Here comes the moment of truth!
Chapter warnings for: explicit language, explicit depictions of violence, explicit imagery, gore, death, torture, verbal abuse, and unconscious self-harm (that one's complicated)
We do NOT wish to trigger anyone who's trying to read and enjoy this story, so if you guys think you need to be warned explicitly about the entailment of this chapter, please go to endnotes.
Two weeks ago, my lovely grandmother, and Elen's lovely grandfather passed away due to health complications. May they both rest in peace.
Thanks a world to our beta~
Next Update on: Friday 28th of May
Chapter Thirty Three: Tell Me What It's Like
...
"Golden child,
Lion boy;
Tell me what it's like to conquer.
Fearless child,
Broken boy;
Tell me what it's like to burn."
oh darling, even rome fell / p.s. (via madzie-bane)
...
Hands close around his chest from behind, and Harry gasps, rough fingers pull him up by his hair and the other hand moves to his mouth, muffling his angry cries.
"There there, you filthy bitch," the grimy voice croons into his ear and Harry can practically smell the rancid breath brushing against his face.
Sirius' eyes widen like his, 'Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!'
Harry grapples at the hands, the one blocking his mouth is hard enough to bruise, and his scalp prickles as Rosier starts pulling him backwards. Further away from the wards.
'Harry!'
Harry reaches for Sirius, as illogical as that move proves to be, seeing as Sirius can't physically grab his hand and haul him back to safety. He scratches at the hand on his face, and drags his shoes in the sand.
"You have no idea-" Rosier huffs in his ear, lets go of his hair and hooks an arm around Harry's waist, "No fucking idea how long I waited for this moment."
Harry wishes his shoes were made of metal. He blindly punches the man, but Rosier is both bigger and stronger than him, even in his frail, tortured state. He yells, shouts and screams, and he can feel his lungs running short on air and it's all futile, it is and Rosier merely cackles at his tries.
"Oh, Potter. We are going to have fun," as he yanks Harry to his chest. Sirius is running toward them, suddenly he seems much further away than he was before.
Harry's eyes tear up.
'Bite him. Harry fucking BITE HIM!' The man yells over the crashing waves and Harry nods his head back right into the man's face, hard enough that Rosier's grip slips down enough for him to bite. Copper liquid fills his mouth and Evan curses.
He pushes Harry to the ground with a curse, and Harry furiously starts crawling, but Rosier is faster. Of course, he fucking is. He kicks Harry in the stomach, twice and still holding his bleeding hand.
'Harry!' Sirius is so far away, it seems as if he's not running at all. They were only a few feet apart before Rosier came.
Evan hauls Harry to his feet, this time by his throat, and Harry butts his head back to his chest, repeatedly. Rosier doesn't give in, just squeezes down on his windpipe.
"You shut the fuck up," he growls and Harry chokes, "You will shut your mouth or I'll crush your fucking throat."
Dear God, Harry thinks in a haze of panic-induced thrashing. Dear God, how did this even happen?
'Harry!'
Rosier's hand snakes down to his waist again.
"Fuck you!" Harry grits out, he can't breathe and everything is so blurry.
"Don't get ahead of yourself," Rosier spits out and reaches for Harry's waistband.
Wand. The fucking wand.
Harry screams and tries reaching for it, but Evan already has it pulled out and held to Harry's temple.
He hasn't used the damn thing for so long, that he didn't even think about pulling it on Rosier. He's such a moron, such a fucking moron.
He's gonna kill him. Then he's gonna go after Draco.
"Oh this is good," Evan's grip loosens on his throat. "I was gonna do it right here...but look at this!" He twirls Harry's wand with a manic chuckle. Sirius swears and Harry closes his eyes. He doesn't have enough air to breathe, and not nearly enough energy to keep kicking.
"Brilliant, Harry," the wand digs into his flesh and Rosier laughs again.
"Shhh, don't cry. I won't be quick, and it won't be painless, but you'll have fun."
Draco. Harry can only think about one person at that moment and it's maddeningly Draco. He wanted to kiss Harry, he cooked for Harry, slept with Harry, comforted Harry…
He can't let this asshole hurt Draco.
He toes the edge of his left shoe with his right, and distracts Rosier with his hands, scratching the hands holding him, hard enough to hopefully draw blood. And he does, but Rosier doesn't even flinch.
The shoe drops on the sand as Harry is pulled back, Rosier twists the wand.
"Enough!" He shrieks and traps Harry in place with both arms. Then they both vanish with a crack.
It's like being squeezed through a narrow tube, it's disorienting and everything is blurry for a moment. Harry screams but can't hear a thing over the high whistling in his ears.
When he stops, the world doesn't stop whirling, Harry is roughly thrown to the floor, and he feels the sharp stones scraping his palms. Nausea overtakes all senses.
Rosier is with him. Right behind him, Harry can feel the man getting to his feet, but he doesn't move, Harry bows his head and clenches his eyes shut. He needs to wait for the right moment.
"Whiny little brat," Evan spits, presumably surveying the injuries Harry has inflicted during their trip. Harry fists his hands.
"Get up! Now, you little twerp." He strides to Harry, bends down to grab him by his hair again but Harry is prepared. He surges back and yanks Rosier's leg with him, sprawling the man on the ground with a yelp.
Harry drops himself on Rosier and starts throwing punches, his closed fists are shaking, from anger and the damage. The sharp stabbing pains in his hands send his eyes prickling with tears.
Rosier comes to himself quicker than Harry was expecting. The man rolls them over and Harry is now the one pressed against the harsh stones. Thick, slimy blood drips form in Harry's face from Rosier's. He's given the bastard a bloody nose.
"You bitch!" Rosier cries, repeatedly slamming Harry's head back against the floor. Harry cries out in pain but jerks his knee up right into the man's shins.
"Get away from me!" He shouts, and Rosier howls in pain, Harry's wand clutched in his hand.
"I'm done with you! Crucio!"
Harry's entire being is taken over with pain. A very familiar pain. He screams and his nerves contort, singing and twisting and burning.
Just burn. Burn. Burn.
Rosier cackles above him, blood sluggishly running down his chin, one side of his face pulled down permanently as a result of a broken cheekbone. His eyes bloodshot.
Harry's body hates him for having to endure this again. And it curses Harry as vehemently as Harry screams.
Burn.
"That's it," the man cooes, letting up the curse for a respite, "You should be honored, Harry."
He stands and gestures around the enclosed cell, "We are not in just any random crypt."
Harry's eyes follow the man's finger, the moss-covered walls, the damp smell.
"You should be proud to even breathe in this sacred soil," Rosier slashes Harry's wand and he can feel a deep cut etching itself on his arm. Harry curses.
"Fuck you," he gasps, unclenching his throbbing hands. He can't even feel them through the stabbing pain.
"Edward Rosier would have had your tongue pulled out of your ungrateful mouth for that," Evan says pleasantly, vaguely waving a hand at somewhere behind Harry. "He wasn't as tolerant as I am."
Harry doesn't care. He's in pain, and he's enraged and he wants nothing more than Rosier dropping dead by his feet.
