Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. This fanfic is purely nonprofit. Nor do I own the cover image. That was done by Convallarius, who can be found on Instagram, Tumblr, and Twitter convallarius_art.
A/N: Thank you to Stoneage_Woman for the beta read! I couldn't imagine tackling this project without you.
Harry had a clear view of the bodies lying next to Fred: Remus and Tonks, pale and still and peaceful-looking, apparently asleep beneath the dark, enchanted ceiling. The Great Hall seemed to fly away, become smaller, shrink, as Harry reeled backward from the doorway. He could not draw breath. He could not bear to look at any of the other bodies, to see who else had died for him. He could not bear to join the Weasleys, could not look into their eyes, when if he had given himself up in the first place, Fred might never have died. . . . He turned away and ran up the marble staircase. Lupin, Tonks . . . He yearned not to feel . . . He wished he could rip out his heart, his innards, everything that was screaming inside him. . . .
-Rowling, J.K.. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (pp. 661-662)
Chapter 1
"You don't have to do this, you know," said Ron quietly, from where the trio stood in front of the wrought-iron gates leading into the Malfoy Estate. He was looking out of the corner of his eye at Hermione, whose eyes were too bright and whose lips were in a hard, firm line. "You don't have to go back in there. Harry'n I'll handle it."
"Don't be ridiculous," said Hermione, in her familiar no-nonsense tone. Harry and Ron pretended not to notice the way she gripped her forearm as if the wound still hurt. Mudblood. "It could be a trap. You two wouldn't last five minutes without me."
Harry and Ron shared a look.
They hadn't needed words for moments like this in months.
When— if— Draco betrayed them, they would get Hermione out of there first, even if it killed them.
"Come on," said Harry, giving Ron an almost imperceptible nod.
He led the way down the long, elegant driveway, Hermione on his right and Ron on his left.
Lucius and Narcissa had fled to their summer home in France, but Draco had stayed after the battle.
Harry didn't know why. Voldemort had occupied that home. His followers had bled their darkness into every nook and cranny. He could only imagine the number of innocents who had lost their lives to the Death Eaters for sport in those fancy sitting rooms and dining halls.
If Draco had had any sense, he would have burned it to the ground, or at the very least, left with his parents. And yet, he was still here.
A house-elf answered the door, looking just as drawn and haggard as the rest of them. The little elf led them silently to a room on the far side of the house. She didn't ask who they were or offer to take their cloaks. She didn't fall over herself to tempt them with tea or biscuits. She simply stared and then started down the entrance hall, through the dining room and portrait gallery, and expected them to follow.
Ron held Hermione's hand.
Harry clenched his fists.
The elf knocked twice on an innocuous door and then vanished with a pop!
After an uncomfortable moment in which the trio catalogued the points of ingress and egress, potential hiding spots or weapons, the door swung open.
Draco Malfoy stood blinking at them.
Harry crossed his arms. Ron held Hermione close against his side. Hermione's eyes glinted with a hard, bright light.
Draco scrubbed his hand over his face. It looked like he hadn't shaved in weeks.
"Right," said Draco, and he stood aside, motioning them into the room. "I found something I thought might interest the Aurors. I didn't expect them to send you three."
Though obviously worn thin, he hadn't lost his tone of utter disdain.
Harry scowled, bristling automatically.
"The Aurors tend to give us what we want," he said, "and get out of our way. You should follow their lead."
"They tried training us as recruits," Ron offered with a deceptively careless shrug, "but it turns out Hermione taught us all that rot in our first month of On the Run Bootcamp."
"Do you have information on Antonin Dolohov or not?" asked Hermione, pushing forward with that hard look in her eyes.
Draco sighed and ushered them in.
The room was a small study about the size of a professor's office. The walls were lined in bookshelves and the odd magical trinket here or there, and the main desk sat facing the two large windows overlooking the gardens. There were no spare seats for guests.
Draco rustled through a sheaf of parchments on the desk and finally unearthed a small, scrappy bit like someone's last minute shopping list.
He passed it to Harry, who frowned as he read over it.
