Chapter 25: I will not Stop Fighting for You
Harry drags himself to the shore of the lake, gasping for breath as he scans his surroundings for his friends. Ron's helping Hermione onto the bank, their robes sodden and clinging, and Harry watches with a dull pang of that same something that is neither envy or sorrow as he sees Ron's hands cup Hermione's cheek, asking whether she's okay.
Overhead, the blind Dragon gives one last screech of freedom before it disappears over the hills. Harry looks away from the bright sky, wondering whether there is anywhere he can look that won't cause him some sort of pain, and gets to his feet.
He trudges over towards Ron and Hermione, wet socks and boots squelching unpleasantly. Ron's orange hair forms a drenched cap over his head, and his face is pale as he says, too faintly for sarcasm, "That went well."
Hermione huffs out a short laugh, and wipes her limp curls from her face.
Harry manages a nod and replies grimly, "At least we got the cup."
Ron sighs. "Bloody goblins." Hermione throws him a disapproving look which Ron pretends not to notice. "Is there no one we can trust?"
"Bill tried to warn us," Hermione says reproachfully.
Harry doesn't answer, because he is still sore over the issue of trusting people, one person in particular, and it worries him that if he were to think about it hard enough, he knows he would still throw his life into Draco Malfoy's hands if ever it were necessary.
"C'mon, let's go," Ron grabs Hermione's hand and Harry's arm, and together they side-along back to the Auror Headquarters.
Draco is practicing magic with his mother's wand when the screaming starts. His gaze snaps towards his bedroom door, which he knows will open to his touch now. Yet, for obvious reasons, he feels more inclined to stay put, to stay out of the warpath that the Definition of Insanity is no doubt wreaking downstairs.
But something changes Draco's mind. Maybe it is the sick feeling in his gut that accompanies memories of the last time chaotic rage happened — when Harry Potter escaped yet again — or maybe it is nothing more than a macabre curiosity.
He exits the room, casts silencing charms on his feet, and treads carefully down hallways and staircases. As he gets closer he hears shouts and sporadic voices punctuated by the cracking noises of dark magic. He catches the words, 'Potter' and 'Gringotts' and 'escaped,' and Draco's heart hammers in his chest. He thinks maybe he should have a silencing charm on his heart too, but then he smells blood and hears croaking pleas for mercy, and his stomach roils.
Draco edges closer to the open doorway of the drawing room, his back to the wall, until he is near enough to get a glimpse inside. Bodies are strewn all over the floor, slashed open and covered in a mess of scarlet, and Draco recognises the uniforms of Gringott's guards, and sees the smaller figures of goblins amongst them.
Voldemort is still yelling, and his followers are too scared to do or say anything. Draco thinks he sees a flash of the whiteness of his father's hair, but then his eyes land on something else — in the hand of the nearest dead goblin, the Sword of Gryffindor lies unnoticed.
And Draco daren't breathe, daren't move, but before he can convince himself to leave, to run and hide, he has his mother's wand pointed at the sword, and accios it into his hand. He spares a second to shove it into his charmed paper bag, his palms sweaty and shaking, before forcing his feet to take him calmly back to his room, as though he'd never left it.
Once there, he shuts his doors, leans against them to try and steady his racing pulse, and then transfigures the paper bag into something more common, something that someone won't bother to look twice at should they see it. He settles on a pocket watch, one that actually tells the time. If Draco had been any amount of months younger, he would have looked at it with smugness, because he's always been good at transfiguration, but now he only gazes at it with a suppressed fear, wondering how long it will be before he is found out.
And then there's a knock at his door, and Draco thinks that this is it, that he had all of three minutes to rejoice in his limited success at rebellion, that someone must have seen the sword floating out of the goblin's grip, but when Draco opens the doors with his heart in his throat he sees it is only Blaise Zabini, and his shoulders sag with relief.
That in itself should be worrisome, because there is only one person alive who Draco feels comfortable enough with to let his guard down, and he's not here. Draco clenches his teeth, and aims for a blank look of enquiry as he stands back to let the other Slytherin in.