"I'm…" Harry purses his lips, "I'm going to boil your fucking eyeballs."
Evan's eyebrow flicks upwards. He has a surprisingly jolly look about him, he's smiling, "Crucio."
Harry screams and rolls on the floor, his limbs are tense even as they jerk against the curse. Fuck he hates this. He really does.
"I'll-" he screams, "Kill."
He'll kill Rosier. He will fucking kill him. And then he will bust his brain out of his skull, and drink whiskey from the damn thing with Draco. He'll… his eyes roll in their sockets as the curse increases in intensity.
"You babble too much," Rosier rolls his own eyes. "You know...when I'm done with you, I'm not going to keep you in the same place as my uncle is resting." He rounds Harry like a predator circling its prey.
"I'll run your blood over his coffin in respect. After all, he is being awfully magnanimous for letting me have my fun here," he lets the curse up for a moment, then it's back again. Like a dripping tap, the intermittent pauses are annoying Harry to bits.
He's Pavlov's dog, and the curse just keeps coming and going and coming and going.
"I'll drain your filthy blood, then, I will chop up your dried carcass and hand it over to my lord. He's the one getting leftovers from me."
He stops the torture curse and Harry arches his back. There's no curse but the pain stays. The pain is dormant. Soaked into his bones.
It remembers.
"I'll…" he coughs and tastes metal. Blood. Not good. "I'll kill you."
Rosier laughs. He thinks it's a joke. Harry has never been more serious in his life.
Evan sends a cutting hex his way, this time on his calf. Harry can feel the warm blood spreading and howls.
Rosier just laughs, "You think this is pain?" His tone is chiding, as if Harry is an unruly kid, misbehaving.
Harry grits his teeth.
Rosier purses his lips, "This is nothing, compared to what you did to me. This isn't pain. This… this is child's play."
"This isn't… hmmm…" Harry twists in place, his body trying to physically get away from the pain that's in him, "revenge?"
But it is.
This is Rosier's idea of revenge. Of course it is, he blames Harry for what Voldemort did to him, seemingly unaware of the fact that he kidnapped Harry in the first place.
"Not revenge," Rosier echoes, "This is what you deserve… you deserve this, every bit of it."
Harry can see it, clear as day, Rosier in his place, and Voldemort looming above him. In the same position. Harry was Voldemort then, pushing down on the man's face with his foot, feeling the bone give away.
It felt relieving, it felt like justice being executed. Rosier probably feels the same now.
"This won't put you in his good graces," each word out of his mouth takes an eternity to articulate.
"Him?" Rosier punctuates his word with a swift kick to Harry's abdomen. Harry's too winded to make a sound. "This isn't about him, Potter. This is just between you-" Another kick. "-and me."
"Fuck off."
"I won't let you slip away. Not again," he crouches by Harry's head and puts the wand directly on his scar. "I waited for so long. I was foolish about it, I wanted you… all to myself."
Harry breathes through his clenched teeth. He can't focus on a word the man is breathing into his ear.
"But the matter of fact is that vermins aren't meant to be kept. They're meant to perish."
There's an uncharacteristic pause, and Rosier's hand moves away from his face. There's a dim whistling in Harry's ears.
Then it comes.
"Somnus Mors!"
His scar feels as if it's splitting open, and there's a cloud of something enveloping his entire body. Harry's eyes roll back and his heart skips a few beats.
Rosier caresses his cheek, "Good boy."
Harry wants to slap the revolting touch away but everything is too heavy. Everything is so slow. There's a pit of wrongness at the bottom of his stomach.
"I don't want my vermin to perish under typical curses. No…" Rosier grabs Harry's hair, yanking his head up, "You deserve this. I'm going to watch you torture yourself to death, and it will be beautiful."
Sluggish tears run down his face but Harry doesn't even feel like crying.
"Crucio."
His back arcs and he feels a few clumps of hair give away before Rosier lets him go, leaving him convulsing on the floor.
It feels like it goes on for eternity, just on and off, on and off again, before the doors of the crypt slam into the walls and Harry rolls away, the crash sending his heart thudding even louder than before.
Rosier is not alone.
"Well, isn't this interesting," the third voice drawls, female, cold and most decidedly surprising Rosier as much as Harry.
The woman in mask strides closer, and Rosier raises Harry's wand but she's too quick. Harry isn't exactly sure what's going on, because one moment they're just standing, and the next Rosier is kneeling next to Harry clutching his hand and howling in pain.
Harry sees the silver gleam of a knife that's stuck inside the flesh. Hysterically, he wishes he'd been the one to put it there.
The figure steps over Harry and kicks Rosier to the ground. Harry feels his eyes losing focus. Everything hurts so much.
"I knew you wouldn't resist a dramatic end," the woman growled, kicking Harry's wand away from the man's hand. "Edward's bones incite you, don't they?"
Harry can't hear Evan's reply but the woman throws her head back and laughs.
"No wonder," she says, crossing her arms. She doesn't even look Harry's way.
Harry coughs and groans through wave after wave of pain. The afterpains. He's certainly forgotten about those.
"He squealed like a little pig, before I'd even started with him," she crouched by Rosier, grabs the man's clenched jaw, "He pissed himself by the time I was done. Disappointing, isn't it?"
"You're making a mistake," Rosier grits around her grip and the woman chuckles. She actually pats his ruined cheek. Harry watches through blurred gaze in morbid fascination. The edges of his vision have started darkening.
"Oh Evan," she has her wand pointed at him but Harry doesn't remember her drawing it out. He can't focus on anything.
Time moves jarringly. Not in seconds, but in hazed moments.
"You'll die," he tells her. The woman's boots edge toward the man's head.
"No, Evan. You will,"
Harry's vision goes black.
The warm water trickles down his body, but he can barely feel it. The numb horror of what just happened at dinner is still crawling all over his skin.
Draco tries to recount everything that happened, and where he went wrong.
He forgot the booze.
That is hilariously the first thing that comes to Draco's mind. He's had the words, the dinner, the touch, but in his haste to actually get the ordeal over and done with, he forgot the most important factor.
Draco sneers at himself. It's not about the alcohol. Of course, it's not fucking about that. Potter hates him. He rejected him, pulled away and ran from Draco. To get away from him.
He was right before. It hurts a lot more than the first time around. Instead of a severe stinging in his chest, it's tantamount to someone slashing his chest open and digging in with sharp nails. Over and over again.
The force of it is so strong, that all he can do is stare at the clear water running down the drain and stifle the urge to punch the wall.
Dramatic.
He's being too dramatic.
What was he thinking?
What in the actual world ran through Draco's mind when he stood to kiss Harry Potter? What witchcraft compelled him to spend his nights in the same bed as the boy, and enjoy it, and what force is pushing him to pursue Harry time after time?
He had tried before, as a naive child who didn't know how social interactions worked, he extended a hand having not shaken anyone's hand his age for the intent of true friendship. It had intrigued him at that age, Harry's wide-eyed looks, his wondering tone.
It was new and eccentric and Draco's mind latched on immediately. Even after the hand was rejected and his intrigue twisted into strong dislike.