"As loathe as I am to offer it," said Draco with a sneer and contemptuous once-over in Harry's direction, "lunch? You look as if you haven't had a decent meal since sixth year. I could have Addie arrange sandwiches and tea."
Hermione and Harry caught each other's glances while Ron only looked mournfully up at the ceiling. Eating regular meals, it turned out, was a habit, and one that they had lost during their year on the run. The past few weeks doing the understaffed, overworked Aurors' work hadn't helped matters.
Breakfast was hit or miss. They were usually too busy for lunch. They only had dinner when they weren't so exhausted they fell straight asleep after a hard day of work.
Harry saw it in Hermione's eyes that she didn't trust the offer. She would never eat anything produced in Malfoy Manor.
Poor Ron, Harry thought absently. He was no doubt daydreaming about puff pastries.
"No, thanks," said Harry, and he passed the scrap of parchment to Hermione. "That's Dolohov's contacts, then? The ones he has regular meetings with?"
"Yes, I believe so," said Draco. "It's not his handwriting, though. He wouldn't be so stupid as to write something like that down, anyway. It was probably his last partner, Watters-or-what-have-you. He'd have been tortured for not being able to keep up the information network in Dolohov's absence."
"These dates are coded," said Hermione. "But I think— yes, I'm certain— there's one this week in Knockturn Alley. Harry—"
"Where?" asked Harry.
"A place called Everest Wands," said Hermione. "I haven't heard of—"
"It's a shop for sex toys, Granger," said Draco, pinching the bridge of his nose. "A rather popular one."
Hermione clearly fought to keep her stern composure, but her cheeks tinged pink.
Ron suddenly looked very interested in the titles of the books on the shelves.
"Right, thanks for that, Malfoy," said Harry. "It's been fun."
He turned to leave, Ron and Hermione rushing to the door with him.
"Wait," said Draco, taking an aborted step after them.
Harry paused on the threshold and turned around.
"Is that it?" asked Draco. His gaze was almost feverish. "Are we even?"
Harry's eyebrows shot to his hairline. Ron and Hermione looked aghast and insulted.
"Even?" repeated Harry, testing the word as if he'd never heard it before.
He thought of Crabbe burning in his own Fiendfyre.
He thought of Dumbledore falling off the Astronomy Tower, the light already gone from his eyes, after Malfoy had disarmed him.
Snape, bleeding to death under his hands.
Fred, leaving George alone. Remus and Tonks still reaching for each other. Colin Creevey and his goddamn camera.
Hermione screaming above them, sobbing, her blood spilling onto the hardwood floors just a few dozen feet away.
Acid burned his veins. The fire in his chest was hotter than Crabbe's Fiendfyre.
"We'll never be even, Malfoy," snarled Harry. "Just get that through your head right now."
He turned on his heel, and Ron and Hermione followed.
…
"Dolohov won't be an easy arrest, Harry," said Kingsley Shacklebolt. He had moved into Fudge-Scrimgeour-Thicknesse's office for the practical purpose of being locatable, but he had yet to move any of his personal items in. He had only been elected in an emergency session the previous week, after Harry had thrown his whole-hearted, extremely coveted support behind him. Harry suspected that was part of the reason Kingsley had offered him, Ron, and Hermione Auror positions even without going through their N.E.W.T.s.
Kingsley and Harry paced around the single desk like it was a dance, moving in one direction together before one of them changed directions and got close, only for the other to change direction, too, and keep the endless circle going the opposite way.
"And Voldemort was easy?" asked Harry. It sounded different than it would have before the war. There was no teenage angst and bravado. It was dry, grim.
They both knew what it had cost.
"The latest from Avery's interrogation suggests the remaining Death Eaters have banded around Dolohov instead of Yaxley, as we originally thought," Kingsley continued, beginning the slow, ponderous pacing around the desk anew. "He may bring protection. Bodyguards. He may not even go himself. He could delegate."
"I don't care," said Harry fiercely. "If there's even a chance we can catch him, we have to take it. He could go underground any moment and we'd lose him forev—"
He broke off suddenly and looked away, blinking hard.
Kingsley gave him a look with those penetrating, sad eyes.
They paced, Harry trailing a finger along the desk to ground himself, Kingsley tucking his hands into his sleeves in a meditative pose.