"Did you hear?" Zabini asks carelessly as he steps into the room, his shoes so polished they're almost indistinguishable from the floorboards.
"Hear what?" Draco asks casually, folding his arms.
"Potter broke into Gringotts and stole something from Lestrange's vault." Zabini says it as though he's commenting on the weather, but as Draco meets his eyes there is something there that is just waiting for Draco to show himself.
Draco quirks a brow, trying to pretend like he isn't exultant with pride — trying to pretend like he isn't begging to know whether Harry got out unharmed. "Really?"
"Such is the rumour," Zabini says slowly. He looks for a moment at Draco's desk, and a slight twitch forms at the side of his usually expressionless lips. It's gone as quickly as it came, and when Zabini turns back to face him his eyes are void of anything Draco can discern. "You better be ready. They're going to want to start using you soon."
Draco frowns. "Use me?"
"To fight. They usually become more relentless after the Dark Lord is angry."
Draco doesn't need to ask who he will have to fight, because he already knows. Instead he tightens his hold on the wand in his hand and asks, "Why are you here, Zabini?"
Zabini studies him for a second and then shrugs. "Same reason as you, I suppose."
It's an evasive answer, and it doesn't mean shit, so Draco sneers, "What? No one want you either?"
Something very brief, but resembling irritation, flits through Zabini's eyes before he schools his features, and Draco thinks there might be a way to crack the exterior of his old classmate after all. He files this information away for later use, but before he can say anything Zabini whispers, "You may think this will be easy, Draco. But it won't be."
Draco glares, because he is sick of Zabini's riddles, and he resorts to hissing, "Fuck off, Zabini."
There's that tiny smirk again, and then the other Slytherin departs, his footsteps nearly soundless.
And Draco takes one deep breath, before he laughs.
Because Harry did it — he must have found another Horcrux in Bellatrix's vault — and Draco has the Sword of Gryffindor. All he needs now is a way of getting it to the boy he loves. He thinks about what Zabini said about fighting, and he knows wherever conflict will be, Harry Potter will be also, and Draco thinks that will be his best chance.
The only question is how?
The table at dinner that night is a mix of the young and the mature, but mainly it is full of good-cheer, and even though Harry feels tired and defeated, he laughs when he has to, and smiles when it is expected.
When they returned, Remus asked them whether they'd been successful, and at Harry's nod he'd grinned, even though he had no idea what had been achieved.
Now, Harry listens as Robards fills everyone who is in ear-shot in on the time he busted an illegal potion smuggling ring in his first week of being an Auror. Harry is only half listening, and every now and then he catches Ron's eye across the table and they share a look of doubtful humour.
Harry is partially distracted by thoughts of what must be happening on the other side of the spectrum, whether Voldemort knows what has been taken from him, and what his next move will be. Harry's newly developed Occlumency skills must be working, because he hasn't had any unwanted visions since the Snatchers found them.
As though hearing his thoughts, Moody asks gruffly, "How's the scar, Potter?" The man's fake eye is focused unnervingly on Harry, and his real one is narrowed with suspicion and interest.
Beside him, Harry knows Hermione is listening keenly, and he fiddles with the grip on his fork as he replies awkwardly, "It's — er — alright. Hasn't been hurting much lately."
Moody grunts and takes a gulp from his flask. "That a good thing or a bad?"
"I dunno — good, I s'pose. My — my Occlumency's gotten a little better —" Harry cuts off as Hermione's hand lands on his knee and she turns in her chair to face him.
"You didn't tell me, Harry." She sounds earnest, inquisitive, but Harry grits his teeth and looks down at his plate.
Of course he didn't tell her, because the person who taught him is responsible for the scar that shines in white lines over her forearm. No one says anything apart from Robards, whose booming voice continues with his heroic tale. Luna and Dean seem to be the only ones who find his story riveting, and suddenly Harry wonders why neither Moody or Remus have asked about Draco yet, seeing as they both knew he was with Harry, knew that they must have been together for months.
Harry swallows, the word 'together' taking root in his heart and sprouting into weeds of regret and longing. He raises his fork to his mouth, chews his food without tasting it, and reminds himself that he has always been the only one to take an unnatural interest in Draco Malfoy.
