A/N: Here it is! We are SO close to the peak of the rollercoaster, we cannot wait for the next update!
As always a heartfelt thanks to our wonderful beta!
Chapter Warnings: explicit language, violence (referenced/mentioned), character death (referenced/mentioned), Lycanthropy,
Guys, we are also VERY excited about the companion piece to this chapter! "Severus Snape and the Spaghetti dilemma" is now added to "I'll trade you a memory", make sure you check it out!
Next Update on: July the 9th
Chapter twelve
...
"Imagine that the world is made out of love. Now imagine that it isn't. Imagine a story where everything goes wrong, where everyone has their back against the wall, where everyone is in pain and acting selfishly because if they don't, they'll die. Imagine a story, not of good against evil, but of need against need against need, where everyone is at cross-purposes and everyone is to blame."
- Richard Siken
...
August does not wish to be an illusionist. For weeks, three to be precise, they have watched Lovegood slave away over every inch of the hall, intricately weaving the delicate, threadbare silver strands over the existing runes. Once the runes have 'settled' and Weasley has set the wards, there is no telling the difference.
The surfaces look exactly the same, and to an untrained eye, discovery is nearly impossible. Of course, August isn't always present to keep watch and observe the duo at work; they need to disperse any fragments of suspicion as far away from them as possible. The department, as well as the whole Ministry, was under careful scrutiny. Hints of unsettle ran through the foundations as subtly as Lovegood's illusions.
Every wand was regularly checked. Access to several floors, including the floor allocated to the care and rights of magical creatures has been barred, for safety reasons.
Unspeakables were limited to their own department, and any employee with half-blood or muggle affiliations was working from home.
Yet, August got up each morning, put on their robe, tied the straps and marched through the fireplace with their head held high.
They watch Lovegood with their hands held behind their back, a familiar pose, and the man is crouched by the central pillar of the hall, around him, strewn an assortment of parchments, quills and strange objects. His wand is held by the very end, and a contraption with several spectacles is secured around his head.
The man looks absolutely ridiculous.
"Any news?" The man muses after a while, blindly reaching for a piece of chalk by his thigh.
"What news?"
He shrugs, sketching the outline of a protective rune with his chalk, "Any news."
August mulls over the words; images of chaos and discontent flash before their eyes, most of them imagined. They have a rather graphic memory. It's easy to shy away from it, be dispelled by the disgusting things a mind can conjure in a split second. Just long enough to think of an act, and then be riddled with images that cannot be wiped away.
"There are bodies." they say, arms dropping to their side, "Discovered today. Heads cleaved clean. Muggles,"
The man doesn't even pause, ambidextrous as he is, he works with the chalk with one hand, and traces the sketches with his wand in the other, "Not the sort of thing they put in news."
"I overheard two Aurors."
Xenophilius hums then rears back from the pillar and stretches his back, looking at August through the weird lenses.
"Have they laid you off cases? I've noticed that you have nothing better to do than watching me."
August feels their mouth pulling down and their eyes narrowed at the tilted face, "I have been assigned to guard the floor." They have actually requested to be assigned to this floor.
When they were informed by Auror Moody of the upcoming plans and the vulnerability of this particular department, they gladly took the chance while it was floating. It was senseless to do otherwise, for logical as well as personal reasons.
"Are you uncomfortable in my presence, sir?"
"I'm uncomfortable with your assumptions. Don't think the Nargals can't tattle on an unspeakable."
August's back straightens, "What assumptions. We barely speak."
Lovegood raises a hand and swiftly unlatches the strap of his contraption, his eyes narrowing at them, "Well, let's start by the obvious crush you're harbouring for my partner. And your resentment for what I'm doing here because of it."
August frowns, "I do not harbour any crush on anyone."
"I don't mean William, don't get me wrong, he's a very strapping young man." He brushes off the chalk on the fabric of his trousers, "But we both know you are a bit protective over the ward locks on this place for a reason."
August stares into his eyes, undecided as to whether they should deny or snap at the man. Small talk was not part of their deal. They are running against the clock to save thousands, if not millions of lives. And yet, once they open their mouth for a rebuke nothing comes out.
The glance is kept on before Xenophilius shakes his head, "Have you visited her?"
August looks away, "No. Have you?"
Lovegood smirks, a bitter little thing and drops the contraption away to pick up a stray parchment, "No."
August doesn't understand. They have only been acquaintances with Miss Alice for a few months, less than a year really. Their meetings were brief and yet full of life and meaning. They taught August what it meant, to be themselves, to find meaning, in magic.
They didn't feel quite right to dismiss that earned respect by visiting her in the hospital now. It felt belittling, on her behalf.
But this man was her friend. He was her partner for years. How could he not visit her at least once?
"Why?" August asks, because there is nothing else to say, nothing to fill in the void that Lovegood has created.
"Because it makes me mad. The nargles have told me all I needed to know about her… state. And it makes me mad. Do you know why?" An inquisitive look follows that question.
August sighs, but gives in and shakes their head.
"So much talent." The man shrugs, there is a hint of madness in his dropped gaze as he reaches for one parchment after another, "So much life. They were prodigies, you know. She was beyond her years. And yet…" he pauses to look at them.
"Look how that ended."
"It is unfortunate." August feels inadequate. The words feel inadequate. To be honest, this is the first time they're even thinking about it all for this long. It's always been a fleeting thought, a pang of regret. A twinge of pity.
"It's downright ridiculous." The man corrects, "Here we were, innovating a branch of magic unknown to man, and she was pregnant, mind you, and she still did all that and… to what end. A wasted life. Let me tell you that much, Harris."
August detects the disdain that colours every word, and perceived too keenly, the jerky moves with which Lovegood gathers his supplies, "Then why are you doing this? If you are so afraid."
