A/N: We're sure you've been waiting for this one a while now!
Chapter warnings for; explicit language, aftermath of self-harm, alcohol abuse, implied/referenced torture.
Next chapter update, 18th June, Friday. In the two Fridays between that, we'll be posting two interludes. Hope that makes up for the delay!
Thanks to our wonderful Beta, and tell us all about your favorite parts!
Chapter Thirty Four: To Burn
...
"My whole desire is to burn myself away."
― Hafez, Hafiz of Shiraz
...
Draco doesn't know how long he just sits there with Harry leaning against him, breathing and trying to get his panic under control. It's sort of impossible at the moment. Because he doesn't know if- when- if Harry will wake up.
He doesn't know anything.
He supposes he could be grateful that Harry's not still actively trying to… injure himself. That he's not struggling against Draco's almost too tight hold and flinging himself at the nearest rebar or nail or-
Breathe, Draco.
Right. Time to get to work. His hand, still gripping Harry's forearm, is now slick with blood. He needs to wrap it.
He gingerly lays Harry down, reluctant to fully let go of the boy. His face is smoothed out, but not peaceful. Draco would take an eternity of Harry's thrashing, sobbing nightmares over this anyday.
He drags their bag over to himself, and rummages around one handed for the bandages and dittany. His shoulder aches, it throbs and burns and Draco has to pull every ounce of self-control, not to break down and sob like a baby.
He cuts away the first two rounds of the bandage where his teeth had sunken in, and throws the strip away.
In a way, he feels somewhat familiar. The same way he almost felt when his mother died. Draco feels under water, well, he feels as if his body is underwater, and his soul… Just floating above. Helpless.
His hand shakes while he's mopping up the blood from Harry's arm, and sees there's a total of four wounds, deep punctures, really. He managed to stab himself four times before Draco could get to him.
Throat closing up, he quickly drips dittany into the wounds.
His fault. Is it? Isn't it?
He's so confused. Draco's fingers clench around the soaked rag in his hand.
This isn't normal. The closest thing he can refer the incident to, is someone being under Imperius. But Harry wasn't awake, and they're alone here. He looks around, in the absolute darkness of the barn. His heart is in his throat.
Draco presses the rag against the punctures.
They're alone. They're alone, and Harry is asleep.
It doesn't matter anyway… Harry is immune to Imperius. Draco knows that.
Harry flinches and hisses in his… sleep. That's good. He's responsive. So, it means he would wake up. Catatonic people won't react to pain like this. Or maybe they would.
The only catatonic people he's seen were muggles he later saw dead. Inconsequential.
It occurs to Draco, in the worst possible times, how much of an asshole he is.
This, whatever this is, must be something Rosier did. Or Valentina. But no, he shakes his head, and holds back a gag, she wouldn't tell him Harry was unwell if she was the perpetrator.
Another wince.
Harry is going to wake up, he tells himself firmly. He wraps the bandage around his arm, and ties it up perhaps a little too tightly. He hopes Harry won't be too curious when he wakes.
Because Draco has no answers for him.
After sitting around a while, and then fretfully walking around the barn to make sure they're truly alone, he starts inspecting the boy for any other injuries. He could have them. Either from the time spent with Rosier or-
Or when Draco had been asleep.
Other than a few bruises and scrapes, the only thing he finds is a large gash across Harry's calf. And he'd seen that one in the crypt too. Thus, courtesy of Rosier.
Draco lets out a loud exhale as tears leak down his face.
He is so unused to this. This brand of silent terror. Everything he has been through up until now, since last summer, since that fucking night has been verbalized. There were screams, and curses, and magic and shrieking and him just...so helpless in the face of it.
He feels the terror now, again, settling in his stomach, but unlike before, it's not wailing. It's deadly quiet.
Draco's fingers caress Harry's leg. There's a lot of blood staining Harry's jeans. He doesn't know how he walked with a cut like that. The bleeding has, thankfully, stopped. Although, once firmly pressed, it would start up again.
He rolls the jean leg up carefully, nestling it under Harry's knee, and starts again with the dittany. He moves clinically, not letting himself think anything other than the next step. Clean up the blood, pour dittany, cut bandage, wrap bandage.
Ignore the terror.
When he's done, he rolls the jeans back down, carefully covering the bandage and providing another layer of protection.
Can't have Harry getting an infection and dying before the curse does it for him.
"The principle of killing spells is based on intent," Hermione begins, they're in the room of requirements, her, Ron, and about fifty students.
The hall, thankfully, has been expanded to accommodate their increasing numbers. She and Ron spent two hours preparing the room for this session's lesson. It was the first Sirius taught them, but the one that took them longest.