It hurts, and for a second Harry wishes he was back in the underground chambers of Gringotts, clinging to the back of a dragon, because it made him forget, and forgetting is a lot easier than pretending his whole body doesn't ache with a desire to be holding someone he should hate.
Draco doesn't eat the food in front of him. He pokes at it with his cutlery and stares at the smooth surface of the table. Across from him, Blaise Zabini sits with a similar expression, although he is used to this enough that he does eat.
Around them, Death Eaters talk, and Death Eaters argue. The head of the table is empty, and Draco is grateful. Sometimes Draco swears he catches Dolohov looking at him, but as soon as he turns his head the man is immersed in discussion with the Carrows beside him.
It makes the pocket watch feel even heavier, and suddenly Draco can't wait to get up and excuse himself.
But then they start talking about plans, about safe houses, and about finding where the Order is hiding and killing them all. And even though it makes Draco squirm, makes his hands tighten into fists beneath the table, he still listens.
Harry will be there. Harry will be in danger. And Draco is long past berating himself for still caring. He will do anything for Harry, even if Harry would rather do anything other than see Draco again.
Ron's staring into the window display of a jewellery shop, and Harry has to double back after he realises he's almost left him behind. It's their first food run, and while Harry is glad of the Auror's trust, the shopping bags are beginning to weigh down on the arms of the fifty-year old muggle he pretends to be. You can only shrink so much food before it turns iffy, and drink cans don't take too well to magic. Next time Robards tells them to bring back beer, Harry's just going to have to tell him to fuck off, or to do it himself, in the nicest way possible.
"When this is all over," Ron says, "I'm gonna ask her to marry me."
Harry represses a sigh and places the bags at his feet, before catching sight of the sparkling selection of rings and necklaces which Ron gazes at fancifully. Harry looks away when the jealous something singes the lining of his stomach, and turns his eyes on his friend, on the boy who will come out of a war as a man with the prospect of a family waiting for him, and for a brief moment, Harry wonders whether the same will come of him too.
Ron's face is full of hope and wistful longing, and while the pessimistic side of Harry has been getting so much attention lately, he still manages to delve into himself and surface with a shred of heartfelt joy for his best mate.
Harry smiles, looking back at the scarily priced silver bands. "That's great. I'm happy for you." Harry is happy, and it surprises him. Maybe it surprises Ron too, because his faraway stare moves to settle on Harry, and after a second he smiles too.
Inside the shop, a young man in a dress shirt and tie chooses a ring with several small diamonds on it, no doubt for his soon to be bride, and Harry's envy increases tenfold. Because he isn't going to marry Ginny like everyone expects him to, he isn't going to have a normal life, or a family with several children.
He's Harry Potter, and he will either come out of this war as a damaged man, or not at all, and strangely enough, he doesn't know which he'd rather.
He's Harry Potter, and it took him years of dancing around the sharp tongue of his enemy for him to realise he's gay, and thinking about Draco Malfoy makes his eyes sting and his throat clam up.
Because he's Harry Potter, and never will he be able to put a ring on the finger of the person he loves most.
Draco keeps practicing his magic. His mother's wand works well, but not as well as the wand that shared Harry's touch. Sometimes he even does push-ups, and even though it makes him feel like a muggle, he doesn't care, and no one will ever know.
He does it because he feels cooped up, and because he'd rather stay in his room than walk the halls and happen across a malicious smile on the face of a Death Eater.
He does it because he has to fight, and he needs to stay strong.
One night, Draco collapses, because his arms hurt and his chest hurts, but his heart hurts the most. And with his cheek on the floor he stares at the door, imagining Harry charging through it, imagining Harry coming to save him and taking Draco away.
It feels so good for just a second, his body warms up and his lips itch to form a smile, but then he feels cold. So cold.
Blaise Zabini finds him like this. He pulls Draco to his feet and manoeuvres him onto the edge of his bed. Zabini sits next to him, not saying anything, and Draco is about to tell him to piss off when suddenly his left arm feels like it's being torn to shreds.
