much seen it with a single strand out of place before now.
"Oh, of course, Granger," he said snidely. "How silly of me. I should have been focusing more on my personal appearance this morning and less on saving Potter's life. When will I get my priorities straight?"
"I didn't mean – I think your priorities are, uh, admirable, if a little unexpected, I just-"
"Save it for someone who cares," Malfoy said.
They fell into a quiet that was restless and uncomfortable, both of them shooting occasional glances at the door of the house, torn between wanting to check on Harry and staying out of the way. Hermione thought that Malfoy might also be reluctant to enter the Burrow because he thought himself too good for it, considering the number of insults he'd levelled at the Weasley home over the years. As far as she had seen, though, the blonde hadn't sneered once at the somewhat dilapidated little building that looked to have had random sections added haphazardly on top until the laws of physics had to be defied by magic to keep it all from toppling over. Hermione herself loved it – she thought it suited the red-haired family perfectly and it was almost like a monument to the wonder of magic.
"To hell with this," Malfoy snapped abruptly, clambering ungraciously to his feet. He looked unsteady, unbalanced, and Hermione was struck by the idea that maybe he shouldn't be up and moving so soon. He seemed determined, though, as he strode toward the house, even if he wasn't quite walking in a straight line.
"You didn't just splinch yourself," Hermione said, almost accusingly as she followed him. She hated it when people held out on telling her things like this. Harry was particularly bad with admitting when something was bothering him – Hermione still couldn't believe that he had allowed Umbridge to torture him during his detentions and hadn't said a word about it until she'd noticed the scars on the back of his hand. How was she supposed to help them if they wouldn't tell her what was wrong?
"I didn't know what else to do," he said. There was a strain of remembered anxiety in his voice. "If I hadn't done something immediately, he wouldn't have made it even this far."
"Alive, you mean." Hermione didn't really want him to confirm it, but he jerked his head in the affirmative. "What-" her voice broke at the thought of her best friend dying and she had to try again, "what did you do?"
"The only thing I could think of," he replied. "My father taught me how to link my magic with someone else's… He used to use it to steal magic from other people to add to his own."
Hermione was outraged. "That's-!"
"But I tried it in reverse," Draco continued and Hermione was struck speechless. "I thought that if I could supplement his magic somehow it would have a better chance of keeping him alive until we could reach help. I wasn't sure it would work backwards… But it did." He shuddered. "I had no idea it would hurt that much."
Hermione, brilliantly intelligent witch that she was, had trouble comprehending what Malfoy had just told her. She didn't know the branch of magic he was talking about and she itched to look it up in Hogwarts Library, but she would bet that it was an extremely dangerous procedure. The transferal of magic from one person to another… Surely, if taken too far, the one from whom the magic was being drawn could run the risk of becoming a Squib. And even if that wasn't a possibility, she still couldn't imagine Draco Malfoy voluntarily giving (or temporarily lending – she needed to research this more) any of his magic to anyone, let alone Harry Potter.
Unless it wasn't actually Malfoy? A person's appearance could be altered to look like someone else through a variety of magical means – Polyjuice Potion, glamours and Metamorphmagus abilities were just a few examples. What else could explain Malfoy's unnatural behaviour?
"When was the first time you called me a Mudblood?" Hermione asked.
He turned on her with a glare of incredulity and offence, nearly toppling at the sudden change of direction but managing to keep his footing. "I just told you how I risked my life to prevent Potter's death and instead of calling me a hero you come up with a question that is completely irrelevant to the current situation?"
She folded her arms. "I need to know that you are who you say you are." When he looked disinclined to acquiesce, she narrowed her eyes at him and drew her wand. "Answer me."
He muttered something that she didn't catch, then said, "Second year, the day I became Seeker for Slytherin. We had special permission to use the pitch for training, but the Gryffindor team wouldn't leave and then you stuck your nose in where it didn't belong."
Hermione bristled. "That didn't give you any right to call me-"
"That's not the point here, is it?" Malfoy interrupted. "I remember the incident; ergo I must be who I say I am. Except that there were fourteen other people there, so it's hardly something only I would know about. You should have asked something like: in second year when Potter and Weasley illegally masqueraded as Crabbe and Goyle, what information did I give them that they then passed onto you?"
Hermione was caught a little off guard, and for a moment couldn't think of what to say.
He smirked. "What? Did you think I wouldn't work out what had happened after the real Crabbe and Goyle came back with no knowledge of the conversation we'd just had, and a tale of mysterious muffins that led to waking up in a broom cupboard? I'm no Hufflepuff, Granger."
"You – you didn't tell anyone?"
He gave an elegant shrug. "I had no proof. Besides, it was the first time I'd ever seen Gryffindors employ such Slytherin tactics to get what they wanted. The plan wasn't thought through very well – it had too many holes and loose ends – but it wasn't a bad attempt, for amateurs."
If anything, Hermione was more confused. If she'd heard it right, there had been a convoluted compliment in that explanation somewhere.
"So are you satisfied that am I Draco Malfoy, then?" he asked. "Or do you want to stay out here and keep asking me pointless questions while your best friend lies inches from death?"
"Harry will be fine," Hermione said, trying to convince herself. "He always is."
"He always says he is," Malfoy corrected her. "I would have thought you of all people would know better than to believe false words and fake appearances. But then, given what's been going on and given the fact that you obviously have no idea about it, I would say that I had overestimated your intelligence. Either that, or you just don't care about Potter after all."