"I'm not afraid. I am wide awake. I kept telling her back then, your beloved Alice. 'It's not worth it. It's really not.' and what do you think she told me?"
"Rebuked you, I'm hoping."
Lovegood laughs, "Nope. She told me that we had to because there was nobody else. This is why I'm here, even if it makes me end up like her. There's nobody else, Harris. Everybody else is either running away, or their heads are getting chopped off."
"She did it for the future of her child, her world," August says, because it seems like the right thing to say. Miss Alice seemed like a woman who would care. Really care.
"She did it because she was bored. She had nothing to prove; both she and Frank were purebloods." He stands, towering over them by a few inches. His lanky silver hair falls beneath his chin, pooling on his shoulders, "The woman you knew for five months, I knew for five years. She wasn't fighting for a just cause. She fought because she thought there was no one else as capable."
"The motive doesn't matter if it gets the job done."
"The motive does matter." He corrects her with a raised finger, "Mine matters. I'm doing this so that a fifteen-year-old boy can fight for us. A boy that is my own daughter's age. A missing one at that. Intent really matters, Harris." He steps up to them, "The question is, what is your motive? You are an Unspeakable. Politics and war can't touch you with a ten-foot pole."
August exhales, locks hands behind their back and looks away, "The same as yours. Reverence. Magic is beyond petty squabbles."
"You should visit her once. Just as a reminder. We'll see if you revere magic then. I'm done with this section," he waves his wand and sorts all his things in a floating pile, "You better catch your lunch break now."
"She would be ashamed. Of having a friend like you," August calls out as they watch the man's back disappearing behind the shelves.
"Had she been in her right mind, she would've listened to me."
"- IF IT WAS YOUR DAUGHTER THE INVESTIGATION WOULD BE DONE BY NOW, WON'T IT? YOU JUST DON'T CARE ABOUT ANYONE OTHER THAN THE MINISTRY'S REPUTATION. IT'S BEEN WEEKS, WHERE ARE THE AURORS?!"
Rufus startles awake so badly that a torch on one of the walls flares up once before going out. He stares wide-eyed and disoriented at the letter now screaming profanities at him before finally lifting his wand and silencing the Howler, letting it run its course and then shred itself apart.
With a distracted wave of his wand, he relights the snuffed torch, letting the light illuminate the crumpled parchments on his desk. The ink bottle must have turned over when he'd fallen asleep on the desk. He cleans it up, reaching up a hand to touch his face and grimacing when it comes away stained with ink.
Another scourgify later, he looks up to check the time. Eleven am. He'd…
Sweet bloody Merlin. He'd slept for a whole four fucking hours. How could he have been so careless? And he still feels exhausted. He rummages around his rumpled coat for another vial of Pepper Up, only coming up with empty, used vials at first. He finally finds a half-full bottle in his breast pocket. Not the best, but preferable to nothing.
There's also a note in the same pocket, probably put there earlier to be looked at, at the earliest convenience. It's got the telltale creases remnant of the flying memo planes. He smooths it out and reads it.
Meeting at 9:40 am about reorganising Auror troops. – G.R.
He stares blankly at the note, then lifts his head up to the clock ticking ominously on the wall. Eleven a.m. Nine forty am. And he didn't even manage to finish the treaty negotiations with the vampire clans. All their treaties with magical creatures are being renegotiated. Well, halted.
Lord Voldemort is one slippery bastard. He's offering things to other magical races that might align with him, and threatening the others into submission. Several Muggleborns and Half-Bloods have already resigned from the Ministry, saying they felt too unsafe. The werewolves made their stance very clear too. They felt unsafe as well. Allegedly.
As if being anywhere else would protect them.
Nothing short of a Fidelius can save you if the Dark Lord wants you dead. And even that hadn't worked with the Potters.
Their Auror forces are at an all-time low. Everyone wants to be an Auror, a well-paying, adventurous job for kids just out of Hogwarts. An actual war comes and half of them can't tell their arms from their asses.
Rufus rubs at his eyes tiredly, cursing Fudge for leaving him in this mess. If they'd paid attention to Potter and Dumbledore when the threat first arose, they could've prepared against several of the raids and attacks that had happened.
Many of the first ones had been in prolific places which would have been protected the most, if they'd only taken heed.
Public areas that reeked of vulnerability; Diagon Alley, even Hogsmeade, the wards around the ministry itself. Had they strengthened the ancient infrastructures of this damned place, the dark Lord would not have found a way in so easily.
He flexes his hand, wincing as he feels it cramp and picks up the quill. He's already late for the meeting, might as well make sure the vampires don't go and join the dark side too.
He's a realistic man, and these times are anything but ideal. He knows how it might end, and he knows that blood will be shed. What Rufus can't admit, perhaps, even to himself, is how terrified he is of what befalls him. How he would be remembered after he is gone.
Moreover, in what manner is he to go? It's a scary thought, though he is a grown man, he'd run cohorts of Aurors for over twenty years. He has seen war before. Not as a leader, but he's seen it.
He doesn't like what he sees now any more than he did then.
He surveys the bit of parchment once again. He doesn't have to like it. He just has to lead it.
Harry nurses a mug of tea in his hands and watches as Sirius hurries out of the kitchen, a tea tray in his hand, which is also holding a vial of potion and some innocuous piece of parchment. Harry is fairly certain the potion is a pain relief one. He's had enough of those to recognise them on sight.
"Is Remus okay?" Harry asks abruptly, making Sirius jerk to a stop and swivel his head towards him, looking surprised. He blinks a few times. Harry notices heavy bags under his eyes and wonders how much worse Remus looks.
Sirius grimaces, "Yeah. Don't worry about it. The full moon is tonight, so he's resting." Sirius sets down the tea tray and comes over to sit beside Harry, but Harry shakes his head.
"You don't have to keep me company, Sirius. You can go to him," he says, and tries his best to give Sirius space without shifting too obviously.