He chokes over a groan, fingers clawing at his flesh as his mark writhes and burns, the lines darkening as it responds to the calling of its master. Draco's teeth bite into his lip, and Zabini's usually stoic expression has slipped into one of startled confusion as he asks, "What is it?"
And it doesn't make sense, because Draco thought Zabini was in the same situation as him — but the black haired Slytherin isn't doing anything to betray a searing and ripping sensation along his forearm.
Draco launches himself at Zabini, reaches for the sleeve of his left arm, and tugs it up to reveal nothing but blank, dark skin. And Draco sags back onto the pillows, right hand still uselessly covering his own mark, because suddenly he feels ensnared by injustice, by the weight of something that is so unfair it feels like someone's kicked him.
"I was never one of you," Zabini says softly, and Draco squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ward away the pain, but it doesn't work, nothing works. "You should go."
So Draco goes.
Zabini watches him from the bed, and as Draco stumbles out of the room the pain lessens. Antonin Dolohov intercepts him before he reaches the dining room, and his grin is wild as he grabs Draco's arm and pulls him into the room.
Voices are loud, everywhere, full of excitement and anticipation. And Draco doesn't know what's happening, but Dolohov's grip is still tight around him, and then they are disapparating.
Harry ducks as Remus pulls him to the ground. They're hidden beneath a low brick wall, dotted with rose bushes. Across the field, Robards and Bill Weasley can be seen by the barn-side.
They're at a farm in the middle of nowhere, and Harry is only here because he'd been with Remus at the time he got Robards's patronus. It's an abandoned farm, and the Healers use it to heal muggles who have gotten in the way of a world they know nothing about. It's too risky keeping them at headquarters, so they have a team of Healers stationed out here, along with a group of defenders.
"Stay down, Harry," Remus whispers hoarsely. Harry lowers himself back down, trainers crunching in the gravel, from trying to peek over the wall and see into the farmhouse. Luna waved at him from the top window, and something in Harry's gut clenches to know that she's here, in harm's way.
Remus has his eyes trained around the edge of the bricks, at the farm gates, where he says Death Eaters will be appearing at any moment. The most recent muggle the defenders brought in from Yorkshire had been a Death Eater in disguise. The glamour wore off after the Healers gave him a muggle IV, and then one of the Auror's managed to stun him before anyone could be hurt, yet not before the man had been able to reach for his mark.
They had two choices, to clear off, or to wait for the ambush. In the end, it'd been Robards's decision to stay, to make their own ambush in the face of another ambush. And now here they are, waiting.
Ron is somewhere around the other side of the house, invisible in the line of the trees with Mad-Eye Moody, and it is only because of both his and Harry's pleas that they managed to convince Hermione to stay back at the camp. She didn't kiss Ron goodbye, and she didn't hug Harry either, and Harry doesn't know whether it was because she was angry at them, or because if she did then it'd be final, it'd be like admitting there was a chance of them not returning.
Robards told them there's nothing to worry about, that most of the Death Eaters will lose interest as soon as they see their destination is nothing but an old hovel, and while Hermione appeared worried, both Harry and Ron were itching to do something. Because the knowledge of Hufflepuff's cup in the bottom of Hermione's beaded bag burdens them as both a failure and a success, and the two of them have always been ruled by adrenaline.
Harry thinks for Ron it has more to do with wanting to prove himself, because he knows Ron looks at Robards as though he's waiting to be told he'll make a good Auror too. Harry wishes he could give Ron all of the Auror ambition other people have loaded onto him, because while everyone may think Harry Potter wants nothing more than to fight for the good, Harry just wants to prevent people from dying.
His thoughts are cut short when Remus nudges his knee, and a moment later there are cracks of apparition, and the sound of boots across grass.
They stay crouched, for one second, two, just long enough for the Death Eaters to pass their position, to be able to corner them in. From behind the barn, Harry knows Robards and Bill will be getting ready to do the same.
Remus clicks his fingers, and then they move.