This was no patronus charm, no defensive shields, or the basics of offensive magic.
This, Sirius told them, would be the most important thing to teach anyone in their lifetime.
"If they want to kill you badly enough, then you're dead." she looks into each of their eyes as they uneasily shift, not a single soul squeaks.
"There are no counterspells," Ron says, "there are no shields capable of stopping the curse,"
"How did Potter do it then?" Zabini interrupts with an air of indifference. He's one of the four slytherins in their group. The others look even more uncomfortable, which is always the case when someone mentions Harry's name. It's sort of cursed.
She quashes the lurch of longing in her chest, and throws a pointed look at Ginny, who has her wand in a white knuckled grip, ready to strike Zabini into the nearest mirror.
Fred and George, thankfully grab their sister by the shoulders as Zabini shrugs.
"What? There has got to be a way for it. Potter was a baby."
Ron scowls at him, and tries his hardest not to snap. Hermione knows that civilly talking and interacting with this guy, who was not only a Slytherin, but also Draco Malfoy's closest friend- at least allegedly-, was not an easy task. It certainly isn't easy for her.
But they can't just unleash their wrath on their rival classmates anymore; they're teachers now. They have to be mature, they have to look like they're in control. Like they don't spend every night awake in the common room, unable to sleep and worrying over Harry, or crying in the shower- in Hermione's case- or putting up with his depressed godfather.
She looks at Zabini and feels a bit guilty, as she always does when she looks at him, knowing that he doesn't know where Malfoy is, or even if he's alive. Not like Ron and Hermione somewhat do.
She wonders if he likes Malfoy enough to even try being as wrecked as Ron and Hermione are over Harry.
It's a lonely existence, what she and Ron have. And it's so intensely private, that feeling, that intense, stabbing pain of Harry's absence, that they don't dare show it to anyone else but themselves.
"I don't know," Ron grits out, "but not all of us are chosen ones." He turns to the others, "If encountered with the killing curse… there's only one way out. Physical blockage. You either duck behind something—"
She nods with a shaky exhale, "Or summon something…"
"Or someone," he interjects again, "That's the only way,"
Sirius had told them tale after tale of how his Auror partners fell like flies around him, some not quick enough to dodge out of the way, some outnumbered, and some even unaware that the killing curse couldn't be stopped.
'We only trained for three days back then before we got into the field,' he had told them gravely over his cup of coffee, 'there was too many of them and not enough of us,'
Their goal here is not letting that happen again. This isn't about their OWLs anymore. It's about saving lives.
"Now as practice, we're going to use green paint balloons, as you can see the room has acquired the training ground for us so…"
"Paintball?" Olivia Brown, sixth year Hufflepuff, interrupts her, with raised eyebrows, "We're playing paintball?"
Some people snort, and the purebloods simply look clueless.
Ron and Hermione exchange a look. "We can't use the actual spell, Olivia." Ron states the obvious with raised eyebrows, something that he hates doing. In spite of that, She loves that look on him.
Authoritative. It suits him.
Hermione realizes how much they have both grown, in such a short amount of time. She wonders if Harry will know them once he comes back, she's terrified of not knowing Harry himself once he comes back.
Because he has to.
She takes over, "It's not about the curse itself. Your main objective is not getting hit. It's a reflex test. You're either quick..."
"or you're dead," Ron finishes.
They exchange another look, this one loaded with an unasked question; 'Was Harry quick or dead?'
She turns away first, clutching her hands together, her brows pinched and her mind avoiding every coherent thought that included Harry.
"Main rules; no jinxes, no bodily harm to the other party and do NOT aim the balloons to the face…"
Ron makes a face, "Or the balls,"
She flushes crimson. That was an accident, "Ronald,"
He shrugs in indignation, "It hurts, As I'm sure you know."
There's some giggling that he shoots down with a glare.
Hermione looks away in shame, and a bit of amusement. Ron couldn't sit for almost two hours after her accidental hit. He just stood in their training room, holding a pack of charmed ice to his crotch as he glared and Sirius laughed his ass off in the corner.
Hermione rolls her eyes in remembrance. "Alright everyone," she claps her hands, trying to avoid the amused looks thrown their way.
"Everyone equip yourselves,ready… set and go!"
The chaos begins.
"It was an accident," she furiously whispers as they stand side by side, her arms are crossed and the sound of their 'students' brutally bombarding each other with the balloons takes over the room.
"It was a low blow and you know it. Even Sirius thought so, and he's the play-dirty-to -stay-alive guy."