"Really? You wouldn't-"
"Of course not. It's okay, I wanted to spend some time with Draco anyways. Send Remus our best, we'll try and stay quiet," Harry gives Sirius a smile, as comforting as he can make it. He's a bit tone-deaf to facial expressions when he's faking them so it's anyone's best guess how sincere he looks.
Sirius bends over and ruffles his hair, so it seems to have worked, "You're a good kid. Drop by if you need anything okay?"
"Yeah." Harry takes a small sip of his steaming tea as Sirius picks up the tray and bolts.
Harry doesn't mind it. He doesn't mind anything really. His mind is blessedly quiet today and he's going to enjoy it. There's a tiny itch in the very narrow back alley in his mind, but Harry leaves it be.
They have the house to themselves today. Today is all about relaxing.
It's less than a few minutes before Draco walks into the library, casually dropping down next to Harry on the couch and taking his legs, settling them on his own lap. They don't greet each other, though they last saw one another during breakfast as Draco rushed off with Snape for some obscure quality time.
Harry doesn't feel like they need a greeting. They never said goodbye.
Draco sniffs and looks around the room, his hands settled on Harry's ankles, "Full moon?"
"How did you-"
"You are so blind sometimes," the boy laughs, "Lupin has been moody for like the past three days. Also I overheard you and Black." He starts tapping out a tune on his legs, and Harry feels the tingles up his spine. He shivers a little and takes another sip of his tea.
"Sure you did." Harry wiggles his toes, "How was Snape?"
"Ah, same as always. Like he has a stick shoved up his-"
"Draco!" Harry laughs.
"It's true though." Draco shrugs, grinning, before his smile turns a little stilted, "The whole Horcrux thing has him pretty winded. Of course, he won't tell me anything." he gives Harry a very unsubtle look.
"Drop it, Draco." Harry sighs, swirling the last few dregs of tea in the tea cup.
"I'm just saying-"
"That there's nothing going on between us," Harry says, pursing his lips. He sets the mug down on the floor, a little forcefully. Blowing out a breath, he tries to make his voice sound convincing.
He suppresses a wince. That didn't sound convincing at all. It sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Which he is. There is something between him and Snape. Draco is between them, quite literally. Ever since he took that oath, the man seemed to subtly follow him with his gaze.
Draco isn't an idiot. He's surely noticed. Harry knows he has. They both do. But it's not like Harry can just tell him.
"There's nothing between us." He feels like a liar. A hypocrite. He slammed Draco so hard for lying to him before, and now he is doing the exact thing to him. But what choice does he have? This is the only way he can truly protect Draco from harm.
"Do you really want me to believe that?" Draco asks quietly after a moment of silence. His fingers have stopped tapping on his leg, and Harry feels the loss keenly. But at least he hasn't pulled away with repulsion. At least he doesn't call Harry a dimwit liar. But he sounds disappointed.
Harry's guilt manifests in annoyance, as it lately does, "Why do you even have to worry about it?" he snaps, gritting his teeth. He forces his jaw to unclench, "Snape rarely has anything nice to say to me. Trust me, Draco, we're not gossiping behind your back."
It's a two-way contract. As long as Snape keeps it quiet, then so will Harry. It's only a fair and normal thing to do.
Right. Normal. Harry doesn't start laughing, but it's a near thing.
"I have my eyes on you, Potter. Seriously though, isn't it a little bit weird to you that he knew your mom? You barely react to anything lately."
Harry rolls his eyes and pretends the boy's comment didn't sting as it did, "It's not weird, they're all around the same age. Actually, I think they're all literally the same age."
Draco doesn't seem to accept the blàse response, but shrugs, "Well Severus was quite a few years younger than my parents, so yeah that checks out."
They sit in silence, but the itch in Harry's mind is getting incessant. He imagines his mom, Snape, and his father. He imagines what sort of interaction they all had with each other. The silent animosity that everyone refused to acknowledge despite treating Harry as though he was in the know.
He's tired of being treated like he should just know things. Harry is a bit tired in general. Maybe that's why Draco is right and he barely reacts to anything anymore.
Draco nudges him a bit as the silence drags on and Harry smiles at him a bit.
"I just- I'm tired of the history, you know?" He hums, "How come you're curious about this? Did Snape say anything?"
Draco shrugs again, "He looks at you weird sometimes. All of them do."
Harry leans over and taps Draco's shoulder down, "Welcome to my life, Tiger."
Draco's face softens further, and his fingers squeeze Harry's ankle, warmth seeping in through the fabric of his jeans, "I worry about you," he murmurs, snaking out a hand to take Harry's from his shoulder, "You're in the centre of it all and sooner or later–"
"I won't let anything happen to you," Harry says fiercely, gripping Draco's hand as tightly as possible, which is quite a bit now, with the help of the brace.
"I'm not worried about me," Draco returns calmly, but there are tight lines around his eyes. Worried, worried, so very worried.
"You shouldn't worry at all." Harry cast his eyes about the room, and then lit up, "Can you play the piano?"
Draco blinks, "What?"
Harry nods his chin at the corner. "It's been over there gathering dust. I bet it's out of tune."
Draco follows his gaze, "Magical pianos never go out of tune." He turns back to Harry, smiling as though immensely relieved that the subject was charged, "And yes, I used to have a tutor when I was young." A wistful look takes over Draco's face, and Harry quickly swings his legs off Draco's lap, standing up and tugging at the boy's hand.
"Play for me. I want to hear it." Harry starts dragging them over to the piano. It sure is dusty, he thinks, wrinkling his nose a little.
"So demanding, aren't you?" Draco murmurs, snaking a hand around Harry's waist and pulling him flush against him, dropping a kiss to Harry's cheek as he uses his other hand to vanish the dust.