This feels crushing. Trying again and being pushed away. Draco groans, rubbing a soapy hand across his face.
He screwed up. And Harry… Harry will never be his. In no world is that a viable option. Draco is a Malfoy and Harry Potter is the boy who lived. Sheer isolation made Draco believe in something that sounded so good but could not possibly take root.
The bathroom is filled with steam and the water is starting to run cold. Running his hands through his hair one last time, he reaches forward and turns off the tap. His shoulder aches fiercely but the pain in his chest is too profound for any other aches to be significant.
He doesn't want to think about anything anymore, and Harry could do anything that he wanted. Draco doesn't care.
He does though. He does and he's a fucking liar to ever think otherwise. He wonders if smothering himself in the fluffy towel will help. He doesn't want to think anymore. Of Harry's face when he'd tried to kiss him.
It's playing like a loop in his head, that image. And then Harry straight-up running out on him.
When did he screw up so badly?
As he struggles to put on a shirt with his aching shoulder, an itch makes itself known in his wrist, smothered by the pain of heartbreak from before. Upon being acknowledged, it quickly turns to a stinging pain.
Draco's mouth turns dry as he glances down at the shell wrapped around his wrist.
Fuck. Fuck, Harry is going too far out.
He's pretty certain the last person Harry wants to see right now is Draco, but he also knows how he can get in these situations. If he somehow went outside the wards-
Well, seeing Draco would be the last of his worries.
The burning, now that he took note of it, is just getting more intense by the second.
This time he doesn't have to search for his wand, quickly grabbing it off the table, he mutters the spell, fully intending to just grab Harry, warn him about the wards and fuck off.
That's the least he can do. Give Harry his space.
The whirl of the spell is as disorienting as ever, and he takes a moment to gather himself.
His head whips around in the grey darkness, there's no one except him here. Just sand and waves. His wet hair is mused by the chilly wind.
Draco's breath hitches and he swallows down the panic threatening to climb up his throat. His grip tightens around his wand as he turns on the spot, turning in circles, trying, perhaps in vain to find Harry.
He almost hopes the other boy would jump out of the non-existent shadows with a 'boo!' and laughter.
Of course, nothing of the sort happens.
Draco runs and runs and what he does find in the looming dark is something far worse.
It's a shoe. A single shoe. Harry's shoe to be exact. Lying forlorn in the sand, upturned.
Draco's tongue turns leaden in his mouth and he gasps for breath. This… is some sick joke. Because Harry can't be gone. Except Harry wouldn't be so cruel. Even if he doesn't like Draco back, he'd never be so cruel.
His wrist keeps on burning.
But if it isn't a joke, then it means Harry has been taken. He's been taken from right under his nose, and Draco hadn't known. Hadn't heard anything.
Had Harry screamed? Called for help? Called for his name?
Draco can barely feel the burning of the shell around his wrist over the adrenaline rush of panic. There are pots and pans banging in his head, a steady litany of screams that sound too much like Harry's. Screaming in pain, screaming his name.
Draco's first impulse, right in tandem with his panicking, is to cast the spell again, to get to where Harry is as fast as possible.
He almost does it too, the spell words right on the tip of his tongue, but his wand lowers at the last second. He's breathing heavily.
The Slytherin part of him demands him to stop and think.
If he leaves now, he won't be back. He knows he won't. This place is warded by the Fidelius charm and he doesn't even know which county they're in. If he leaves now, he'd be stepping into a dark abyss of uncertainty. He doesn't have the faintest idea of where Harry is now. He could be walking into a full-blown Death Eater meeting.
The idea makes him pause. God, what is he doing? He could be walking right into the Dark Lord's arms. Severus was right, he is too attached to Potter.
Because the fact is, this isn't enough to deter him from following.
He can't leave Harry alone. Not when this all is his fault. If he hadn't so stupidly tried to kiss him, then Harry wouldn't have run. If he hadn't run, he wouldn't have crossed the wards and gotten kidnapped. Harry could be suffering right now. Being tortured.
He could be dead right now.
The thought makes his blood run cold.
He should… he should at least prepare. Harry could be injured, he'd need medical help.
He looks towards the vague direction of the cottage, but can't really make it out in the dark. Too far out. Harry had run all this way. Away from him.
He swallows thickly, he can't waste any time. Even standing here, every second, he's wasting time while Harry could be suffering.
He could be alive right now only to die in the two-minute delay it takes for Draco to run to the cottage.
He knows how to apparate. He does. But he… hasn't used it much. It's too advanced magic, usually taught to seventh-year students. He'd actually just perfected it this summer. Before everything had gone to shit.
He's only done it like five times.
His mother's urgency that he learn it certainly made sense now.
Should he risk it?
And then Harry's face pops up in his head, once again. And yes, he should. He can risk it. He's confident enough in his abilities to be able to apparate a hundred yards.
Fingers curling around his wand, he turns, imagining the cottage around himself as clearly as he can. The familiar place, Harry sitting on the couch, smiling at him. The fireplace flickering. The seagulls waddling.
The squeezing suffocating feeling engulfs him and then he's gone with a pop.
His feet hit the ground. He checks over himself and is relieved to find all his extremities intact. Blowing out a loud exhale, he doesn't waste any time in grabbing one of the leather satchels hanging off of the hook near the door.
It's just been there as long as he can remember.
He supposes he should be proud of himself for pulling the apparition off so smoothly, considering the most he'd done before had been from one end of the Manor to another. But the worry encompassing his mind is too great, and right now he's only grateful he didn't fuck up even this.
The satchel looks like one of Severus' potion bags. It doesn't appear to have been spelled or enchanted in any way, which is disappointing because Draco doesn't know how to do it himself.
Draco pushes open the bathroom door, illuminates it with a wave of his wand, and steps in, which results in him almost slipping and cracking his head open on the wet floor.
Wouldn't that be a wonderful way to go?
Cursing, he flings open the cabinets. He doesn't know how Harry is, what condition he'd be in. But if it had been one of the Death Eaters who'd kidnapped him, and Draco doesn't know who else it could have been, he's…
The Slytherin side of him demands Draco to shut the hell up.
He sweeps into the bag the four nearest vials of Harry's nerve soothers, stomach clenching at the thought of Harry needing them now more than ever. A couple spare rolls of bandages also go in. Dittany, and the last five vials of pain potions. Severus was supposed to restock the next time he came in.
Straightening up, he runs out and down the stairs. He has to- the diaries.
Dumbledore's diaries. They're important. He can't leave them here, especially if they're never coming back. What if the cottage has been compromised?
Precious time is lost underneath the tides.
Two of them are on the table beside the couch, where Harry had probably been reading them while he'd made dinner. A dinner that still sits uneaten on the kitchen table. Draco hadn't had the heart to clear up yet.
A laugh bubbles up in his chest, God, they'd been having dinner and talking about Draco's crush on Harry and now Harry was gone and probably being tortured.
Life had a funny way of putting things into perspective.
He stuffs the book in the bag and is about to use the spell when his eyes catch the dark robe draped over the couch's arm. His school robe, the one he'd been wearing when they'd been kidnapped from Hogwarts.