She reaches to rub his arm, "I'm sorry again, but it really couldn't have hurt that much,"
Ron tilts his head with a skeptical look, his eyes narrowed and pointed forward at the others, he's evaluating them, she can see, "Apology accepted and there's no scientific way for you to prove the scale of pain without the velocity of the paintball shot point-blank. You also don't have testicles."
She pauses.
"Did you just use the words scientific and velocity in one sentence?"
Her heart flutters as Ron distractedly hums.
"What? I listen when you talk," he finally turns to face her stunned expression, "Weren't we doing Trajectory of hexes like last week?"
Hermione just stares at him.
Ron drops his crossed arms, hands flying to his face, "What? Is there something on my face? I know you think it's funny, but it's really not…"
"No," she grabs his left hand with a small smile, "I just… I love how you listen to me."
They stare at each other, their heads slowly nudging closer together for a small kiss, but once they're inches away from each other Ginny cries out, "Neville!"
"One man down!"
Hermione sighs.
Draco could panic so easily right now.
He could let his body go rigid in pain, waking up and seeing an abandoned barn around them, his shoulder aching fiercely and Harry's face tilted to his shoulder, smudged with a small fleck of blood.
It would be so easy to start screaming. But Draco is done being easy. He has to get his shit together.
Harry's head lolls a bit, and Draco breathes through the pain, he can't take any potions, he only took a few vials to assuage Harry going bonkers last night. Because their sources are limited, because he's a fucking idiot. This is his fault. He splinched his shoulder, and he deserves it. He could have splinched Harry.
Dear God, even the thought is nauseating.
"Hey," Harry croaks with his eyes still closed, and Draco hums.
"Hey," he says back, and there is so much more that he wants to say. He wants to say 'Hey, you're alive,' and 'Hey you scared the fuck out of me,' and 'Hey, please let's just stay like this forever, so I can remember you holding me like this even if you're too groggy to be doing it consciously and you might jerk away any second.'
Because he would do that. In fact, Draco fully expects Harry to jerk away, he expects him to stand up and start screaming at Draco for getting them into this shit, and for kissing Harry, and for making him cauterize Draco's fucking shoulder with a potions knife.
Harry burrows further into Draco's arms, and he's cold to touch. Could be normal, since they've slept in a barn. Draco greedily drains that moment, privately in his head because it feels so fucking good, even though this is the last thing they should be doing right now.
He looks around the place over Harry's moppy haired head, it looks much more barren in daylight. And colder. More innocent. No insidious shadows lurking in the dark. It's just white, cold light.
Draco Malfoy, slept in a barn, cuddling another boy.
Here's another first to be added to his list, sleeping in a barn, after getting poked with a burning stick, and after his first kiss with Harry. Hopefully not the last.
What is he even thinking about? Draco wants to hit himself. This shouldn't be one of his top priorities right now.
They're lucky to be alive.
"Morning," Harry mutters, and it snaps Draco back to the moment, where he should belong.
"We can't stay here," he tells Harry, who promptly draws back to look at him. Draco doesn't even know if he should mourn the lack of touch, or be relieved that he can see Harry coherent and active again.
Last night was a nightmare. Draco wishes so hard that it was.
"How's your shoulder?" His hand, shaking, is raised to touch the bandaged wound but he stops midway. He stares at Draco, his gaze is piercing.
When he looks at Draco like that, and it's often, Draco often thinks about what he could possibly be looking for. He wonders what Harry sees, or thinks that he sees when he looks at him.
"I'm fine," Draco mutters. He is. Harry isn't. He is not well. Draco has no idea what the fuck is wrong with him but Valentina was right.
Because last night wasn't a nightmare. It was real, so is this.
"You need a pain reliever," Harry tries sitting up to reach for the leather bag but Draco has no intentions of letting him do that. He tightens his arms around Harry even though the action sends a warning jolt through his shoulder.
Dammit.
"We're not wasting those on me," he grits out. Their sources are already scarce as it is. Harry should know that too, logically, but for some reason, all he seems to be worried about is Draco.
He wishes that felt more heart-warming than frustrating, but it's just a confusing mixture of both. "We can't stay here for long. I used… Magic. It's a miracle they haven't traced us yet,"
Draco has been thinking about this since last night. Obsessing, and pouring over every detail. Anything to avoid thinking about Harry and the incident. The nail. The blood. The terror.
Their safety here could have been aided by two factors; the first one, is Valentina, the terrifying woman he's only spoken to directly about three times in his entire life-one of them being last night-cleaning up after them and keeping the Death Eaters away for now, for some reason.
Or...or The Dark Lord doesn't know what Rosier did to Harry. He's not looking for them specifically because he doesn't know Draco and Harry are back on the menu again.
He doesn't like the sound of either of those possibilities.