"You didn't kill Remus, Harry," said Kingsley.
"No," Harry snapped. "Dolohov did."
"I only meant," said Kingsley, "it wasn't your fault. Not Remus, nor Tonks, nor any of the others. We all knew the risks, and we chose to stay and fight that day."
"I was there, sir," said Harry stiffly. "I remember what we fought for."
They'd fought for him. Remus and Tonks, even with their newborn baby Teddy at home… they'd come back to Hogwarts to fight for him. They'd refused to give him up when Voldemort had demanded it, and they'd died for him. Fred, Colin Creevey, all the others— children, teachers, Order members, civilians— they'd all died for him.
Harry clenched his fist around the edge of the desk, halting their circle again.
He tried to breathe.
He tried to feel the solid wood beneath his fingers, not the warm rush of Snape's blood. He tried to smell the Ministry office, musty and damp, not the ash and stone debris from the falling castle. He tried to see his own hand, pale against the dark desk in the dimly lit office, not the flashes of red and green spell-light he saw every time he closed his eyes.
He was shaking. There was something wild and consuming in his chest, too big to fit in his half-starved body, and Harry struggled to fight it down.
Whatever that emotion was, he couldn't afford it. He couldn't let it take him over, not when Dolohov had killed Remus and gotten away. Not when Molly Weasley had had to kill Bellatrix, who had killed Sirius and Tonks and would have killed Ginny, because Harry had been so damned useless he couldn't do it himself.
So many.
So many others had died for him.
He could spend the rest of his life hunting Death Eaters and Dark wizards, and it still wouldn't be enough.
He couldn't breathe.
He smelled smoke, felt warm blood on his hands. He heard screaming.
"An arrest of this magnitude will require a full team," said Kingsley, sounding far away and tinny. He didn't seem to notice that Harry was quietly hyperventilating across the desk. "You, Weasley, and Granger are impressive, but you will require at least two more experienced Aurors. I'll give you Herrod and Schrodinger."
Harry's mind scrambled, grasping for a hold on the real world, on Kingsley's voice and what those words meant.
It took a moment. He gripped the desk tighter.
"Fine," said Harry, pretending his voice wasn't trembling. "As long as we get him."
…
They had less than forty-eight hours to come up with a plan.
With Hermione's sharp eye for detail, Ron's unconventional but realistic wisdom, Harry's grim determination, and the Aurors' experience, they laid their trap.
Harry and Hermione kept watch from an abandoned storefront just across the street from Everest Wands' backdoor.
It was dark, and they didn't dare light their wands for fear of giving away their surveillance.
"I'll be taking N.E.W.T.s in Transfiguration, Potions, Charms, Arithmancy, Herbology, and Ancient Runes," Hermione whispered. "I think I'm rather done with Defense. What about you?"
"I've already told you," said Harry, just as quietly. He strained his eyes to keep sight on the faint shadows within Everest Wands. "I can't go back. Kingsley already said we're guaranteed a position in Magical Law Enforcement, and… and Hogwarts just won't be the same. You know? Not after… not after this. I can't."
He forced the flashbacks away, back in that place with the ferocious, all-devouring blackhole somewhere deep in his chest.
Hermione sighed softly. She peeked again around the corner of her window and catalogued the miniscule changes. No sign of Dolohov.
"I know," she said. "Ron won't go back either. But I know I won't be alone. There will be Ginny, and Luna…."
Harry's chest constricted.
He hated talking about the future. He hated the idea of splitting up the three of them. They had been through so much together. They had counted on one another to stay alive, to stay sane, to be there.
But, more than that, he hated the idea of going back to a Hogwarts where Dumbledore had fallen to his death from a beautiful, remote tower, where Snape had bled out in a dusty shack, where Remus and Tonks and Fred and all the others had laid motionless on the floor of the Great Hall— where the students would return to eat breakfast and celebrate Halloween, and be Sorted, and—
"Breathe, Harry," said Hermione, suddenly very close, and they were on the ground, and— "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed. I know it's too soon. I'm sorry. Just breathe, Harry, just breathe. We're alright. It'll be alright."
Harry gasped like a man drowning.