The one which his father had returned.
On a sudden impulse, he quickly grabs that too. It's November. It's cold. Harry's nerve damage gets worse when he's cold.
Taking in a deep bracing breath, he looks down at the shell. The burning shell, a sensation he's gotten used to over the last few minutes, dulled by the panic. Swallowing thickly, he enunciates the spell, unwilling to let the terror fuck the spell up.
The first thing he notices upon arriving is the chilled air, immediately raising goosebumps on his skin.
The second thing is the smell of fresh blood and old decay.
The place is dark, illuminated by a few magically lit lamps that hang from a wall. He's in a crypt of some sort, he realises belatedly. The vials in the bag clink loudly and there's movement off to his right.
A shout caught in his throat, he whirls towards it. His heart skips a beat at the scene.
There's Harry, undoubtedly Harry, on the floor. His body twisted and trembling as he struggles to lift up his head. There's another body, and it takes him a hot moment to recognise the disfigured, bloodied face of Evan Rosier.
He doesn't appear to be breathing.
But what makes his stomach sink is the third figure. A female figure. For one second he thinks it's Bella.
And then he recognises the silver mask and the tall build and the broad set of shoulders.
"Valentina?" he says, his voice choked and terrified. He doesn't have it in himself to mask any sort of emotion right now, and he's sure his face is a perfect mask of textbook terror.
Valentina, the Knight, one of the Dark Lord's best soldiers, an assassin and who knows what else, stands up to her full height. Her wand is gripped in her hand, but it's not pointed at him. Or Harry.
When she speaks, it's the same cold, even tone he grew up hearing from her. "How did you get here?"
Draco doesn't answer, but rather points his own wand at her. He doesn't stand a snowball's chance in hell against her. Not after he lost so pathetically to Umbridge in his very last duel. She could kill him with one wave of her wand, she could be creative and she could be quick, or slow and painful and-
And then she'd move on to Harry. He can't, he can't he can't he can't.
Before he can come up with any offensive spell in his panic-induced state, Val speaks up, "No, lower the wand right now, Draco. I wasn't hurting him."
Draco doesn't lower the wand, but Harry seems to be relatively alive and Rosier seems to be relatively dead, so he doesn't cast. "What are you doing here?"
She strides forward, and Draco flinches, taking a step back. But she's put her wand back in her sleeve and is now standing right in front of him. Draco digs his heels into the floor to keep from backtracking further.
"Listen to me, there is no time." She grips his shoulders, with the hands of a killer, "Rosier used the vestigo potion to track down Potter, and kidnapped him. I destroyed the source text so it will not be repeated again. I need you to listen to me." Her grip tightens on his shoulder, and he winces.
"Okay," he says, breathless, "Okay."
"He is not well," she says, flicking her head towards Harry's prone form, the boy has stopped trying to get up now and is watching them with blank, glazed eyes. "You need to take him to Slughorn. Horace Slughorn in Tattershall, in Lincolnshire, he will know how to help, but you don't have much time. There's going to be-"
She breathes. "There's going to be a siege. They are going to take over the ministry; that's why the dark lord is not present. They will send for your heads."
Information overload. It's all too overwhelming. Of course, Harry is unwell. He was just tortured, and all the blood smeared across the stone floors seems to be his. But Slughorn. Why Slughorn?
A sense of wrongness permeates from the air, the same one that the Manor's ballroom seemed to have been seeped in for weeks after his mother was murdered there.
The rancid dregs of Dark Magic.
"Why are you helping me?" he asks. He's finally lowered his wand, but he can feel the ornate handle leaving indents in his palm as he holds it, trying to let it anchor him.
"There won't be a repeat of this," she says briskly, though her eyes flash for a moment, "But Potter isn't supposed to die yet. And Rosier was getting chatty. Do not use any magic, do not let him get out of your sight, and do not be caught." Her hand tightens around his injured shoulder, and she leans forward, her face inches from his, her voice lowering, "I won't save you again. Do you understand? Take him, take him now and leave."
"Why?"
It's a miracle when she pauses, and Draco can see her black eyes, fractionally softening, "I'm sorry for your parents, truly. This is what I owed to them," she exhales, "Go."
When Draco stares dumbly at her, still processing the fact that there's going to be a siege, the fact that she just killed Rosier to save Harry, that- that there's something seriously wrong with Harry; she clucks her teeth and shoves him towards Harry.
"Go!"
There's a loud crack which makes him flinch. They can't be here, they need to leave. Get as far away from this place as possible.
Even though Valentina just helped them, she's still a Death Eater, one of Voldemort's best. And it could just be a trap. She told him not to use magic.
Logically he understands he can't. He's underage and they're not warded here. But Rosier's body is a few feet away from him, and there are tear tracks down Harry's face. He's trembling badly, the way he had when the poison's effects had been at their worst.
They need to get as far away from here as possible. And Tattershall… he still doesn't know where they really are. If he wants to go to Slughorn's at Tattershall, they need to start somewhere they know.
He crouches down next to Harry, and the boy mumbles something unintelligible.
"Harry? Can you hear me?" Draco asks, his own voice shaking as he cradles Harry's head, "Please."
"Draco," Harry whispers, his voice hoarse and painful sounding. The way it used to after one of Bella's torture sessions.
"Harry, we need to leave. Can you… can you stand?" He feels stupid asking this question, Harry shouldn't be standing right now. He should- What Harry needs is medical help, he needs to have his wounds treated and bandaged and then he needs a potion and then sleep.
They don't belong here. In the midst of violence.
"Yesh," Harry slurs, grabbing onto Draco's uninjured shoulder to pull himself into a sitting position. Then he states in a more confident voice, "Yes, yes." His eyes flicker over to Rosier's body, face contorting in a strange mix of disgust and fear and relief. "Let's go."
Draco wraps Harry's arm around his own shoulders, gritting his teeth at the intense ache. He can do this for Harry, of course, he can. He stands up, pulling Harry's light body with him. The scrawny boy clings to him for life, and Draco squeezes the arm around Harry's waist.
His heart settles only for a bit.
Then he looks down and realises that Harry's still missing one shoe. They can't go back to Shell Cottage now. And Harry can't remain barefoot.
"You need shoes," Draco says, and Harry stiffens. Draco looks around the crypt urgently, foolishly, as if waiting for a pair of shoes to pop up any second out of nowhere.
Then his eyes land on Rosier's corpse. "Harry."
"No," Harry's voice is high and squeaky, not a good sign. He also sounds uncertain. Which Draco can use to his advantage. They can't… afford to be picky right now. Not when they have no idea what's going to happen next.
Merlin, Draco could do with a calming draught right now. Or several.
"Please, Harry," Draco whispers as he lowers him back down to the floor, where Harry sits leaning against a damp wall. His fingers clutch at Draco's sweater for a few seconds before he loosens his white-knuckled grip reluctantly.
Heart in his throat, he makes quick work of pulling off the well-worn steel-tipped boots from Rosier's limp feet. He carefully does not look up from them. Or tries not to. His eyes snag on a piece of wood lying next to Rosier. A familiar piece of wood, now.