Harry bites his lip, "Where are we exactly?"
Draco wishes he didn't know, but he does. Sussex doesn't seem like the safest place to be at the moment, considering that fucking Tattershall is way north.
"Somewhere in Sussex." he says, "We need to go to Tattershall,"
Harry's eyes intently gaze into his, "But we don't know where that is." he states, not in a particular tone, but just as a fact. His hand is on Draco's forearm.
"I know," Draco replies. "Yeah, I know,"
She seemed absurdly sure of herself when she told him that only Slughorn would be able to help Harry. That implies that she knew what's wrong with him
Draco didn't even have enough time to be sceptical. Not even enough presence of mind to ask.
'He is not well,'
But why didn't he ask, 'What is wrong with him? What can Slughorn fix?'
Tattershall is the only place they can go now, he knows that Severus' old, rundown house is way closer to them, but there's no way he would endanger Harry by taking them there.
That location is not just well known to Draco, but to everyone. So well known to other Death Eaters, that Severus rarely even went there.
Harry's fingers curl around his sleeve, now that Draco notices, he seems awfully quiet, "Do you know where the nearest town is?" he asks, his face is pale and Draco finally realizes why he seems to be so intent and stoic.
He feels guilty.
"Harry…"
Harry drops his eyes to his lap, he just seems to crumple in place, "I am such an idiot,"
"No, you're not," it's Draco's fault for not apparating them somewhere closer to fucking London, and it's his fault that he was splinched and his fault that Harry was kidnapped.
"I ran out of the wards, I overreacted to such a simple thing…"
"I kissed you without your permission,"
"I wanted you to do it," Harry says, the guilt is awfully evident in his eyes now that Draco found them in the first place.
He opens his mouth to retort before the words catch up with him.
He wanted Draco to kiss him.
All those touches, and all those smiles and all those words weren't just weaved bullshit that were mere figments of imagination.
Harry wanted him.
"And then, just as you did, I just…" Harry groans in his hands, "This is all my fault."
"No, it's not. Look at me, Potter? This isn't another one of your heroically burdened schemes. This isn't Diggory dying, and it's not your awful, abusive relatives exploding. We both did shit, now we're in a bigger shit… but we're together."
Harry slowly lowers his hands from his face, his eyes hesitantly peeking at him behind his smudged glasses.
Draco feels his throat tighten.
"And you still want to...do...you know," Harry clears his throat and looks away.
"Hey," Draco says softly, his heart beating a nervous crescendo in his chest. Does that mean Harry still wants to...?
His own hand is astonishingly still as he raises it to Harry's face, turning it towards him with one gentle gesture. He leans forward, not only to tell, but to show.
Harry flushes vermilion and hesitantly returns the kiss, Draco is under the impression that this might be Harry's first kiss- well, second kiss ever. Even though it's short, and even though it's hesitant with inexperience, it might just be Draco's favourite kiss.
"Oh," Harry exhales as they pull apart a little, "Okay…" he smiles. "I can work with this."
"I don't know," Draco drawls sarcastically, "I might need you to show me a few more times to be sure."
"Git,"
"Awww, I hate pet names." And for a moment, his heart feels wonderfully light.
"We have to move," Harry's hands are cupping his face and Draco wants to refute his words just on that account. They're not warm as they usually are, and they're not really steady. But they're good. Really good, "Draco? Focus,"
"Sorry," he blinks, still staring into Harry's brilliant green eyes. "Sorry. You're right. Um… yeah,"
"Nearest town?" Harry asks, folding his hands on his lap. Draco feels the loss like an ache, but answers.
"I don't know. I've only been here once, I was like eight." It's stupid. Why didn't he apparate to London. He knew he could've. It didn't even have to be anywhere near the Ministry. It would have made everything so much easier.
"It's fine," Harry interrupts his internal monologue, an uncomfortably knowing look in his eyes, "We can pick a direction and start walking,"
Well, Draco doesn't think it'll work like that. "We need to find out which direction leads north,"
But Harry's not listening to him. He's staring down at his bandaged forearm with a frown.
"What's this?" He raises his arm.
Harry doesn't remember.
Draco's mind blanks out for ten terrifying seconds. He doesn't remember, shit. Shit. Fuck. Oh Merlin, Harry doesn't remember.
Then he wants to hit himself. Of course Harry doesn't remember. If he had, it would've been the first thing he said, asked about, freaked out over. He wouldn't be kissing Draco and cupping his face and feeling guilty if he remembered that he'd- that he'd tried to-
"Um…" Draco clears his throat, "some scrap. You didn't notice last night so I wrapped it up,"
His voice begs to break, and crack, and so does his posture. Because the beautiful picture in front of him now morphs into Harry, bloodied and disoriented, trying to kill himself. And Draco, shocked into silence and zapped into a stillness that only broke because Harry wasn't done slamming his arm into a crooked rusted nail.