"Only for you." Harry mutters, frowning as his nose gets a whiff of the lavender scent. Has Draco taken another calming drought?
"Alright then," Draco mournfully lets go of Harry, oblivious to Harry's frown, and pulls out the fancy, padded and carved seat, sitting down on it gingerly as if he was afraid it's cursed or something.
Draco's fingers twitch on the keys with a bit of playfulness, just randomly trying out little tunes, "Something jolly? Classic, maybe even a little-"
"You are such a show off." Harry grinned, nudging Draco a little so he could sit beside, half his butt hanging off but the side pressed against Draco warmth.
"You asked me!"
"Play that radio song. The one we danced to?"
Draco's eyes light up, "I know that one by heart."
He cracks his knuckles dramatically, then spreads out his fingers over the keys, featherlight and not yet pressing. He hums, and his fingers dip on the keys, dexterously picking up the notes he must have heard a thousand times. Harry closes his eyes, and for a moment, he can imagine himself back at shell cottage, the rug fluffy and warm under him, back when things were still warm. The sea salt air filling his nose, and the radio's grainy but loud noise washing over the two of them. Drunk and in love long before they ever acknowledged it.
Harry feels like he's heard it a thousand times, despite it only being the second.
The song feels like it runs for a lifetime, yet it's over too quickly. Draco lets out a tiny, satisfied sigh, and Harry leans his head on Draco's shoulder. "I love it. You know I always wanted to play."
Draco pauses, "I can teach you."
Harry shakes his head, "I don't want to learn anymore. I like it when you play. Do magical pianos record a certain song? I want to have this."
"You can just get the music box." His fingers hovered over the keys again, "This is a fairly famous piece." He presses a key, producing a discordant, echoing sound, "Barcarolle in F sharp major. Chopin."
"Isn't he a muggle composer?"
"Is he?" Draco shrugs, "My tutor never mentioned it." His fingers pause, and he tilts his head to the side, "It's so strange, inhabiting muggle culture and art and then hating muggles themselves."
"It is strange." Harry stares at Draco, his clear face, with no scowl or derision. Just wonder and curiosity.
"My mother loved this piece. I think it was one of the first songs I learned how to play." Draco drags a finger lightly over a row of keys, producing a string of tuneless sounds.
"Do you still hate them?"
Draco freezes, then takes his finger off the board, turning to look at Harry, "I haven't… I can't hate people who helped me help you. That old woman, and then later on… in the motel. I'm not sure if you remember–"
"I do." Harry does remember now. Nearly all of it. More than the hand job. He remembers his breakdown, Draco's crestfallen face. Their fights.
There really are two flaring flames that are conjoined and burning, aren't they?
"I don't know how I feel about them or myself anymore." Draco swallows, "Is that okay?"
Harry gives him a smile and then leans up to kiss him on the nose, he pointedly ignores the lavender scent on the boy's breath. Draco goes cross-eyed looking at him and Harry's smile widens. "It is. I know your heart can accept so much more. You're so good."
The nervous, uncertain expression vanishes and Draco goes faintly pink, "Now you're just flattering me to hear more songs."
"Don't stop."
It takes a moment for Sirius' eyes to adjust to the darkened room as he walks in with a tray, the tea made just the way Remus likes it, laced with a pain reliever, along with copious amounts of chocolate strewn around the cup like some sacrifice offering.
"Look at you." Sirius clicks his tongue and Remus groans. Sirius winces. He'd never liked the full moons, not for a while now. At Hogwarts, it had felt like all fun and games, all four of them running through the forest, the grounds. The transformation was just another fun little bonding gig they all had every month.
It doesn't seem so fun now, at all. He looks at Remus' bare chest, the scars littering it, the concave stomach. He has a feeling it might not remain that way now that Molly has taken up the cooking duty. If only the transformations didn't make him so very sick.
"You are not helping, Pads." Remus struggles into a half sitting position, leaning heavily against the headboard of the bed.
Sirius frowns, hurries over to his side to keep the tray down on the rickety bedside table and helps Remus into a better position, supporting him with as many pillows as possible, fluffing them up a little with a wave of his wand just as he draws back. "Seriously, what is wrong with you? Did you take the-"
"For the hundredth time, yes. I took my potion." Remus rolls his eyes, his face stretching in an exasperated half smile, "And yes, Severus made it as he always does."
Sirius gives one last pat to a pillow under Remus' arm and snorts, "You never know with that bastard."
"It's just the wolf. And my bones–" Remus gasps, and Sirius' head snaps towards him, immediately searching for an injury. "Fuck." Remus has one hand on his side, where a newly made wound sits half healed.
The motion is familiar to him, and unwittingly Sirius is hit with a wave of bitter nostalgia. He's patched up Remus before, he's checked the wounds, wrapped the scars, kissed them the nights after. He knows them like old friends.
"Don't move around," Sirius hushes, gently grabbing Remus' wrist to move it away from his side, checking over the wound to see if it's started bleeding again. He clicks his tongue, the gash is looking inflamed and painful, but it remains sealed shut.
He looks at Remus' pinched face, the lines etched deep into it. The dark circles are prominent. Remus looks as bad as Sirius did when he'd escaped Azkaban.
He picks up the tray, intending to set it down on Remus' lap, but not before swiping the letter away. Remus can have one more day of rest before having to deal with all of… that. He can't even attend a meeting even if he wanted to.
"I saw you swiping that," Remus says sharply, "It's a letter?"
Sirius hesitates. He always forgets that Remus' eyesight is better than his, especially this close to the full moon. Just because he can't see clearly in the dark doesn't mean Remus can't. He sighs, "Technically for the Order. There's a meeting tonight."
"Siri–"
Sirius shakes his head firmly, just because he can't lie to Remus doesn't mean he can't stop him from doing something stupid, "You are not attending it. Lie back down. Merlin, You're as stubborn as ever."