Harry's wand. He snatches it up as quickly as possible, keeping his eyes averted from Rosier's dead ones.
He moves over to Harry, crouching near his feet. He presses the holly wand into Harry's near limp hands and ignores the still sluggishly bleeding gash on his leg as he starts tugging the boots on Harry's socked feet.
"They're… they're too big," Harry protests, half-hearted at best. Draco notices with distant satisfaction that his grip has tightened on his wand. At least he won't lose it. Hopefully.
Draco just shakes his head before raising his wand. They'd have to be quick after this. He's already going to apparate. And after that, the ministry would be able to track them here.
He transfigures the boots into well-fitting dark grey sneakers. Harry sighs above him. Draco thinks it could be a relief.
There. He used magic.
They have approximately between forty seconds and two minutes to leave.
He's less gentle pulling Harry up this time, urgency dictating his movements. He keeps a firm grasp around Harry's waist with his left arm, and Harry's arm is gingerly draped across his shoulders, afraid to hurt him.
His eyes flick over to the discarded shoe, the one Harry had been wearing at first.
He slashes his wand, "Incendio!"
Harry yells in surprise and almost falls over, but Draco holds him upright.
"We can't leave any traces behind. The vestigo potion, he must have used your cloak." Draco murmurs, and Harry nods, still confused but sated for now. While the shoe burns, Draco starts scourgifying as much blood from the tomb as he can.
He can't leave Harry's blood just lying around. That's so much worse than a shoe. He stops when he's sure there's nothing salvageable left of the shoe, and the only blood he can see is horribly contaminated or indistinguishable from Rosier's. He tightens his grip around Harry.
"How are you-?"
"I know how to apparate," Draco says firmly, he does. He can do this. He can… he can apparate an unknown distance with another injured passenger. He can. They don't have time. They have to. The ministry can already be on its way here. He just used magic. Twice. This place is a beacon now.
He thinks about his time in Barns Green in West Sussex. One of the rare occasions when his parents had indulged in one of his fixations. They'd gone to a farm to see beehives and honey collections. It'd been run by a squib.
The memory is clear in his head, despite his apian fixation dying out years ago. One of his best memories. His mother and father, and the bees. The hives built like houses, and the smell of blooming flowers. If he tries hard enough, he'd even be able to recall the exact buzz of the bees. The better the image the better the apparation.
He vaguely remembers murmuring to Harry to hold on tight, and then he's twirling his wand and turning.
He crashes onto his knees on landing, and hears Harry cry out, landing on his hands and knees beside him. Draco thinks he fucked up, Harry's injured, he's splinched and bleeding out and Draco fucked up because he can't do a single thing right.
But then Harry's turning to him with his face set in mounting horror. And Draco realises the burning pain in his shoulder isn't because Harry's gripping it too tightly. Because Harry's hands are no longer on him and they're… very very bloody.
He falls onto the damp ground, flinging out his arms in order not to face plant, but his arm gives out under him anyway and he yells out in pain. His shoulder hurts. It hurts as much as it had the day he'd been cursed. Which is bad. Merlin, it's bad.
His eyes scrutinize Harry through the pained haze, praying and beseeching every fucking deity that the boy is whole. That he didn't fuck both of them up. That there's still something salvageable out of this mess.
Harry looks all bloody but Draco can't find any new injuries on him. Draco's on the cold, muddy ground, face buried in his uninjured arm as he tries to breathe through the pain.
He hates pain.
"Draco, Draco, oh my god," Harry says, almost hovering if not for the fact that his hands are shaking violently, that he too is flopped on the ground. "Draco, you're bleeding, your shoulder. God, Draco, what do I do? Tell me what to do!"
"We need to-" he gasps out, vision tunnelling as he tries to get up, "We need to leave."
There's no buzzing of the bees. There's no smell of flowers. There's just weeds around them, unkempt and wild. Overgrown and twisted, broken fences. There's the splintered remains of a few hives, the smell of rotting wood filling Draco's nose.
"Draco," Harry sounds horrified but moves to pull him into a sitting position. "You're fucking bleeding, we can't move you!"
"They'll find us!" Draco counters back, his voice hoarse and soft, he's putting too much weight on Harry. Harry's injured, he can't. He shouldn't. "Underage magic, Harry. They'll-" he chokes out, "We can't let them find us."
"Okay." Determination and panic are both equally prominent on his face as Harry grips at Draco's arms to keep him upright, "Okay, what do we do, then?"
"I know there was a barn somewhere. A.. half a mile off," his brain struggles to work through the haze of pain, "We can go there for now."
Harry tries to pull him to his feet but he's not faring any better than Draco. His leg is bleeding, so is his arm. He's shaking wildly. There's frustrated tears welling up in his eyes.
Draco too, is crying. He didn't know when he started, but he realises this when his vision blurs with tears.
"C'mon," he grits his teeth and manages to stand, Harry wringing his hands beside him. Draco puts one arm around Harry's and the boy manages not to crumple under him.
His whole arm is wet and sticky with warm blood. And there's more that's trickling down. If they leave a trail of blood behind them, then running would be futile.
A fucking moron could blood trace them using the trail.
Draco stomps a little on the bloodied ground, until no blood is visible through the dark mud.
"There's a-" he gasps out, pointing at the bag he's still carrying, "A robe. The blood."
He's desperately trying not to let any more blood fall to the ground.
Draco can barely speak through the pain, but he doesn't need to. Harry is already pulling out the dark cloak. He very gently, worried eyes bearing into Draco's, tries wrapping it around his shoulder.
They don't have time. Harry's being too gentle.
Draco pulls the cloak from him and tightens it around his shoulder with fumbling fingers. He smothers his whimper.
Draco needs to focus. Draco needs to get his fucking self together, and get them out of this mess.
He takes one of Harry's hands, wraps it around his shoulder and presses the palm against the wound. Harry resists when Draco whimpers in pain.
"You need to press, the blood-" he gasps out, the pain is hindering the way his words work.
The pressure would help abate the blood flow. He's known that, his mother told him that, when she was teaching how to manually bandage wounds. When he was a child. When things were easy.
He can't talk for shit. There's just pain, surging in his veins.
"We can't. Too much blood, just- just do it, Harry." There's a split second when he doesn't think Harry will do as told, before sharp pain erupts from his shoulder, making him howl and his knees to buckle.
Harry doesn't let him fall and the pain fades back to an almost manageable level eventually. And eventually lasts longer than he really wants to admit. His vision feels permanently tunnelled, edged with darkness. His breaths are laboured and he can feel Harry vibrating against him.
"We need to go," Harry says softly, and Draco nods.
The first step they take is… not a promising one. They stumble more than walk, and he's not sure who's holding up who. But they walk.
Because they have to.
Draco doesn't quite remember how long they walk for, and has a feeling he blacked out during the journey more than once. He's frankly surprised to see the silhouette of the barn in the distance, a looming sanctuary. He has no idea how Harry managed it. Because it was Harry. Draco's in no condition to have reached so far.
He half-expected them to be lying unconscious in a puddle somewhere until he bled to death, or the Ministry, or Death Eaters, found them. But here they are.