"Breathe," Hermione repeated, rubbing his arm.
He latched onto the physical contact, onto the sound of her voice as she spoke soft encouragements.
And then he was out of Hogwarts, the battlefield, and in a dark, abandoned shop in Knockturn Alley.
He breathed shakily and, when the worst of the trembling subsided, nodded at Hermione.
She gave him a faint smile. With one last squeeze on his arm, she took a step back.
Harry got to his feet. His muscles, his bones, felt weak and jello-y.
He coughed. "Sorry."
"It's alright," said Hermione. She watched him, worrying her bottom lip, and Harry saw the struggle behind her eyes. Eventually, she sighed and said, "You can't keep going like this, Harry. Don't you think you should take a break before joining the MLE? Take some time for yourself?"
"I'm fine," said Harry curtly. "I can't take a break. There's too much work to do."
"Harry…"
"What was that?"
They both straightened and stared hard out the window.
There were three wizards in hooded cloaks making their way furtively toward the backdoor of Everest Wands.
Two of the three meandered to a stop on the sidewalk, apparently engaged in a quiet conversation, while the third went ahead to the shop door. He knocked.
"Can you tell who it is?" asked Hermione, clutching her wand.
Harry squinted.
The figures were too far away to judge for sure. It was too dark to see anything other than their general builds, which placed them as adult men, by their tall, burly silhouettes.
"I don't—" Harry began, shaking his head.
The proprietor, a short man with a bushy mustache, opened the door, allowing the shop light to illuminate the man on the step.
"That's him!" said Harry.
There was no mistaking that long, pale face, so often twisted in rage or contempt. Here was the man who had cursed Hermione in their fifth year in the battle at the Department of Mysteries, who would have killed her if she had not Silencio'd him earlier in the duel. Here was the man who had come after them in the Tottenham Court Road café after Bill and Fluer's wedding, who would have taken them out before they even got their feet under them in the new warring world.
He had tried to kill Sirius in the Department of Mysteries.
He had killed Molly's brothers, Gideon and Fabian Prewett, in the first war.
He had tortured and killed Muggles and Muggleborns in both wars with glee.
He had killed Remus.
Harry shot out the door.
"Oh— bother—" he heard Hermione say, startled, behind him. She swished her wand to signal Ron and the Aurors, and then her pounding footsteps joined his on the dark street.
Harry Stupefy'd the first Death Eater standing watch before he could even look up at the sudden commotion. Then he and the second Death Eater were dueling with a vengeance.
He saw Hermione race past him out of the corner of his eye, straight for Dolohov, who had broken off mid-sentence with the proprietor when Harry attacked.
"Stupefy!" said Hermione.
Dolohov dodged, quick as a viper. He grinned, showing two full rows of teeth. He looked deranged— and delighted.
"The Mudblood and the Chosen One," he said, over the sound of the streetlamp beside him exploding from one of Harry's missed spells. "My lucky day."
He whipped his wand at Hermione, and then they were dueling madly, like Sirius and Bellatrix at the Department of Mysteries.
Fuck, Harry thought, trying his damnedest to put Nott Senior down fast so he could help Hermione. But the old man was as stubborn— and as skilled— as Mad-Eye Moody. Whatever he lacked in youth, he made up for with experience. His and Harry's wands were blurs as they tried to annihilate one another.
Where were Ron and the Aurors?
With a wrench of his wand and a nonverbal Expelliarmus! Harry snatched Nott's wand out of the air. A split second later, he'd followed it up with a Stupefy.
Nott hit the ground. There was a purple flare of fire, and then so did Hermione.
"NO!" shouted Harry, darting to Hermione's side even as Dolohov escaped into the shop.
Harry dropped to the ground and grabbed Hermione by the shoulders. He held her against him and felt frantically for a pulse.
Her face was turning pale. Her lips were a bloodless blue.
He couldn't find a pulse.
He shook her. "Come on, Hermione! Don't do this! What do I do? What do I do? Ennervate!"
Nothing.
She wasn't breathing. Her chest was still, eyes closed, her lips parted slightly in surprise.