"What does it say?"
"I only took a glance. Don't know much." Maybe he can lie a little. He's a Marauder, after all. Remus stares at him with that same, stern, no nonsense gaze. The way he used to look at him, before. Before everything. Everything about Remus is so familiar, and yet not. He recognises the man in front of him as if from a dream. And sometimes the image is so blurry that Sirius wonders if he's not still wasting away in Azkaban, hallucinating something good in his last moments.
"Sirius," Remus' voice brings Sirius out of his haze, "Stop coddling me."
Sirius is speaking before he can stop himself, never able to say no to Remus, god, how had he ever thought him to be the traitor? "The London pack diverged paths. They will not be working with the Order or the ministry. As far as I know at least, Kingsley's handwriting is a fucking pain to read."
Remus has gone very, very still.
"Remus?" Sirius starts tentatively, worried about the paleness of his skin.
"Fuck. No, no, fuck!" Remus suddenly bursts out, startling Sirius.
"Remus–"
"It's my fault!" Remus shifts on the bed, too fast for Sirius to stop him, before crumpling in pain with a strangled cry. Sirius rushes to his side, forcing himself not to freak out as he adjusts Remus back into a more comfortable position even as Remus struggles against him, "We stalled for too long! I should've...fuck, Sirius, do you realize what's happening? There is seventy two of them, Sirius-"
"Stop panicking." Sirius stares Remus in the eyes, his hands on his shoulders, gripping firmly but gentle. That skin so familiar under his own, rough with scar tissue, hot to the touch. Remus always ran a little hotter than others. "We'll regroup tonight–"
"They're werewolves," Remus cuts him off, and while he doesn't look frantic anymore, there's still a panicked, hopeless edge to his voice, "Sirius, he won't need Death Eaters if there are seventy fucking two werewolves under his command."
Sirius' eyes widen and he hisses, "Just lower your voice! Harry might hear!"
Remus shakes his head as if trying to clear cobwebs, "What did Dumbledore-"
"The letter is from Kingsley, I'll hear what Dumbledore has to say about this. You are staying in bed." Sirius tries to firm his voice, but Remus' fear is contagious, and he can feel himself growing anxious.
They'd been so attuned to each other, before. Now it feels like crossing a mile long bridge. But the bridge does still exist.
"Like hell I am." Remus moves as if to try and get off the bed, Sirius does the only thing he can think of and sits himself down on Remus' lap, careful of his injuries but still pinning the man down. He's straddling him, his hands gripping the werewolve's arms, as Remus stares at him with wide eyes.
"Listen to me. Harry is here. He can't know about such things, if you work yourself into a state, he will find out. Calm down, Moony. I know this is not good news."
There is a sheen to Remus' eyes that worries Sirius, and he carefully extracts himself from his position over him. No matter how careful, he doesn't want to hurt Remus, and none of them are aware of their bodies, not as much as they used to be, not anymore. Sirius' strives to get that familiarity back, but it's an uphill struggle.
Things won't be the same as they used to be, but Sirius is trying. And he knows Remus is too.
Remus speaks when Sirius is standing on the bedside again, fidgeting with his fingers, "Silver. We need plenty of silver, we have to warn the people. If they attack a public place like Diagon Alley–" he lurches forward, trying to get off the bed again, and Sirius sighs, moving to push him back down.
"Silver? Are you insane? Just lie back down, Moony. I knew I shouldn't have told you."
"Silver is a must." Remus' hand is wrapped around Sirius' wrist of the hand he used to push him down, his grip inhumanely strong around his still bony, thin wrist. They don't fit each other like puzzle pieces anymore.
Sirius slowly pries those fingers off before they can bruise him and send Remus down a spiral of self attrition, "A flimsy piece of silver is not going to do much damage to a massive beast. They turn into actual wolves, Moony. They don't take the potion like you do."
Remus grimaces, but keeps speaking, "Then we need massive silver weapons. Tell Albus-"
"I will. I promise. Right now, I just need you to calm down. They had the decency to warn us."
"If we lure them to a trap and kill them all–"
Sirius' eyes widen, because what in the ever-loving fuck? "Genocide? Are you kidding me? Remus, I need you to stop for a moment and breathe–" Just how badly has this affected him? Just how badly?
"Why can't you see I'm panicking?"
Oh, he can see that Remus is panicking alright, it's just that Sirius is trying very hard to stay detached, because they can't both be freaking out, one of them has to keep their cool. Especially now that they don't have a logical bone left in their bodies to keep their feet attached to the ground. Lily used to be that for them back in the day, even when Remus would freak out, she always kept her cool, and her presence is so sorely missed here, both she and James. Sirius misses his family.
He squashes the thought down ruthlessly. He's become quite adept at it. "We are not like them. We do not kill senselessly. We will definitely not erase an entire race of creatures for not siding with us."
"If they're not siding with us, they're siding with him. I know what they're capable of, I am one of them."
Sirius clenches his hand around his wand, the unfamiliar wood not comforting. The handle is too intricate, the wand not suited to him, and while it obeys him, he knows he can do so much better with a wand suited to him, one that chose him.
He clears his throat, "They didn't choose a side. I'm sure Albus has some solutions as well. It's going to be fine."
"It's not. They're going to take our Harry and they're going to turn him into a bait and there are seventy two werewolves waiting to tear him apart and–"
Remus is starting to hyperventilate, and Sirius quickly bends down so he's eye level with the man, he firms his voice and speaks, completely shutting off all thoughts, "I need you to be okay right now. When I go into that meeting, Harry is going to come to you, and I need to trust you with him." He then picks up the lukewarm mug of tea, hands it to Remus, and warms it up with a flick of his wand.
Remus blinks at him. "Yeah. Yeah, I can keep quiet. I can." His fingers curl around the steaming mug as he stares down at it.