His legs ache, and his whole right arm has gone numb.
But, given his luck, the wound itself throbs steadily in rhythm with his heartbeat. Sending waves of pain and nausea coursing through his veins.
Harry's trembling has gotten impossibly worse and Draco's worried he might start seizing. He doesn't know what he'll do if he does. Just… they have to make it a few more feet. Just a few more.
The barn too, is abandoned, just like he'd thought. There are none of the animals tottering around like they had been the last time. One of the large doors is broken and hanging off the hinges. The paint is peeling and dull in the moonlight. It feels as rotten as Draco is feeling inside.
A permanent chill has seeped into his bones, and his own hands have started shaking. The blood on his shoulders, neck, and arm have cooled and have begun the process of drying into annoying itchy flecks, making him shiver harder.
"Just a few more-" Harry pants, and Draco can barely hear him over the pounding of his heart.
The door screeches loudly as they push it open, and Draco's mouth tightens in a grimace. He half expects the door to fall off on them, and wouldn't that be great.
It's too dark inside, and they definitely trip on something, before making their way to a generally dry patch. The barn is drafty, but still marginally better than being out on a windy November night.
Both of them crumple into a bed of hay at the same time, their legs giving out beneath them. The hay prickles his skin, but it's better than the cold and also rotting floorboards of the place. He can hear Harry's wheezing breath beside him.
They stay there, kneeling in the hay for what feels like an eternity before Harry very slowly peels his arm off from around Draco's shoulder. Draco throws his head back, squeezing his eyes shut in pain.
Harry shifts so he's kneeling right in front of Draco, and Draco sits back on his heels, palms flat against the ground. He curls his fingers, trying to get some feeling back into the flesh. Any feeling that isn't pain.
Very absurdly, and hysterically, the first thing he wants right now is a shower.
Harry reaches out a tentative hand to unwrap his shoulder, the robe is almost completely soaked through with blood. But before he can touch him, Draco's hand shoots out to grab Harry's wrist, "Just-" he gasps out at Harry's startled face, "Just give me a second."
He looks up at Harry. The boy he risked everything for. Not once, but twice now. There had been no hesitation, nothing holding him back but concern for Harry that made him do this. The reason for his splinched and bleeding shoulder. He doesn't even know how bad it exactly is yet, and is sort of afraid to see it. He doesn't care how bad. All that matters is that Rosier is dead and Harry is here.
He risked it all for Harry.
Which is very funny, Draco thinks. A corner of his mind is vaguely alarmed at his thoughts. It is funny, though. Because one of Slytherin's prominent qualities is self-preservation, and Draco is nothing if not a Slytherin.
But then he looks into Harry's face, and the stark concern they harbour. His eyes, bright with tears and worry, staring into his own. That's why he did it. Despite the rejection, Draco still cares for Harry. And he knows Harry cares for him, despite every mistake he's ever made.
Belatedly, he realises he's still got Harry's wrist in his grasp. But he doesn't let go just yet. It's warm, his wrist, which should be impossible because Draco's own hand is ice cold. He can feel the pulse thumping unsteadily beneath his fingers.
Harry is alive. Harry is alive. Harry is alive.
"Draco," Harry whispers, and his gaze is boring into Draco's. The way it does, sometimes. As if he's seeing right into him. He wants to bury his face into Harry's neck and sob. Wonders if Harry will allow it or push him away because Draco's getting too intimate.
His fingers loosen around Harry's wrist, ready to pull back. A small sigh whistles past his lips and Harry's eyes flick down to their conjoined hands.
Draco's heart thuds loudly in his ears.
Harry swallows visibly, and makes no move to pull his hand away from Draco's. Instead, he slips it down and intertwines his fingers with Draco's. The grip is weak and shaky, but he holds his hand.
Then Harry is leaning forward and Draco stops breathing. Harry is leaning forward, towards Draco's face and he's frozen for a moment. He can't, this can't be happening.
It's happening, because then Harry's closed his eyes and his lips are on his.
Harry is kissing him.
It takes Draco a second to make his lips move against Harry's. Warm and salty from tears. He can barely smell Harry, the scent of spices and their cleaner, over the smell of blood. But it's there.
And Harry is. Kissing. Him.
This might be all he ever wanted from life. It certainly feels like it.
At some point, Draco's closed his eyes too. If this is all a pain-induced hallucination, he still wants to make the most of it.
It still hurts, everything still hurts and he's cold. And he can feel Harry's hand shaking in his own. But for a moment, that all takes a back seat. Because Harry is kissing him. Because Harry likes him. Because he didn't ruin the one good thing left in his life.
It's both a heartbeat and a lifetime later that Harry pulls away.
His cheeks are flushed, and a small smile quirks his lips. His eyes are still worried, and the tears haven't yet fully dried from either of their faces. His face is still close enough for Draco to be able to feel his warm breath on his face.
"Was that okay?" Harry asks. Draco can barely nod over the heady rush he's feeling. The last time he'd felt this way, remotely close to how he's feeling right now, had been when they'd been dancing together.
"Perfect," he whispers, and it is. Out of every kiss he's ever had with anyone, Harry's kiss is something they never could have compared with. He'd never thought kisses could feel so good. The circumstances around all dictate that this should be his worst possible kiss ever. But it isn't. He couldn't have asked for a better kiss.
Then he promptly lets his head roll over to Harry's shoulder. His cheek pressed against Harry's bony collar bone as Harry grunts in surprise. His eyes fall shut and he slowly, reluctantly, releases Harry's hand.
"Okay," Harry whispers, his hand giving a small awkward pat to Draco's back. "Okay, I am going to remove the cloak now, Draco. Alright?"
Draco just hums in response. Harry will take care of him, he always has. It's selfish, but Draco's in too much pain to care.
Harry starts slowly, and the cloak comes off easy enough. But as soon as it's off, a slow trickle of blood starts down his spine and arm again.
"Okay, okay." Harry's voice has gotten shakier, which doesn't seem like a good sign. He lifts his head off of Harry's chest and looks at his pale face. "You need to, um, remove your sweater."
Draco blinks blankly at him for a moment, before the words catch up with his brain.
Fuck. Yes, he needs to get rid of the sweater, and possibly his shirt too. He can't just magic them away anymore. The prospect of moving his shoulder makes him blanch.
He slowly nods his head, and scoots back a couple inches from Harry. He lifts one of his arms, the uninjured one, and cradles the other across his chest. Harry grasps the ends of his sweater and slowly starts dragging it up.
It's easier than Draco thought it would be, at least until Harry is one sleeve off, and only his bad arm is left.
"Okay, let's not move your arm," Harry lets go of the shirt, and reaches for his collar instead, "I'll pull the sleeve the other way."
He pulls the collar over Draco's head and slowly peels it off his arm and his vision goes entirely white in pain.
"I'm sorry," Harry breathes and throws the bloodied shirt aside.
"Um… bag. The bag,"
Harry stares at him for a second, "There's a bag?"
Draco doesn't know why he asks such a thing. The bag is right there in his line of sight, he's pulled the robe to wrap Draco's shoulder from the very said bag. He huffs and points at the thing with his chin.