Harry blinks up at him now, "Thank you," he says and Draco nods, he notices Harry's eyelashes, and they seem a bit longer than he remembers them being. It's the close proximity, maybe, but also maybe it's because Draco has never stared at Harry's face this intensely before.
He almost died last night.
Draco went through all that pain and panic and sheer terror, only to almost lose Harry while he was fucking sleeping.
Never again.
Sleeping is outlawed in his mind until he figures out a solution. And solutions don't just magically appear in a barn.
Draco's panic ridden thoughts are interrupted by Harry grabbing his face again, his thumb traces Draco's scar like treasured silk.
"Thank you," he says again, even though he looks like he knows Draco is lying through his ass. He kisses Draco, this time on his nose, then a quick peck on his lips.
Dear merlin's balls, Draco gulps. It feels like a drug.
"We need to move," he says and Harry pulls away with a nod.
He holds Harry's cold, shaking hand in his and looks at the farm outside.
That's when the pressure on his bladder makes itself known. And Draco rolls his eyes.
Of course.
It's not as if there is a functioning loo anywhere in the vicinity.
"You okay?" Harry asks as they examine miles and miles of farm fields ahead. Draco can't believe they walked all that way last night.
The pressure becomes more urgent and he pushes it to the furthest corner of his mind, squeezes Harry's hand.
They need to leave now.
"I'm okay."
Molly pretends not to see Sirius Black pour whiskey into his cup of tea. It's from that blasted flask he found in his room during the big cleanup previous summer, and she absolutely detests it.
Of course, each time she itches to reprimand the man for his appalling drinking habits, Arthur gives her the look. The look that says 'This man is a grown adult and not one of your children, Molly.'
She sort of hates him for that look.
So as Molly Weasley catches the man uncorking the whiskey flask she turns away with a pile of plates floating behind her, Remus catches her eyes and then lowers his in shame.
He should be putting a stop to this. Even he knows it. Molly ignores him as well. It's how he copes, she's been told, and she's seen it with her own eyes.
He is so distressed over Harry's health that he's destroying his own. She knows that he feels helpless and locked up in this godforsaken place, but drinking himself to death before Harry even returns is just immature.
She doesn't want a drunk to teach her son combative magic.
Not that she's all that agreeable to Ron and Hermione- fifteen year olds- to learn such a complex and dangerous magic to begin with. She knew how that one was bound to end, she knows her son, moreover, she knows teenagers.
But Ron's been different, well- more different since Harry's been taken. Molly can't speak for Hermione, she was always an odd bean, but her son, she knew, wasn't the same.
He doesn't hold himself like a fifteen year old anymore.
Wrecked by war, and it's not even here yet.
The plates deposit themselves in the sink and the brush begins the vigorous scrubbing, Molly's face pales as Harry's name lingers in her mind.
That poor boy.
Surviving Bellatrix Lesterange doesn't come without a cost. She remembers that bitch, from the old days, and she's more than sure that she doesn't want her sworn enemy under that woman's wand. Much less a boy she knows as her own.
"Aren't Ron and Hermione coming over today?" She hears Remus say, to Sirius.
"Yup,"
"You promised, Sirius," Remus rustles the papers in his hands, and Molly dries her hands on her apron. She sure doesn't want to be here for this argument. But it's about the safety of her children, so she might as well.
"I promised coherency, and here I am forming and enunciating words. They'll be fine, Remus."
"Alcohol affects magic,"
"It's not like they're my drinking buddies," Sirius rolls his eyes and then stabs his eggs with a distracted glance at Molly.
Seemingly distracted. She knows he knows that she thinks this is unacceptable behavior.
"If you keep drinking, then they stop coming over," Remus snaps, and reaches for his own cup of tea, still steaming but dumped with an impressive amount of sugar.
Molly grabs the nearest rag, and starts wiping the counter, she won't interrupt until she absolutely has to.
"Try stopping those two," Sirius snorts into his whiskey infused tea, "They out-stubborn fucking Voldemort if they could. They should join the order officially if you-"
"No," Molly cuts in, her eyes narrowed and her hands clenched around the rag. "Absolutely not!"
Sirius doesn't look impressed with her in the slightest, "Relax, Molly. It's not like my word is worth shit here."
She's about to open her mouth, but the floo flares and she glimpses at a flurry of black robes riding into the kitchen.
"Gather everyone now," Severus Snape barks, wand clenched in his hand. Sirius' face contorts into a sneer and another eye roll. Molly glances at Severus once more.