They vault over the wall at the same time a flash of green light crumbles the bricks. Harry throws up defensive spells and counter curses, his heart beating wildly as he sees that Robards was right. Several Death Eaters evaporate into blackness as they run from what seems like nothing, while others make a break for it towards the farmhouse.
And then Harry sees him.
Fighting next to a tall, rugged looking Death Eater who Harry recognises from Xenophilius Lovegood's house, is Draco Malfoy.
And Harry can't breathe. For a split second he forgets where he is, and who he is supposed to be duelling. His distraction gives the enemy the upper hand, and a large blond Death Eater laughs as his spell hits Harry in the leg.
Harry shouts out, flinging stunners out until one connects with his attacker's chest, and then the man plummets to the ground.
And when Harry turns his attention back to the two who were battling Remus, Draco Malfoy is looking at him.
The afternoon is almost golden, but the paddock where they fight is covered with brown, with upturned mud and people falling, and Draco doesn't know what to do — so he follows Dolohov, sticks to his back and pretends as though the spells he fires aren't meant to miss.
Draco recognises Remus Lupin duelling Dolohov, and for a demented second Draco can't decide who he wants to win. Because the werewolf is the one who locked him up, who tried to make peace of something that could never be peaceful, who dumped him on Harry Potter's doorstep and made him learn that he would never be good enough.
But then Draco hears a grunt of pain, a voice that is so familiar he would know it within a crowd, and there's Harry — Harry who has just defeated one of Draco's own, and Draco should feel elated, but he doesn't, he can't — he's not allowed to.
Draco's just standing there, susceptible to any wayward curse that flies his way, but he doesn't care, doesn't care that his black suit is splattered with mud and his hand is shaking around his wand, because then Harry looks at him, and it is as though he never left.
There's mud on his glasses and leaves in his hair, and he looks wild and stupid and Draco loves him, god Draco loves him so much — but he hates him too because he fucking left him behind. But Draco can't move, can't hurt Harry, and he knows he needs to, that he should, because surely he must be breaking several of his vows right now.
But Harry doesn't move either, doesn't attack Draco, and Draco just wants to scream at him, to tell him to attack first before Draco is forced to, and to ask him why he left Draco all alone, why he left Draco with these people who he loathes.
And all at once, with shocking clarity, Draco is hit with the realisation that he is fighting on the wrong side. That maybe his desires are bigger than just being something to Harry Potter, that maybe he would fight for them if he got the chance, that Draco would curse the intimidating figure of Dolohov because he hates what he stands for.
"FUCKING MOVE, MALFOY!" Dolohov yells over his shoulder, dodging a curse sent at him by the werewolf. It's an order, Draco feels it like freezing fire through his veins, gathering under the skin of his left forearm.
But it is move, move and not fight, so Draco makes to run for the farmhouse, where windows are shattering and fires are starting, but then Harry casts at him, and the hex barely misses Draco's shoulder.
And Draco almost trips, because suddenly every amount of betrayal and pain and love comes to a boil and Draco just wants to fall apart, because how can Harry do that to him? He forgets to remind himself that this is what he wants, because he is too busy thinking that after nights spent talking, sharing things no rivals should ever share, after almost dying together, after living together too, after everything — Harry does not hesitate to hurt him.
Because Draco is small in the scheme of the greater good, and he despises it. His teeth scrape together, and with a violent jerk of his wrist he sends a wordless petrificus totalus right into Harry's chest. And Harry falls. He falls to the ground and Draco runs.
He runs and runs and runs, until he is in the house that is burning, that is gradually collapsing, and he doesn't know what he's meant to do, what he's meant to find. He dodges spells from both sides, and thinks he catches sight of bright Weasley-coloured hair, but then there's just smoking wood and hospital stretchers, and Draco finds himself in an upstairs room, empty apart from a lone figure slumped against the wall.
It's a girl, with long tangles of blonde hair, and there's blood smeared across her face. It's Luna Lovegood, and seeing her there, dead, gives Draco a sick sort of satisfaction, because he knows she escaped with Harry, that Harry chose her over him, and he hates her for it. But he hates himself more, and then he sees her hand twitch and her head turn slightly, and before Draco can question himself he's dropping to his knees in front of her.