Harry reaches for it as Draco sits back on the hay, his knees are starting to hurt and how much filthier can he get? It's cold. And he's shirtless. He chews on his lips to keep his teeth from chattering.
Harry opens the hatch, and it pains Draco to see his hands shaking like that.
"I brought you soothers," he says but Harry doesn't even seem to hear him. Everything feels so stuffy even in the cold.
"Pain relievers. This is good," Harry carefully picks up the lilac-coloured vial and hands it to Draco.
"Drink this, maybe another-"
"No! We're short on them. You need some-"
"You're gushing out blood," Harry pushes the vial back into his hands and Draco wants to grip his fingers and put them on his own face. Just to feel warmer.
"Take a soother," he repeats.
Harry pretends not to hear him again, he pulls out rolls of bandages, two out of the five Draco had packed. He wants to argue but Harry gives him a look. Then quickly leans for a kiss.
It's a small peck, over in less than a second before he's back to the bag.
"Did you pack dittany?"
"Maybe."
Harry pulls out the dittany vial, which is slightly bigger than the others, and another pain reliever. His hand, then pauses inside the bag and Draco narrows his eyes.
"What?" He asks as Harry pulls out his shaking hand. The dim moonlight shines on the silver gleam of the knife. It's a potion knife, small but looks incredibly sharp. No wonder Severus had it on him.
"Knife, and something else, wooden," Harry stuffs his hand back into the bag and emerges with a small wooden box.
"What's that?"
"Matches." Harry's face pales. And he hurriedly pushes the bag aside, Draco can't tell if the shaking is from fright or the torture.
"Harry, take a soother," this feels like talking to a wall. Useless and pointless. Harry's hands are shaking badly and it's painful to look at.
Out of all of the times for Harry to ignore his presence whilst also being acutely focused on Draco, this had to be it.
Harry's eyes are stitched to his shoulder. "I'm so sorry," he says, "This is all my fault, if I hadn't run out-"
"Do you…" Draco sets his jaw against the pain, "Really want to talk blame right now?"
"It's such an open wound," Harry's fingers trace the air above his shoulder, but doesn't lay a single touch, "I can't use my wand. It's bleeding. Okay…" he closes his eyes, and he looks as if he's holding himself together for the sheer purpose of not scaring Draco.
"Use dittany to disinfect it first-"
Harry chuckles, and it feels hysterical, "Disinfect? There's no point. It's just going to...Draco your wound is really, really open."
Draco grits his teeth. The pain feels blinding, and he knows that is certainly not a good sign, but hearing Harry say that is just frustrating.
His eyes dreg to the knife. The matches.
"Then we need to disinfect it properly."
He hates knowing this stuff. He hates Severus for telling them to him in the first place.
Harry immediately catches on his unsaid words. His eyes dart to the matches and the knife and then he looks back to Draco.
"Oh God," he looks positively green, "This is my fault, oh my God…" he bows his head, a hand masking his mouth as if to keep the bile firmly down his throat.
"This isn't your fault."
Harry really should hurry.
"Take a pain reliever. Another," Harry pulls the bag between them, lips pursed into an invisible line.
"Harry-"
"Take it or I swear to Merlin…" he doesn't finish the sentence and Draco just resigns.
They only have three more vials left.
Harry grabs the knife, looks at Draco's shoulder, gazes down at the matches, and then puts the knife down. Finally, he takes the damn soother.
"I'm going to…" he breathes, the vial falls off his hand, "I'm going to heat up this knife."
Draco knows how this goes. Fire purified. This is not going to be pleasant. It's going to be extremely painful and Draco abhors pain.
Fuck Voldemort. And fuck Rosier and fuck Severus even more.
"Do it," the pain relievers have helped reduce the pain a bit, but he still feels it numbing his entire arm.
"I'm so sorry."
"Fuck you," Draco snaps, and surges forward. He takes Harry's startled face and closes the space between them, not for a kiss, but just for effect.
"This isn't your fault. This is my fault. And I don't want to hear you say otherwise."
"We're stranded in the middle of nowhere, we can't use magic and your shoulder…"
"Stop worrying about that."
"How can I not? Do you have any idea-"
"I know where we can go. I…" he pauses. Should he be telling Harry this?
'He's not well,' were Valentina's exact words. Harry certainly doesn't look well, but would he let Draco take them to a complete stranger, who was recommended by a death eater?
Draco shouldn't be lying to Harry, but he will, because this is the right thing to do, and he knows exactly what Harry needs to hear right now. And also the pain is killing him.
"There's a man who can help us. Slughorn. We'll go to him."
Harry avoids his gaze, then opens the matchbox. "You could… lean your back to me. It'll be easier that way."
He gets up, first to his knees and then starts hobbling around the dark barn. His left leg leaves a grotesque trail of black droplets of blood as he bends and picks up a few broken wooden boards.
They have to get rid of the blood at some point.
Draco watches him pushing stacks of hay back to him with his foot, arms bundled with the firewood.
He avoids Draco's gaze as he starts setting up his makeshift camp.
"We're so lucky we have matches," he mumbles and Draco tries not to whimper in pain. It comes and goes in varying waves and he's about to faint. He might.
The smell of blood is overwhelming.
Harry strikes two matches, fills up the little holes in the wood stacks with handfuls of hay.
Draco closes his eyes. He can feel a headache approaching, pulsing at his temples.
The orange glow of the fire is really faint at first, Harry bows down and starts blowing on the kindle, cupping his hands over the amber.
Draco feels nauseated, and not at all ready for what's about to come. He's going to burn his flesh close. On two vials of pain relievers.
Fuck.
Fuck.
"Where are we?" Harry asks him, his voice is marginally louder than a mutter.
"Barns green. Um... Sussex. I came here when I was a child,"
Harry's eyes trail up to him with a soft smile, his hand edges toward the knife, but Draco barely notices over the warmth in his eyes.
He's so glad it's partially back.
"Draco Malfoy, visiting a farm?" He drags and settles the knife directly on the low burning flames, then crawls next to Draco. Their bodies are flush together.
"It used to have the biggest beehive farm in Sussex. I was eight, and I think my parents wanted to shut me up."
"It looks abandoned now."
"The owner must have been killed," Draco doesn't doubt it for a second. He was a squib, he did have Slytherin ties, but squibs aren't meant to survive for long.
The place wouldn't be abandoned otherwise.
Harry hums, gently lays his head on his good shoulder. It's done gingerly and carelessly at once. Harry grabs his hand.
Draco huffs through the pain as they watch the knife gathering black soot and glowing orange.
It looks agonizingly slow going.
"Cover yourself with the robe. It's cold."
Harry almost exclusively doesn't bring up Slughorn. And it's like a thorn in Draco's side.
It's like he knows. Knows Draco is lying to him.
The robe is soaked in blood, but Draco really doesn't argue. He can't tell whether Harry knows he lied or not. The urgency of his shoulder stops him from asking.
"This is going to hurt a lot," Harry hums, and he looks as if he knows how much Draco is secretly dreading this. Which of course he does.