"Ennervate!" said Harry again. His heart pounded violently against his ribcage, so hard he was afraid it would jump out. Blood rushed in his ears like a waterfall. "Ennervate! ENNERVATE!"
Hermione didn't move.
She was limp against his chest.
Harry stared down at her surprised face. Wildly, his mind flew back to their second year when she'd been petrified.
Mandrake root! He thought, delirious.
That huge, hollow burning in his chest grew.
No, he reminded himself. No mandrake root. She's not petrified.
He would have clawed his way out of his own skin in that moment, if it would get him away from that horrible, devouring pit building and building inside his chest. It was too much— there was no more room for it— he couldn't keep pushing it down— he couldn't keep going—
Shattering glass and bright flashes of light came from the front of the shop.
Harry heard Ron's angry voice and Dolohov's laugh.
The broken pieces of his scattered mind snapped back into place.
Ron.
Laying Hermione down in the dirt felt like ripping out a piece of his own soul and leaving it behind. But he had to do it. She would understand— for Ron, she would understand. He settled her back as gently as he could, placed her fallen wand in her hand against her chest, and then left her alone in the warm, dark night.
As soon as he stepped into the shop, he came face-to-face with a startled Rookwood and promptly blasted him through a wall with a Reducto.
Harry stormed through the hole in the wall into the main shop and cast a shield as a flurry of lights headed straight for him.
"Ron!" he shouted, unable to see through the flares of light against his shield. He held strong, though each hit started feeling more and more like a punch to the gut instead of a flash off a shield. He squinted hard, knuckles white around his wand. "RON!"
"Harry—" came Ron's voice several yards away, out of breath. He was moving as he continued, "—Malfoy tricked us! Reducto! Protego! This wasn't a meeting with a— Impedimenta!— an informant! This is a fucking Death Eater meeting! Run!"
They tried.
But their own trap worked against them.
The Aurors had placed Anti-Apparition wards around the block so that Dolohov wouldn't be able to escape and, with Hermione's help, they'd made them one-way, so that wizards could still Apparate in but not out. They hadn't wanted to cut Dolohov off before he arrived, nor had they wanted to prevent their own backup arriving if they needed it.
But once someone was in the bubble, they were trapped.
"Backup—" Harry tried, as he managed to duck behind a shelf and give his shield a rest.
It didn't last long. Within two seconds, he was in a full-out duel with Rabastan-Fucking-Lestrange.
"Can't get to the coin—" Ron managed, diving under the checkout counter even as the marble countertop exploded over his head. "Can you—? Stupefy!"
Hermione had given them coins charmed like she had done in their fifth year for Dumbledore's Army meetings. Dawlins, the erstwhile Head Auror, was supposed to be watching the other coin back at the headquarters.
Harry managed to disarm Rabastan and stun him. He dug furiously in his robes for the hidden inside pocket where he'd stowed the coin.
Then another Death Eater was on him, and he couldn't duel and rummage in his robes at the same time.
It was a nasty, drawn-out fight.
Herrod and Schrodinger were killed in the first few minutes. Then the Death Eaters formed a circle around Harry and Ron, blocking the exits and keeping them constantly deflecting hexes from all sides, even as Harry and Ron dueled other Death Eaters one-on-one inside the circle.
They fought well together, Harry and Ron. They moved in sync from years of knowing each other, from being able to predict what the other would do without the need for words, even if they didn't know specifics. They didn't need to know specifics. They just needed to know: That look in his eye means something's about to catch fire; that set to his mouth means he's about to do something stupid and needs backup; those squared shoulders and feet mean he's about to cast something powerful, be ready to duck—
It was like the Battle of Hogwarts all over again, though.
It came down to luck.
They couldn't see every angle at once, couldn't fight so many opponents with only each other for help.
They could only keep up a constant barrage of spells, hexes, jinxes, and charms for so long before they simply got exhausted.
The injuries accumulated. A gash across the face. An arrow of fire through one shoulder. A stinging hex in the eye, a Jelly Legs curse to one leg, shrapnel striking like bullets—
Harry was dueling Dolohov when Ron got hit with a Stupefy.
"Ron!" Harry shouted, whirling to protect him before another Killing Curse could fly. He stood over his friend, breathing hard and trembling with exertion, but his wand was up and ready.