"Good. That's good."
"Sirius?" Remus is still looking at the mug.
"Moony?"
"If things get worse, please, please let's take him and run. Just run." There's a trembling, desperate quality to his voice. And Sirius knows, he knows how afraid Remus is right now. To be honest, he is too. He's just really good at compartmentalising, especially after Azkaban and growing up in the Black house. And because if Remus is freaking out, then Sirius has to take care of him.
"Things wouldn't get that much worse. Drink your tea, rest. The meeting is at least a few hours from now."
Remus takes a deep breath and nods, finally lifting the mug to his lips and taking a sip. He sighs, "Keep me updated. Please."
"Of course. Move over, I'm joining you."
The thing feels like actual slime; cold, like jello, slathered to the roots of his hair by dexterous hands.
"It feels weird." He groans as Draco's finger catches on one of the knots in his hair. The boy hushes him with a roll of his eyes.
"You brought it on yourself. This is what happens when you just dump shampoo on your hair and don't put any elbow grease in it."
Harry winces again, and makes a face at Draco into the mirror, his hands gripping the basin as Draco fondly rolls his eyes at him.
"It smells nice though." Harry tries. And it does smell nice, whatever that sludge is; it came out of a jar that Draco had found in the stuff Snape brought over for him earlier that day. Of course, Draco was delighted to high heavens to finally tackle Harry's "mop of a hair" and save it from "early onset baldness". Harry just lets him have his way, his fingers feel really nice in his hair.
And this is allowed, it's even fun. Harry is allowed to have fun, he's allowed to fuss over his hair and appearances for once in his life. He's not going to be scolded for using any water or shampoo, and he's not in a hurry to go and save the school.
"It is a miracle that actual critters haven't nested in your head."
"Don't be mean," Harry pouts, and the action is alien enough on itself, "It's not that bad."
It's really not. It's just how his hair is, and yes, years of neglect, and especially their recent adventure hasn't done many favours to his body, but it's fine. It's fine. Now he has this excuse to let Draco touch him.
Draco scoops up another handful of the purple goo and brushes Harry's hair back from his forehead, slicking it back and straightening the unruly curls with the serum. "You look pretty like this." He comments and Harry flushes, surveying his own red-tinged face in the mirror.
He looks kind of good, doesn't he? Well, maybe not. In fact, not a single sane person would take a look at Harry now and call him pretty or any variation of that word; but this is the first time his hair is slicked back, and the first time he can see his own face so clearly, so clean and flushed.
Harry dares smile a tiny bit into the mirror, and Draco stills, his eyes frozen on Harry's smile. He catches the boy's eyes in the mirror and Draco smiles too.
"I should compliment you more," is all he says, before dropping a kiss to the side of Harry's face. And the flush spreads over Harry's entire face in embarrassment.
"You sap."
Draco smirks, "You are the one actually covered in sap."
He playfully shoves at Harry with his hip as he turns on the faucet to wash his hands. Harry watches him rinse out his long, nimble fingers, his immaculate skin, trimmed fingernails and protruding knuckles. His heart skips a few beats as Draco catches his eyes again and smiles. Really smiles.
"Now, onto the main event," he says, holding up the brush he'd found from the cupboard with his damp hand. Harry groans and resists the urge to cover his hair.
Draco pushes Harry down to sit on the stool again, and then settles the brush against the very roots of Harry's hair, "I'll try to be gentle, but tell me if it hurts."
Harry absolutely will not do such a thing, because firstly, any pain is worth having his hair alleviated out of the mess they're in, secondly, it's Draco.
The bristle tips scratch at his scalp and Harry closes his eyes, "It shouldn't feel this good."
"It would if you bothered brushing this mess every once in a while." Draco grumbles.
"Hey!" Harry retorts just as the brush catches on a twist. Harry winces out of surprise as Draco mutters a muffled apology and eases the brush. Then he gently starts untangling it with his fingers. Harry relishes in the soft pulls, and Draco's muttering, cursing Harry's unruly hair as he runs the brush over them again.
This goes on in silence, and Harry honestly gets the most of it; it feels like a proper break. Maybe even a tiny date. Though, any second spent with Draco is considered a date in Harry's mind. It's really cheesy, and Harry prefers not to think about it much, but it's really true.
"We should be doing this like once a month." Draco untangles another knot with his fingers, "If you promise you'll wash your hair properly."
"What happens if I don't?"
"Guess I'll just have to shower with you," Draco drawls and Harry smiles again.
After the deed is done, Harry can't quite believe his eyes. He runs his fingers several times through his hair, and just grins as it effortlessly passes the still messy curls. He looks at himself in the mirror, still gaunt and bruised up. But with such nice hair. Almost as nice as Draco's. Almost.
When was the last time he really took care of himself like this? Not even last year for the Yule Ball. Not even then.
"Stop admiring my work." Draco tugs Harry's hands away from his hair and waves his wand, cleaning up the mess they've left behind in the basin as he guides Harry outside.
"Onto the second half of the main event."
"What's that?"
Draco's arm snakes around his waist as they descend the stairs, "I'm making you lunch. This time for real."
"Draco–" his arm is a comforting, reassuring, warm weight against Harry, and he doesn't want to pull away. But he does pause, and looks up at Draco. Draco firmly shakes his head and tightens his arm around Harry.
"Listen to me, Harry Potter. We have the house to ourselves, and Lupin would appreciate the warm meal. And I get to finally cook you something."
Harry stares at his determined eyes, so very silver. The stubborn lilt to his voice. The way he stares at Harry like he's memorising a text for an exam. He smiles, "What are you making me?"
"Spaghetti and meatballs," Draco mutters, leaning down to press his lips against Harry's.