"Now!" The man says, and Molly is propelled into action. She hears Albus emerging from the floo as she runs to the drawing room to alert the others.
Draco lasts two hours before the bladder thing becomes a pressing issue.
"Draco," Harry raises his eyebrows at him. "It's just pee,"
"But there's no…" does Harry just expect him to pee out in the wild? That's disgusting. It's not even the worst of their problems at the moment, he is hungry, he is in pain and he's going nuts with worry about Harry.
For some reason though, this is what threatens to break the camel's back.
He has been reduced to a good for nothing muggle. Just wild, and disgusting and… roaming. Unable to use the magic that's in his blood.
"Listen…" Harry walks in front of him, "it's fine. Just walk a distance from here, take care of the business, and then come back. It's fine. It'll be over quickly,"
"It's undignified!"
Harry closes his eyes with a sigh, "it's either that, or you're going to ruin your pants."
Draco groans, and his shoulder sears in pain with him. He knows the solution, of course, he has to do this whether he wants to or not. He can't use magic, and there is nothing awaiting them but crop fields. And fucking muggles.
Harry grabs his hands, looks him in the eyes, and Draco has found that the shrill spark in his chest hasn't reduced a bit every time he does that. "I'm sorry," he says, stares into Draco's eyes without blinking. The way that he does when he wants to seem focused. There is so much in his eyes, always have been. An infinite number of things that Draco yearns to know, to learn, bit by bit.
"I'm sorry, but this is how things are going to be for a while. I know it's all foreign, and just too much for you right now, Draco. I swear it's not as bad as you think,"
Well perhaps not that bad. Maybe he is overreacting. All the terror has to channel somewhere. He is acting like a child, for merlin's sake. It's just a bodily function.
"Yeah, yeah it's fine," he looks to his left, at the intimidating trees looking over them. Grey and barren with minimal leaves.
This is ridiculous. He is a Malfoy.
"I'll be right back," he says, and Harry smiles. It's a dimmed smile.
Draco wants to see that, and more for every single moment of his life forever.
The spaghetti smells delicious, Harry can see the sheer effort put into it, the pristine plate, the hesitant basil leaf on top, the meatballs.
It smells good enough, and Harry is starving. But he doesn't reach to eat. Because this isn't real food. He is really not back at Shell cottage.
'I like the bees,' Sirius comments, popping a cherry tomato in his mouth from Draco's plate.
The wheezing intensifies, and a plump, fluffy bumblebee lazily drops on the table, there are a few of them in the kitchen, Harry reckons a few more in other rooms as well.
The entire place faintly smells of spaghetti and pollen, Harry finds it comforting.
"I like the bees too," Harry does, he doesn't find their presence alarming in the least. They're gentle creatures, and so is Draco and Harry adores Draco.
'You are having gaps,'
"I came here to calm down, not remember last night,"
Sirius gives him a look, 'stop that. Prioritize, kiddo. You're missing important bits from last night,'
"Rosier took me, there was pain, then a woman and then pain," Harry swallows, wishing so badly that he could drink the cool orange juice near his plate. Another bumblebee settles in the back of his steady hand. The one with the carving.
I must not tell lies
"Draco rescued me," he did. That wonderful, stupid, but amazing boy. His former bully, someone Harry would have never thought of, kept risking his life for him. For Harry.
They were in this mess because of him.
Harry is terrified of that. That's why he ran. That's why every nerve in his body is now begging to leap out of his body.
Draco keeps sacrificing things for him, over and over again, to save Harry's ungrateful ass. And some day, some day, Harry is afraid of that sacrifice being Draco himself.
He screws his eyes shut and absolutely refuses to conjure up that image. Draco unmoving, his silver eyes unseeing. The world losing its color once more.
'He's hiding something, and you're letting him,'
"He won't lie to me," Harry caresses the bee with the gentle tip of his finger, it's warm and fuzzy. The bee's wings flick and another one joins the party on Harry's plate.
'Where is he then?' Sirius snaps.
Harry gives him a look. Sirius knows that Draco can't come here. "He's taking care of his business,"
'Open your eyes,'
Harry hates Sirius when he talks like this.
"I am wide awake now,"
Sirius' look is outright pitying.
'Open your eyes, Harry.'
"Harry?!"
The world jolts back and forth and Harry gasps as the wheezing overtakes every other sound. He opens his eyes and Draco's face swims in his vision.
He's gripping Harry's shoulders, and his forehead is pinched.
"Fucking hell, Harry," he exhales the words as Harry blinks his eyes into focus. The hands on his shoulder feel heavy.