Dolohov grinned that manic grin. He held up a hand and, at once, the Death Eaters stopped casting spells and jeering.
Harry braced himself, watching Dolohov unblinkingly. He thought about reaching for the enchanted coin, but Dolohov was too fast. He'd never get his fingers close enough to brush it before Dolohov killed both him and Ron.
"I'll tell you what," said Dolohov in his raspy, amused voice. "My master was kind enough to offer you a deal in the end, wasn't he? And you were stupid enough to take it. I think I'll offer you the same. Surrender yourself, Harry Potter, and we'll let your little blood-traitor friend live. What do you say?"
What did he say? Harry thought, confusion and fear writhing in his belly. Voldemort offered that deal and died. Voldemort offered that deal and Harry died.
His sacrifice, made from love, would ensure the Death Eaters upheld their end of the bargain, though. They wouldn't be able to kill Ron, just as the defenders of Hogwarts had been protected from Voldemort after Harry's death.
His death.
It had only been a month ago.
And here… his only choice was to die again. So soon.
He thought of Hermione and swallowed hard.
His parents. Sirius. Remus. Hermione.
He had come back to end the war, but he was done. He'd finally get to see his family again.
He lowered his wand.
Dolohov grinned and motioned two Death Eaters forward.
They grabbed Harry around the upper arms, holding him in place. One of them took his wand.
"What— what are you doing?" demanded Harry, struggling, as Dolohov turned away and surveyed the wreckage of the shop.
Dolohov glanced back at him and laughed. So did the remaining Death Eaters.
"MacNair was the executioner, boy, not me," said Dolohov, with an amused, vicious glint in his gray eyes. "Me? I'm the torturer. Now, I think I saw some handcuffs in here before we blew the place to bits…."
"You're not— you're not going to kill me?"
Dolohov grinned, quick and sharp like unsheathing a knife. "No, no, boy," he said softly, tasting the words like fine chocolates. "I'm going to make you wish you were dead. I'm going to make it so that the Wizarding World never turns to you again. You're going to spend the rest of your life regretting the first time you ever heard Lord Voldemort's name."
Fear like ice water poured down Harry's spine.
…
Draco Malfoy didn't know why he was pacing restlessly. Since the Battle of Hogwarts, he'd spent most of his time reading in the sunroom, snacking on biscuits from Addie, and discussing his upcoming trial with his solicitor.
Even when they spoke of his and his parents' trial, he didn't get restless. There was a vague sort of resignation there, that what would be would be. He would plead his case, and if he was sentenced to Azkaban, then he was sentenced to Azkaban. He was lucky enough that he was one of the few even getting a hearing, and the only reason the Malfoys stood a chance of freedom was that Harry Bloody Potter had vouched for their change of sides near the end.
Draco sneered automatically at the thought of Potter and turned another sharp about-face in his pacing.
Harry Bloody Potter. Was that why he was restless?
Tonight was the night Dolohov was set to meet with his contact at Everest Wands. (Draco wasn't stupid. He had decoded the parchment before surrendering it to Granger.) No doubt, Harry would be hiding in the bushes outside the stockroom window, eavesdropping like the diligent goody-two-shoes he was. The new Minister Shacklebolt would have a whole platoon guarding the vaunted Boy Who Lived, Boy Who Won, Savior, whatever they were calling the prat now.
He wouldn't be in any danger, and he'd likely take all the credit afterwards if they caught that sadistic maniac Dolohov.
Draco shivered. He glanced out his window at the clear summer night and drew his robes tighter around himself. He didn't know why he suddenly felt cold all over if it wasn't the weather.
Unless it was Dolohov.
Antonin Dolohov had reminded Draco of his aunt Bellatrix, the few times they had all met. They were wrong in the head, and they took a truly perverse glee in mutilating others. But Aunt Bella had always seemed a bit frantic, while Dolohov was more easygoing. Aunt Bella, even while torturing the latest helpless Muggleborn to stumble into her lair, always wanted to be by the Dark Lord's side. She seemed to have a mental timetable always counting down, things to check off a list as quickly as possible before she could get back to groveling at his feet. Co-dependent, that one, Draco thought with dry, dark amusement.