Harry wonders, for a moment, whether the icy feeling of his cold lips bothers Draco. It bothers him, makes him feel like a corpse. Like he isn't alive at all, like he died somewhere on the run and is now just a dead man walking. The only times he truly feels alive is when Draco's touching him. Warm, and alive, and there. Every touch saying, fervently, 'you're here you're here you're here and you're alive.'
He goes easily when Draoc guides him over to the table, pulls out a chair and makes Harry sit on it. Draco plants a soft, featherlight kiss to Harry's forehead, and leans back up. Harry's smiling so hard that his cheeks have started hurting a bit.
"Are you sure?" he asks, and Draco nods. He absently reaches out and fiddles with Harry's collar, brushing away invisible lint.
"You are to just sit at the table. And obnoxiously correct me whenever I do something wrong." He grins, straightening back up.
He doesn't mean to say it. It's just… he doesn't remember the last time he felt like this. So.. relaxed, and cared for. Not even in Shell Cottage, when things were uncertain, too stormy, chaotic. But right now, he does. He feels so warm, and happy. And he can't remember the last time he felt happy and it scares him.
It scares him because Harry Potter doesn't get to be happy. He doesn't deserve kindness and good things and soft touches and consideration and affection. There's always a catch. There's always supposed to be a catch.
And so he asks, "Why are you suddenly so kind?" He regrets it almost immediately, when Draco goes rigid, face falling.
"Suddenly? Well, excuse you…" his face softens, and he clears his throat, "It's a good opportunity. We might never get to be alone like this while here, and you deserve a date."
Harry's smile turns a little wobbly, but his heart's still pounding in his chest. His mind keeps screaming, 'something is wrong, something is wrong, something is wrong.'
'It isn't!' He argues back, 'Nothing's wrong!'
"Well, I can't argue with that." This is Draco. They've suffered enough, haven't they? And even if things go to shit the next day, he's still got this day. He's still got this moment. He's not going to let his damaged brain ruin it. This is going to go over perfectly. Because Draco's doing it and Draco is perfect and-
Draco's voice cuts through the chaos in his mind like a heated knife, "You are doing it in your head, aren't you?" He sounds amused.
Harry squirms in his seat, "- I can't just sit and do nothing! I've never done that."
"No time to try out new things like the present," Draco taps his chin, "Alright, let's see where Molly Weasley keeps the meat."
Harry chokes and sputters, mind finally pushed out of its mechanic whirring, "You are incorrigible."
Draco blinks at him, and then grimaces, "To be quite fair, I had no idea it would sound that dirty out loud."
"So," Harry says after a moment, watching Draco putter around the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets, turning on the stove, levitating pots and pans. It looks wonderfully domestic, and reminds him so much of Shell Cottage that Harry's chest actually aches, "What should we talk about?"
"How about, I concentrate on not burning anything down, whilst you just talk about anything you like," Draco sends him a disarming grin as he puts the pot on the stove to boil, whilst mixing up some spices for the sauce on the side on the other pan. Harry blinks at the speed.
When did he have so much time to practice?
"You're giving me too much freedom," Harry says, eyes fixed on Draco's hands. Long fingered, pale, and elegant. He remembers the way his fingers danced over the piano keys. Remembers the way they trailed over his skin. He coughs, continuing, "I can talk about grapes for an hour, or Bill's ridiculous hand thing, or even more ridiculous than that is how Remus holds a glass. Who holds a glass with their middle finger as the dominant hold? It's preposterous–"
"Uh-huh." Draco carefully unwraps the meat, on a cutting board already left on the table by Molly.
"–and did you notice how Professor Mcgonagall couldn't stop staring at the tea mugs you poured? I understand that it's unusual to see you do house chores, but it's just-"
"Ridiculous?"
"Exactly!" Harry says, tearing his eyes away from Draco's hands. He has such nice hands. "And the orange juice tastes funny here. There is this soapy aftertaste to it. I'm not sure if you've noticed-"
"I haven't." Draco patiently pinches off pieces of meat and rolls them on the board with a bit of flour. Harry taught him that, he notices mid-rant.
"–But it really burns the back of your throat. Which reminds me, Mrs. Weasley asked for your favourite colours, and I sort of said what came to my mind. Green and silver," he winces.
Draco pauses, and his hands are stained red and dusted with flour from where he's rolling the meatballs, "You did?"
"I know, I'm so sorry. I just never thought I'd ask you about it, and she wanted to start knitting the jumpers early this year-"
"Jumpers." Draco's voice sounds odd enough that Harry grimaces again, fidgeting with his fingers. They're still raw and bruised, red and scraped, the nails broken. They look so different from Draco's. Polar opposites, really. Gnarled and twisted and inelegant.
"The Weasley jumpers. Yes. Do keep up. I hope it's not too late to tell her to change them." His voice trails off to a mumble at the end.
"My favourite colour actually is Green."
Harry perks up, "It is?"
"Yeah." Draco resumes working on the meatballs, "Good job, Harry. Also, a hand-knit jumper sounds brilliant, actually."
Harry beams at Draco's bashful grin, knowing exactly what must be going on in his head. He felt the same way four years ago, when he received his first Weasley Jumper. Grateful to the point of tears. Included. Belonged.
It was Molly Weasley's stamp of approval, so to speak. Her way of telling them that they have a family. And by the looks of it, Draco looks as though he doesn't mind being included. And he deserves it. He deserves it so much.
He deserves it more than anyone.
Harry stands up to kiss him, nevermind greasy hands.
A dim light shines through the crack of the creaking door, as Harry smoothly adjusts the tray in his hands and shimmies through the ajar entrance.
It's easy to find his way in the dark; he's stayed in Remus' (and Sirius') room for a few nights and knows the general layout. Still, it's a bit startling for Harry to walk in a pitch-black room when it's broad daylight outside.