"I'm fine," he mutters. He wasn't gone that long. Just a bit until Draco was done. He needed to get away for a bit to calm down.
It somehow left him with the opposite effect.
"No," Draco growls, "You can't do this to me, alright? You have to stay with me,"
He hugs Harry to his chest and Harry frowns.
What is wrong with Draco? Harry was standing here all along. He didn't even pace around.
"Please don't get all lost in your head again," Draco mumbles, directly into his ear. His voice sounds wrecked. Harry feels a twinge of guilt. A very familiar emotion, now.
"I was fine, Draco," Harry says in his most soothing voice.
He feels Draco shake his head against him, "I've been trying to snap you out of it for ten minutes, Harry."
That's a bit longer than he thought. Harry swallows, now a little worried himself.
"I'm sorry for that," he says, "but I was fine. Don't worry."
"You're not… aware of your surroundings when you do that." Draco pulls back, and the frown is still there on his face. His eyes are narrowed and intense. Harry wants to smooth out that frown with a brush of his hands. "It's not safe, Harry."
"I needed to do it."
Draco stares at him, like he doesn't know what to say next to rebuke Harry's argument, "You need to promise me that you'll always come back when I call you,"
"Draco," Harry starts. He can't promise that.
"Please, Harry, our lives depend on this." Harry looks away. Chews on his lips.
"Okay," he says finally, "okay yeah, fine. Did you…"
"Yeah," Draco shrugs, finally letting go of Harry. "It's all taken care of. You good?"
"Just hungry," Harry says, and then regrets it when a pained grimace takes over Draco's face.
"We'll think of something. Come on."
Harry will think of something.
There's a lull in the kitchen for almost a full minute once he stops talking. There are about fifteen of them in the cramped space; he and Albus had arrived via the floo, Black and Lupin sit shoulder to shoulder, and Severus knows with morbid certainty that Lupin is holding Black's hand in a clenched hold.
Arthur, Molly, and two of their sons are present, Moody, Kingsley, Tonks and Bailey are in the corner, terse and stoic.
Minerva is right behind Severus, gripping the back of his chair, and the edges of her sharpened nails merely grazing the back of his robe.
Jones and Diggle- whom he doesn't know in the slightest- look as if they were struck frozen by ghosts.
"How secure is your contact?" Black is the first to ask.
"This is an absolute, not a possibility," Severus crosses his arms, resisting the urge to sneer, "It will happen, next week at its earliest." Valentina won't lie about something like this. She doesn't have a reason to. She has a daughter.
He received the letter at dawn, woken by the incessant pecking of an owl that was not his, an owl that shouldn't have passed the Prewett Cottage wards.
Severus had all but run to the window in his night robes, wand clenched in hand, and every diagnostic spell known to wizard kind upon his lips.
It took him and Albus almost two full hours to make sure the owl was not cursed, rigged or otherwise about to blow them to smithereens.
The letter was in a handwriting he knew very well.
Upcoming siege, imminent. M is the target.
Do not get caught. Your head is on the line.
V.
Now, once that Black has breached the delicate silence, Arthur leans forward in his chair, elbows on the table, "But a siege so soon after the attacks?" He sounds positively befuddled, "It just doesn't make sense. He's right. How sure are we of this source? Can we verify with Argent?"
Severus clenches his teeth, "Argent is not… active anymore." He takes in a breath, insides twinging at the thought of Narcissa's sacrifice going unacknowledged. He forges on, she's not the first, and she won't be the last. "Moreover you are just going to waste time instead of-"
"Doing what?" Lupin interrupts with darkened eyes, "There's forty of us. Merlin knows how many of them,"
Severus knows that he is still brooding over the failed negotiations with the other wolves. Seventy two people they could have used in a situation just like this.
There's going to be a complete takeover, and they don't even have enough numbers to cover and secure one single area.
Severus returns Lupin's bleak glare with a sneer of his own. It wasn't Severus' fault that Greyback got to the London pack first. Not his fault that they had nothing to offer to those werewolves. Not his fault that Lupin couldn't lie to save his life.
Their lives.
"I'll just write back to the informant and cancel the siege then, shall I?" He drawls and Black snarls under his breath.
Albus throws Severus a meaningful glance which Severus notedly ignores.
"The source is certain," he says again. He trusts Valentina more than he trusts over half of the people in this very same room.
Tonks crosses her arms and Minerva shifts to accommodate the clumsy girl's stride, "Shall we… warn the ministry then? Auror Scrimgeour can..."
Diggle made a noise in disagreement, "We can't notify the ministry without jeopardizing our informant."
There's low murmuring around the cramped kitchen before Black loudly groans, dropping his head into his propped up hands.