Dolohov was patient. He took his time. He took pleasure in doing his work thoroughly.
He scared Draco in a way Aunt Bella could never quite manage.
Of course, he was the one Harry Bloody Potter would choose to obsess over next. He could never take a break from being the big bloody hero, could he?
Draco paced.
It was late. Past dinner. But it was also a lovely summer night, and surely the shops in Diagon Alley were still open? He could go for a walk, and if he happened to meander into Knockturn Alley, well…
He could congratulate Potter on apprehending Dolohov, Draco thought, summoning Addie to fetch his good cloak. Because of course Potter would succeed, with the whole Auror department babysitting him. And Draco needed to stay in Potter's good graces, at least until the trial was over. If he could get Potter to testify in front of the Wizengamot on his behalf, his case was as good as won.
He Apparated to Diagon Alley.
He gave up the pretense of strolling through the shops very quickly and let his feet take him straight to Knockturn Alley.
On the street harboring Everest Wands, the lights were out. The streetlamps as well as the lights inside the various shops. Nobody roamed the street. Nobody was in sight. It looked like the shops were all closed, but Knockturn Alley never closed, not like Diagon Alley. They did some of their best, shadiest business in the dark of night.
Draco frowned and, after a moment, pulled out his wand. He approached Everest Wands slowly, at an angle out of direct view of the front windows. Hesitantly, he weaved his wand around himself in a disillusionment charm. Maybe the Aurors had closed the street after the arrest? But it didn't hurt to be cautious.
That idea fled within the next few steps.
This was no crime scene— at least, not yet.
He came upon two bodies just outside the front door, both supporters of the Dark Lord, though they had never risen to Death Eater status to Draco's knowledge.
Draco swallowed. He held his wand high and close to his chest.
He whispered a charm to open the door silently, just a crack, and slipped through.
The destruction was horrific. Bodies lay strewn about the floor amidst broken shelves, exploded walls, and disintegrated merchandise. It smelled of burnt flesh and blood.
He couldn't tell which bodies were stunned and which were dead. He recognized most as Death Eaters, but there were a couple he didn't know at all.
It looked deserted, but he heard voices coming from a room in the back.
He edged in that direction, scarcely daring to breathe.
He didn't even have to open a door to see into the back room, because there was already a hole in the wall the size of his mother's dress robes closet.
The sight beyond made him want to vomit.
There was Harry, wholly naked and bleeding from more wounds than Draco could count, hunched over the unconscious— or dead— body of Ron Weasley. Potter's eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks shiny with tears, and his whole body curled around Ron as if he could shield him with that alone. He was clutching Ron in both hands. His wand was nowhere in sight.
Dolohov was standing with his wand pointed directly at Harry's face. Instead of his usual sadistic amusement, he looked furious.
Harry stared back defiantly, even with that haunted look in his eyes as if his entire world had shattered around him.
Where were the Aurors? Was it their bodies in the front room? And where was Granger? Draco knew she was the real force to be reckoned with among the Golden Trio. Surely, they hadn't gone after Dolohov without her?
There were other Death Eaters in the small supply room, at least six that Draco could see. And— what in Merlin's name?— chains and handcuffs, covered in blood, lying on a table in the center. A table just behind Harry. Behind Harry, whose bare wrists and ankles were bathed in scarlet and gore.
Fucking hell.
Draco, nauseated, missed what Dolohov said, but he heard Harry clearly. Harry spoke in a way Draco had never heard before, in a tone stern and unyielding as the universe itself. Power seemed to radiate from him like he was the eye of a storm, wild, barely-leashed violence, chaos.
"You will never kill another living soul, Dolohov!"
It was a bold statement coming from an unarmed teenager, except for the throng of powerful, cold magic permeating every molecule in the room.
Dolohov sneered, wrath and madness warring for dominance on his face.
He raised his wand.
Draco knew what spell he was going to utter before he even opened his mouth. He didn't think, didn't pause to consider what he was doing.
Draco threw himself through the hole in the wall and dove to intercept the Killing Curse aimed at Harry.
…
TBC...