Hermione spluttered, but Malfoy turned on his heel and walked away from her, entering the house.
"I do care!" Hermione managed at last, but there was no-one to hear her. After a moment in which there was nothing to distract her from the image burned into her mind's eye of Harry's condition, she realised that she was desperately worried about him and sprinted after Malfoy.
The majority of the Weasleys were crowded in the doorway to the lounge room, peering in anxiously. Ron had broken off from the group to yell at Malfoy.
"You're not welcome in here!"
The blonde's arms were folded. "I'm not leaving, so get used to the idea. I want to see Potter."
"Madam Pomfrey won't let us in, much less you."
A flash of irritation crossed Malfoy's face. "Do you know how he is, at least?"
"He's alive," Ron said shortly. "I'm sure you're very disappointed."
"Ron," Hermione admonished quietly, moving to stand next to him so she could place a hand on his arm. "Do you know anything else?"
The anger faded when he looked at her and Hermione saw that he was terrified. "Just that Madam Pomfrey said we mustn't disturb her, because the repair of skull, and b- brain tissue," he swallowed, "requires intense concentration and delicate spell work."
"But she can save him, right? He's going to be okay?"
"She said it's too early to tell. It's- it's bad, Hermione. There are all sorts of things that could go wrong. She might be able to save his life, but a lot of wizards and witches who sustain a serious head injury end up in… in St Mungos for the rest of their lives."
Hermione's mouth went dry and she dropped her hand to clutch Ron's tightly.
"And, and she said something about the head wound not being the only thing there is to worry about," Ron continued, squeezing back in a gesture that both asked for and gave comfort. "She wouldn't give us any more details than that, though. She just told us to get out of her way and be quiet."
"Which is why you were yelling at me just before, of course," Malfoy said, keeping his voice low. "You can't obey even the simplest instructions, can you?"
"Well I'm sorry if I have trouble keeping my cool when my best mate is badly hurt," Ron said acerbically, but his own voice was noticeably quieter. "You wouldn't understand – you don't care about anyone except yourself."
"That ignorance of yours is so becoming," Malfoy sniped. "Keep talking; I'm sure with your intellect you'll manage to come up with something even more stupid to say."
Before Ron could deliver an angry retort, the familiar voice of Hogwarts' resident Healer announced, "Okay, everyone, Mr Potter is out of the woods."
Cries of relief and elation greeted this news. Hermione gently bumped her shoulder into Ron so they could share a smile before releasing his hand somewhat self-consciously.
The rest of the Weasleys parted to let Madam Pomfrey through the doorway and Hermione saw that the usually robust woman looked very tired. She pulled up a chair for her, which the Healer sank into gratefully.
"Can we go in and see him now?" Ginny asked, her hopeful expression reflected on other faces in the room.
Madam Pomfrey shook her head. "He's not going to be awake for a while," she told them.
"You can't have finished healing him yet," Malfoy spoke up, a frown creasing his forehead. "Why did you stop?"
Everyone looked at him as someone who seemed to know more about what was happening than they did. Ron's face had morphed into a mixture of anger and suspicion again.
"You are quite right, Mr Malfoy," Madam Pomfrey said. "The head injury was the most serious issue and I have managed to deal with it effectively, I think, but he is not well again by any stretch of the imagination. I had to stop prematurely – the damage is too extensive to heal in one sitting."
"Why?" asked Ginny in alarm. "You can fix anything, can't you?"
"Not everything, dear," Madam Pomfrey said sadly.
"But-"
"In Mr Potter's case," she continued quickly, "I do have the ability to heal his current afflictions. But right now it is more a question of power." She sighed wearily. "Healing the head wound took a lot out of us."
"Well, I could take over from you," Mrs Weasley volunteered. "After raising seven children, I've had a lot of experience…"
"Oh, I don't doubt that, Molly. Especially with those mischief-loving twins of yours. However, magical healing draws on the power of the injured person as much as the Healer. Mr Potter's core is too exhausted to withstand another session of healing right now. In fact, given his condition and that he was fighting so hard to keep himself alive until I got here, I'm surprised I was able to heal as much as I did. I would have thought it would drain him a lot sooner, but it was almost as though he'd received a power boost from somewhere…"
Hermione shot a glance at Malfoy.
"It helped, then," he said quietly. "Good."
Eyebrows rose all around the room, save Hermione's – she'd already experienced the shock of this seemingly incongruous news a few minutes ago.
"It was you, Mr Malfoy?" Madam Pomfrey asked. "I thought I recognised the magical signature from somewhere, but I couldn't identify it. Does this mean you are able to provide us with more information about what transpired to bring Mr Potter to this condition? From the brief diagnostic charm I cast, I have my suspicions…" Her eyes darkened noticeably. "But I'd hate to jump to the wrong conclusion."
They all waited expectantly for his explanation. Hermione's best guess would have been that Death Eaters had attacked again, but then why wouldn't Malfoy have just said so in the beginning?
"This isn't going to be easy for you all to hear," Malfoy said pre-emptively. "Maybe you should all sit down, or something."
No one moved and Ron glared fiercely at him for daring to waste time.
"Right. What the hell do I care anyway? Just don't say I didn't warn you."
"Who. Hurt. Harry?" Ron demanded, enunciating every word so they each carried a clear warning about how he would react if Malfoy didn't answer immediately.
Malfoy drew in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. He looked to be bracing himself.
"It was his uncle."
ooOOoo