"Shit, the Prophecy..." He moans into his hands in utter despair.
Severus feels Minerva's hand moving from the chair to his shoulder, and squeezing it in what Severus assumes is a comforting gesture. Comforting to whom, is the question.
They spent an entire year, patrolling and protecting that Prophecy, almost non-stop since the day he returned.
Protecting it was the illusion they harbored.
There's no chance to protect anything if the Dark Lord claims the ministry as his own.
Arthur's eyes comically widen, "The Prophecy is the reason. Holy Spirits. It's because…"
"You're right, Arthur," Albus interjects, "He's killing two birds with one stone,"
Severus knows why he's doing this. Because he can. Because he needs to make sure. Because he needs to gauge whether Harry Potter is worth killing or keeping.
He has the numbers, he has the means.
The only thing he doesn't have is Potter. And the Prophecy.
It's all perched on the tip of his tongue, every word just begging to flow out of his mouth with lightning speed.
It won't. Because Albus already knows all of this. And the others don't have enough clearance to be told so now.
Molly grabs her husband's forearm, still bewildered by his discovery, "We need to secure the assets that we have,"
"Harry." Black interrupts, "We need to protect my godson too,"
For the first time in his life, Severus agrees with him. He also believes that Potter is safe, right where he is at the moment with Draco. The place is under Fidelius. As safe as can be.
"Kingsley, I want you to maximize the Aurors' shift the coming week," Albus orders, "I know you're already swamped with the imperious victims but…"
The man tips his head, "I'll pull some strings,"
It won't be enough. But it'll be something.
Charlie Weasley leans forward in his seat, having been quiet during the entire exchange, "We need to start warning people too,"
"No," Black taps an annoying finger against his mug, "Someone would yap, give us away,"
Charlie makes a face, "What muggle born would willingly rat us out?"
Black's eyes bear into the boy's and slowly drag to Severus', "What Half blood would get a dark mark," Black says pointedly, and Severus doesn't react in any visible way. Sirius sneers and continues, "This is war, Charlie, not a tea party."
Charlie's face flushes with indignation, his mouth puckering, "Then what's even the point of knowing about the siege? If we can't save people's lives. If we evacuate the ministry-"
Black sighs and rolls his eyes upward, "Wrong son in the room, Arthur." He tells the muted man.
Severus is distantly aware that they are talking about Ronald Weasley. The same boy failing his class with a severity that could possibly not be genuine.
He stashes the uncomfortable look on Molly's face and the resilient glare on Black's.
"Sirius-"
"I'm just saying," the man waves Albus off, and it's clear that it's not the first time they have conversed about this. Black leans forward, almost intimidatingly into the Weasley boy's personal space.
"Listen here, Charlie," his tone is slow and leveled, as if he is speaking to a child, "When there's an informant risking their lives to warn about the attack, you do two things," he raises his fingers, "First, secure the important assets. Two, evacuate if possible during the attack. You don't go door to door to warn people six weeks ahead,"
"But…" Charlie deflates once his brother, the elder Weasley puts a firm hand on his shoulder.
Severus narrows his eyes at Black's irritation and Lupin's lip stiffening.
Kingsley clears his throat again, "I'll have the Aurors on high alert."
Moody clears his throat, "And the department of Mysteries. The Prophecy needs to be protected at all costs,"
Albus nods, turns back to William Weasley, whom Severus can very distinctly remember being half good at potions. "William, I want you to go in with Arthur tomorrow, set the heaviest wards you can around the entire department."
William scratches his chin, "They will be broken eventually,"
Albus' turns away, "Moody?"
"I'll contact Lovegood. Been a while since I saw the bastard."
"Good. I want the entire floor to be distorted. And yes Sirius. It's time we secured Harry as well."
Severus goes still.
"I can protect him."
"Albus," Severus interjects, because this is an awful idea. "Surely, you're not serious." Immediately he wants to hex himself for the pun. Thankfully, no one so much as twitches.
"Isolation isn't doing Harry any favors, Severus," Albus says in his placating tone, the one which makes Severus seethe. He isn't a child. "We can all keep a better eye on him here. With certain precautions of course,"
"In care of a drunk?" he sneers, mouth twisting in an ugly expression.
"Hey," as expected, Black rises to it, "You watch your mouth, greasy little-"
"Harry needs to be with his family right now." Molly Weasley cuts in. "We will take care of him." Severus turns his glare towards her. She doesn't even flinch.
"We need extra safety measures in place before we collect the boys, yes Tonks?"
"I'm on it sir,"
"Good, have Remus help you, dear."
"Let's talk numbers,"
And talk numbers they did.