He carefully approaches the lump on the bed, and deposits the tray as quietly as he can on the nightstand. Then he just stands there and debates whether he really should wake Remus up for a meal at all. He wrings his hands, and is about to hesitantly reach for his wand, just to put up a warming spell on the food, but then the lump shifts, and turns to Harry. And Harry, like the dumb deer he is, just stands there, frozen and wide-eyed.
Remus squints his eyes at him, looking like shit, and says in a rasping voice, "Hey, kid."
Harry swallows down his shame and nods, "I was just leaving, I'm so sorry–"
Remus struggles to free his arm from the piled up blankets, as he reaches out and takes Harry's forearm, slowly easing him closer to the edge of the bed, until he gestures at Harry to sit down. Harry notices Sirius behind Remus now, curled up as Padfoot with his eyes closed.
"He's asleep," Remus assures him, "How was your day?"
"I didn't want to bother you." Harry furiously whispers, "You can sleep, I'm sorry. I just brought up some lunch."
Remus tiredly smiles at him, "Stop apologising, Harry. It's perfectly fine. I was bored anyway, and Sirius would love the food. Spaghetti?" there's a small bit of tension in his voice, a forced element of gentleness. Harry ignores it. He's good at that lately.
"It's for you." he narrows his eyes, and tries to stifle the barrage of thoughts and feelings that arise in solidarity with Remus' state. The man simply looks awful, and it's such a stark difference; to see him go from a kind, friendly, if not a bit too thin healthy man, to the person he sees now.
He's still kind and friendly albeit a bit weirdly. He doesn't think Remus is even capable of being unkind. Which makes his lycanthropy all the more devastating. He's still kind and friendly, but he looks absolutely wretched. Quite like the way Harry did, when they'd just arrived at Shell Cottage and Harry would wake up expecting to see Bellatrix. That Harry wouldn't sleep at all. Wouldn't eat because his hands refused to work.
"I can't eat that just yet," Remus says, interrupting his spiralling thoughts, "How was your day?"
"It was nice. Draco and I…" he looks at the plate he'd bought up, biting his lips, "I can make you some soup."
Remus shakes his head, "I can't eat, period. Don't worry about it, Harry, okay?"
"I'll try not to," Harry tries for a reassuring smile but it falls flat. He twists his fingers in his shirt because that hurts less than wringing them together. His eyes catch the crisscross scars littering the man's bare chest, and he knows how awful it is to be on the receiving end of a look like that, so he averts his eyes, "Does it hurt a lot?"
Remus snorts, "Like a son of a bitch. Don't tell Sirius I swore."
"I won't." Harry returns the smile with a hesitant one of his own.
"But," Remus sighs, "While overcoming it is not easy…"
"Bearing it could be." Harry finishes and looks away. He knows about pain too. Has always. Since forever.
"I wish you didn't know pain as intimately as I do. You're so young." Remus looks like he wants to say something. The lines around his face look deeper than ever, and the scars look red and vivid, even the really old ones.
"I wish I didn't either." Harry looks away.
"Sirius told me," Remus says suddenly, making Harry's head snap up to his, "I always knew Petunia was a bitch, ah shit–"
"You can swear, it's fine." Harry ignores the swooping feeling in his stomach. He thought he'd be done with them. That it would be over, case closed, book shut, song sung, whatever. That the Dursleys were dead and— but it's never over. They're haunting him from beyond the grave and he hates it.
"I only met her at the wedding, and I was drunk out of my mind, but I still knew she was a bitch. And afterwards… You know I talked to Albus. And he told me that I had no legal claim because I was unfit to care for a child."
"Remus–" what would it have been like? Living with Remus? Maybe he wouldn't be so fucked up. Maybe he'd have grown up normal. Almost normal. Just… less freaky. He wouldn't be scarred and ugly, and he'd be able to eat certain foods without going into a panic attack, and he'd be normal and Draco would stop looking at him the way he does whenever he brings up his relatives–
No. No, shut up, shut up. It's no use anymore. The Ministry would've never granted Remus guardianship. And the Dursleys are dead anyway. No use in speculating and working himself into a state.
"It's not an excuse. I should have tried more, done more. And I didn't. And that cowardice cost you a childhood. I should have kidnapped you or something."
Harry cracks a small smile, and forces his previous train of thought down, into a tomb, nails the casket shut, burns the coffin and scatters the ashes. "It's over. I'm glad about what I have now. And I didn't expect you to do anything, Remus."
Because he didn't know he existed. Didn't know anyone who cared about him existed at all. His world had been narrowed down to the Dursleys, who didn't care but also cared more than anyone Harry could remember until he turned eleven.
"I think more than anyone, I would understand letting the past stay in the past. I admire you, really. I wish I had your intelligence at my age."
"Oh, come on," Harry says, feeling a blush creep into his face. Remus' face softens, but the deep, sad lines are still etched there.
"It's a true compliment. You don't stay in the past, you learn from it."
There's something in his voice, a kind of wistfulness, that catches Harry's attention. Harry lets his eyes drift over to a sleeping Padfoot, and then back to Remus, "Is there anything in the past that… you wanted to learn from?"
"Well, there's plenty. But one thing, in particular, I think I'm finally going to have the talk with Sirius."
"That sounds very specific," he raises his eyebrow, he's been getting good at it, living with Draco, "What did he do this time?"
Remus chuckles, "Not that kind of talk. A different kind."
Harry looks at Padfoot again, who's ears have started twitching, like he might be waking up, "I think that would be good, Remus. I'll let you sleep."
Remus nods, shifting– and Harry could swear he hears the bones creak–"We love you. Sirius and I."
"I love you guys too." This time, the words don't feel forced, they don't leave him feeling hollow or off kilter, don't leave anything but a pleasant sweetness of the easy truth in his mouth.
A/N: Catch up on Severus and Draco in our new companion piece for this chapter!