"Lovegood?"
She murmurs something that Draco can't hear, and her eyes flicker open, blue and piercing, as though she isn't dying in the middle of a battle zone. She stares at Draco, and Draco stares back, and his teeth close over his tongue as he realises that he wants to say he's sorry. He doesn't know what he's sorry for, maybe for nothing, maybe for everything, but then Lovegood blinks at him and asks croakily, "Is B-Blaise o—okay?"
Draco frowns, bewildered, "What — he — he's fine. Why?"
She doesn't answer, she just shuts her eyes again and smiles, and suddenly Draco is desperate for someone — for anyone to come up and find her — come up and save her, and take her away from what everyone knows is a Death Eater. But what if someone else finds her first? Someone on the wrong side — someone on Draco's side.
"You — you should hide," Draco says quickly. Lovegood doesn't reply again, she doesn't even move. "Shit. Shit shit shit —" Draco casts the limited healing spells on her that he knows, ones that will at least keep her alive for a little bit longer, and when she groans and splutters out blood Draco doesn't think he should feel so relieved, but he feels it anyway.
He hastens to his feet, steps over broken beds and dead bodies, and when he gets to the window he does the only thing he can that he thinks will make a difference — he sends out red sparks from his wand, a universal wizarding sign that something is wrong, that help is needed. Draco knows the Death Eaters wouldn't bother with something like that, that they'd be perfectly content to leave their own to die.
And then he hurries out of the room before someone can find him and catch him — Draco stops dead on the stair landing. Catch him. It's insane, and he knows that if he lets himself be caught it wouldn't change anything, he wouldn't be able to fight for anybody, and if the Death Eaters ever saw him again they'd kill him.
But Draco still turns it over in his head, until the wooden beams of the house structure begin to creak and spark. Draco knows he has to leave, but his mind goes back to Lovegood, alone and barely alive, and he is just about to turn on his heel and retrieve her when suddenly Dolohov is right in front of him.
"Were going! There's more coming!"
And then he grabs Draco and they're gone.
Harry walks straight past Hermione, and bangs the door to his compartment closed. He sends his foot into the wall, slams his fist into it as well. It doesn't help, it never helps, but Harry still does it. And then he slides to the ground.
It was Ron who found him, Ron who helped him to his feet, and Harry doesn't know why he was expecting it to be Draco.
He's caked with mud and the scent of burning wood, but he doesn't care. He just twirls Draco's wand in his fingers, his head bowed and his eyes closed. He should have done something — but he couldn't. Because seeing Draco standing there, decked in black and looking collected but hollow, left Harry with the feeling that the only way to put his heart back together again was to hold onto the person in front of him. To hold on and never let go.
But then the other Death Eater had shouted at him to move, and Harry had to get there first, because Draco Malfoy was supposed to be his to manipulate, to touch until he was nothing but putty and moans — Draco was supposed to be with Harry in a tent in the middle of the woods.
But Draco obeyed, and Harry had to stop him.
There's a knock at the door, soft and gentle, and when Harry looks up he doesn't know how much time has passed.
Hermione comes in, shuts the door behind her, and upon seeing her Harry feels guilty for ignoring her before. She stands there, swaps her weight from foot to foot, and when Harry meets her eyes she looks away.
"Harry, I —" She bites her lip. Harry notices the way her gaze drifts to the wand in his hands, and as though remembering the person who owns it she clears her throat, forces herself to be strong. "Luna's awake… If you wanted to see her."
Harry nods, gritting his teeth against the pain in his neck from where he'd hit the ground. "Thanks."
Hermione waits, as though she still has something left to say, but then she lets out a breath and says simply, "I'll see you at dinner," and leaves.
Harry showers, scrubs his flesh raw until the events of today are nothing but a memory, and then walks out into the train corridor.
He stops at Robards's room-turned-office first, knocks with more energy than he thought he had left. Robards gruffly tells him to enter, and when Harry walks in he sees the man sitting behind his desk, an ice pack held to his head. He's bent over scrolls of parchments in front of him, and Harry has to make a coughing noise for him to look up.