Draco agrees with him but there's no other choice.
'Do you know why they call the fire-flooding potion by that name?' Severus had asked him a lifetime ago, when his face didn't have as many lines as it does now.
'Because of the color?' Draco had blurted out the first thing off the top of his head. He was so eager to please the man as a kid. He wasn't that wrong though, the anti-inflammatory potion did have a very vivid orange color that bordered on red.
'Because of its function. Fire purifies, Draco.'
He had never really thought about half of what his godfather told him when he was a kid.
While they wait, Harry dabs the wound clean with dittany. He's right, it's a really open wound. Almost gaping. Draco has no idea how his whole arm is still attached to his body.
He turns his eyes away from the sight and groans through the stinging process.
When Harry picks up the knife, Draco swallows. He's not ready for this. It's going to hurt. A lot.
"Lean back on me, it'll help."
How is this real? That's what he thinks, gazing up at the barn's ceiling, catching small peeks at the sky through the cracks.
This all happened in one night. He made Harry dinner. He almost kissed Harry at dinner. Harry was taken. Draco found him because he always will. They kissed. They kissed and Harry likes him back.
There's a roll of gauze in his hand, and Draco closes his fingers around the bundle and Harry's fingers.
"You can um… you should bite on that."
Oh right. Because this is going to hurt like a son of a bitch, and he's going to scream.
Draco wishes he was knocked out already.
"I'll be quick."
"Don't be quick, be thorough."
He screams. Of course, it's a heated knife, literally sealing his skin together. The bandage roll helped, probably a lot more than Draco admits later. Because it was either the roll, or his own tongue.
His teeth hurt, and the smell of burning flesh has finally overpowered the metallic smell of blood.
Draco can only recall two things off the top of his head. The first one is the fucking knife, and his shoulder. The second is Harry.
The feel of his neck against the back of Draco's head, his warm breath and his voice, although Draco has no recollection of what the words actually were.
It's over too quickly. Or maybe it just feels that way. He blinks away the darkness to the feel of Harry's hand carding through his hair, murmuring unintelligibly.
Harry keeps kissing him, and it's amazing, he can savour it, even in that awful haze.
"Over," Harry says, and then applies dittany again. It's blessedly cool, and it doesn't sting like before, not anymore.
"Do you need another…?"
Draco rolls his eyes, "Harry I swear to God, you're gonna make me overdose."
Lips graze his hair, "I'm sorry," Harry mutters.
"It's just...we're not going back, ever." Draco nods weakly in agreement. He's too deflated, too worn out. His face is sticky with dried tears, and his throat is raw, "and I didn't pack us-"
"It's okay." Harry wraps his shoulder with the same delicacy one reserves for handling crystal orbs. It's amazingly done quickly and Draco doesn't even sob once through it. But that might also be because he's exhausted all his tears already.
What the fuck are they going to do?
"Did you pack us any food?" Harry lowers them both down. He feels most of the tension leaving his body gradually. Sleep should come easy, whether Draco wants it or not. He's so tired, and he's still in pain.
"No food." Why didn't he? He's such a moron.
Harry forces him another half a vial of pain reliever, but Draco doesn't drink more. They should be careful with their supply.
He's a warm bundle beside Draco, he doesn't know how he stays warm in this cold and with their small fire barely flickering, but he is. He's hugging Draco, somewhat like they used to back at the shell cottage.
He doesn't speak, Draco doesn't prompt him to. He doesn't know what happened with Rosier, Harry seems too tired to even articulate properly. They need rest.
And rest comes like an old friend. But it doesn't come to stay.
When he wakes, some time after but not sure how long, he notices the lack of warmth, which is what woke him in the first place, his mind doesn't panic, but his body does.
He jolts upright and his shoulder screeches in pain. Draco yells and grabs at it, which of course, worsens the throbbing. He spends precious seconds just breathing through the pain.
He looks around the barn.
There's a shadow at the far end of the barn, where the squib farmer kept his chestnut horse tied up. Draco knows the shadow is Harry.
He lets out a slow breath. Harry's alive. Not gone or taken or dead. In the far end of the barn doing- What is he doing?
On his knees, he uses the wooden support beam to pull himself up.
Harry didn't move one bit in reaction to Draco's fidgeting, or the scream.
"Harry?" He whispers. What could Harry possibly be doing there?
Harry doesn't turn, his shadow moves, but he doesn't react to having his name called. The panic that had left him at spotting Harry is starting to return.
Harry gives no acknowledgement to his presence.
Not even when Draco grabs his shoulder.
He's eerily silent, his movements disjointed and jerky.
"What are you doing?" He winces when he has to crouch. The fire had died down sometime while they slept. The barn is dark and the moonlight isn't enough to see clearly. He can't see what Harry's doing.
He realises, belatedly, that Harry's not looking at him. Not in a way that shows he's away in his head- He's… literally not seeing anything.
His eyes trail down from Harry's closed eyes and sleeping face to his arms.
No.
'He is not well, Draco,'
His stomach lurches, and he grabs Harry's hand, ignoring the flinch it causes. Which is ironic because- because his grasp couldn't have hurt even remotely as much as-
There's a large, crooked nail, stuck out of the wall. And Harry's…
His grasp couldn't have hurt worse than the fucking punctures in Harry's forearm, bleeding almost profusely. There's too much blood to make out the damage properly. How many times did he ram the nail into his arm? How did he not wake up from the pain?
Fuck.
'He is not well, Draco.'
He's not.
Harry's still asleep. Limp and pliant in Draco's arms as he drags the boy away from the nail with one arm.
He's asleep, but he tried to kill himself.
Draco wants to get out of the barn and as far away from that rusty fucking nail as possible. He wants to shake Harry awake but if the nail couldn't do it, how the fuck could he. His ears are ringing and he can not think anymore. He keeps dragging Harry until they're back on the hay and sitting atop Draco's cloak.
His ears ring with no respite. Just ringing over his thoughts.
Harry is leaning against him, his face lolling against Draco's collar. Draco can't smell spices anymore. Just blood. Blood and the acrid smell of dark magic.
Draco breathes.
Fuck.
*** the following will contain MAJOR spoilers as to what is about to happen in this story, proceed with caution***
The curse that Rosier put on Harry before parting will be featured greatly in the last arc of this installment in our series, and while not explored too explicitly, still we feel compelled to take care of our lovely readers.
The curse entails the person unconsciously being driven to self-destruction. Harry is not aware of the effects of this curse, and his attempts to harm himself.
The race against the clock for Draco is to get them to Slughorn to remedy this curse, and so in the duration of their journey there will be mentions of several attempts made (mostly non-explicit ones), and Harry gradually becoming aware of the curse.
This work does NOT undermine or question the difficulty people go through when depressed, having a difficult time, or feeling suicidal. We are trying our HARDEST to handle this delicate matter with the grace it deserves.
If you feel endangered, PLEASE feel free to come talk to us, we will always be available for you lovely people, or if not, please do not hesitate to reach out for help.
You are not alone.
Hotlines;
en. wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines
/talk-to-someone-now/
suicide-hotlines