"Oh, Potter. Good work today." Robards gives the ice pack a look as though it's what's distracting his attention, and then drops it on the desk. Harry frowns, uncertain how lying uselessly in the mud while everyone else fights for their lives can be called 'good work.'
"I want to join, Sir. I want to fight, and I want to take them down."
Robards, who seems a lot more sombre when he hasn't been drinking amidst a number of eager ears, and mellow after a tiring battle, nods solemnly. "Weasley came and said somethin' similar." Harry waits as Robards picks up his ice pack again. "An' I told him we need as many hands as we can get."
Harry isn't surprised, but he grins anyway. "Thanks, Sir."
"Might as well stop callin' me Sir, Potter, it's not like I get payed." Robards guffaws for a moment and then gets a hold of himself, frowning down at what Harry thinks looks like maps, and then back up at Harry with a stern glaze to his eyes. "When's all this going to end, Harry?"
It's a genuine question, and Harry sways on his feet to know that this man of authority, is asking him a question the whole world seems to think only Harry knows the answer to. He wishes he could tell him, could tell the world, but there are still two more Horcruxes to find, and Harry doesn't know what he can do other than to fight.
Instead of answering, Harry asks, "What are we going to do next?" And he thinks that even though he has finally managed to shun Voldemort away from his mind, he would open the connection again, if only to see the opposition's next move, and where to go from here.
"Safe houses," Robards grunts, "There's still several more. Meet here tomorrow morning if you're game."
There's no point saying he will be game, because everybody knows Harry Potter doesn't back down from a challenge. Draco Malfoy knew that as well, and now he is Harry's biggest challenge yet. He nods, thanks Robards, and leaves.
"Safe houses," says Rowle eagerly, his meaty hands thumping on the table. Beside him, Draco tries not to flinch. "We get in, wait for 'em. Let 'em catch us, but not before takin' one of 'em, usin' some polyjuice, an' there we have it. We're in their headquarters. Spy gets a message to us, an' then we have 'em. All of 'em — Dead."
The plan is met with enthusiasm, and from the dungeon comes the cries of someone being tortured, their pained wails sealing the fate of all the unsuspecting people Draco can't even warn. His thoughts swirl around Harry, Harry who Draco can't save, Harry, who by this time tomorrow night, might be dead.
And Draco knows he will do anything he can to take Harry away, to make sure he's safe. It is selfish, and Harry will hate him for it, but Draco knows he will hate himself more if he lets Harry get hurt.
He volunteers himself for the mission, and Dolohov gives him an appreciative leer which makes Draco want to wretch. Lucius Malfoy holds his head a little higher, as though he is finally proud to have such a son.
Draco lets them believe what they will, and when the night darkens he finds himself standing at his open window, looking down onto the grounds where he would once sneak to frolic in the flowerbeds with his mother's krups. He has scaled the towering tree beyond his window countless times before, and it is just as easy as it used to be, only now instead of being an innocent boy eager to explore the outdoors past bedtime, he is a young man who has orders to follow, and a will beyond any strength he could have imagined, to find a way around those orders.
His feet hit the garden path, and he is just about to cast a disillusionment charm on himself when someone calls his name, and his anxious gaze snaps up to see Blaise Zabini looking down at him from his bedroom window.
Zabini's eyes are wide in the darkness, "What the fuck are you doing?"
Draco swallows, contemplates what to say, because while he is half certain that Zabini will tattle to everyone about what he saw, there seems to be something lurking beneath the other Slytherin's expression that says, 'take me with you.'
"Taking a walk," Draco replies in an impatient whisper.
Zabini doesn't even let the lie process. "But tomorrow morning —"
"I know," seethes Draco, "I'll be back by then." He hesitates before slinking beneath the trees. "Are you going to tell them?"
Zabini is silent, and Draco is just about to rethink his whole plan when there is the reply of, "No."
Draco frowns, and forgetting that he should feel lucky to have an answer at all, he remembers something important and asks quickly but quietly, "Why did Lovegood ask after you?"
"You saw Luna?" Zabini sounds almost breathless, and just as Draco thinks he's finally going to find out something he's been missing, Zabini rushes out in a calm tone, "Why did you stun Potter instead of killing him?" He says it as though he doesn't intend for the conversation to continue, as though the answer can be found in what he's just said.
Draco just shakes his head, glaring, and spells himself invisible.
Harry finishes tying the laces of his boots, a half-eaten piece of toast held between his teeth, when Hermione sits down on the bench next to him. Her face is lined with a familiar worry that she has been wearing whenever she sees him lately, and Harry knows it's probably to do with her disagreeing about what he and Ron are about to do.
"Harry…" She begins, rubbing her hands over her jeans.
Harry straightens up, chews the last of his toast, and says, "We'll be careful, I promise. Honestly, Hermione."
Hermione turns her face away, lets out a shaky breath, and Harry wonders if her nerves are what's stopping her from coming with them — not that Ron would let her, anyway. "Did you talk to Luna?" She asks.
Harry nods, he did talk to Luna, who didn't seem very lucid, although Luna isn't normally a lucid person to begin with. Her eyes had been incredibly bright and earnest, however, when she told Harry that an angel, his angel, had been to see her, and had saved her life. Harry had to fight the urge to roll his eyes, and ended up telling her that he was glad she was okay. A lot of the other Healers hadn't been so lucky, and if someone hadn't sent out red sparks from the top story of the farmhouse, they wouldn't have been able to get Luna in time.
Robards has been enquiring around as to who sent up the sparks, but has been met with nothing more than shrugs and inquisitive denials.
"Did she — did she say anything?" Hermione's voice trembles a little at the end, and Harry looks at her with a frown.
"Are you okay?"
Hermione's toffee-coloured eyes seem to simmer and sadden, and she looks like she's about to cry as she says after a whimper, "Harry — Harry, I have to tell you something —"
At that moment Ron and Bill round the corner, and Ron gives a wide grin to his friends as his brother knocks on Robards's door. Several more Aurors and volunteers begin to gather for the safe house mission, and Hermione squeezes Harry's hand. She looks pained, desperate, but her lips are clamped shut, and Harry can't imagine what it is that's troubling her.
And then Robards emerges from his office with Remus and Moody, and in a thunderous voice he begins to go over the plan.
Harry gives Hermione a one-armed hug and tells her he'll see her later. The smile he aims for is reassuring, but Hermione's face is still caught up in distress as she stands, kisses Ron on the cheek, and then walks away.
There are about ten of them all up, everyone dressed in muggle clothes, and there are three different Death Eater safe houses left for them to clear. With each house, half the team will go round the back, and half will wait around the front. After each team leader has checked for curses and traps, everyone'll go in.
It seems easy, simple, and Harry and Ron share a nod as they get ready to apparate to the first location.
The first house is in a quiet part of Sussex, with green hedges and green lawns. At the end of the lane, Harry notices a little boy pushing around his tricycle. Suddenly, he feels sick, and he grips his wand tighter. The air is still apart from a small breeze, and the property is whitewashed with a surrounding patio. The Aurors have already thrown up glamours so as to avoid being seen by the neighbouring muggles, but Harry still finds himself glancing towards the sandy haired child, wondering what his parents would do if they ever found out how close he'd been to an evil they had no idea existed.
The team breaks in two, the half heading towards the back being lead by Moody, and Harry's half by Robards, silencing charms making their footsteps go unheard. Harry stays at the end of his group, furthest from the patio, not because the idea of going inside makes him jittery, but because he wants to keep an eye on Ron's back, and the unsuspecting muggle boy now riding around in the driveway.
The little boy is the last thing Harry sees before someone grabs his shoulder and jerks him back, and then his gut is twisting and lurching, regretting the fact that Robards must have been too slow in setting up the anti-apparition wards.
But a few seconds later, none of that seems to matter, because Harry is trying to catch his breath in an unfamiliar, dimly lit room, and there is the presence of another person standing behind him.
Harry whirls around, wand raised, and comes face to face with Draco Malfoy.