A/N: Heyyy, new chapter is here! Things are slowing down now. As much as they can in the circumstances.

As always, a great, big, huge thanks to our beta.

Chapter warnings for; explicit language, mild violence, mention of underage drinking, and general post war talks that might contain distressing topics like death and funerary arrangements.

Next chapter on 29th October, Saturday.


Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

—T.S. Eliot

Settling Sirius in Bill's bed turns out to be easier than Harry thinks. The man basically turns into a pliable lump after kissing Remus goodbye. He lets Harry take his arm and guide them both out of the kitchen.

Mr. Weasley catches his eyes and Harry turns away. He knows that they all must have heard everything. But everyone is too tired to protest or comment on it. They just lost a son.

Harry is patient with Sirius, they take the stairs slowly, and even though Harry aches to join the man under the covers, he just tucks him in and draws the curtains close. Thunder rumbles, and a window slams somewhere, making Harry flinch. Sirius is already asleep.

He didn't even need a dreamless sleep.

Harry sighs, his back against the closed door. He hears shuffling downstairs but he doesn't head down. They're probably moving Remus' body. He shudders slightly. He's not a stranger to dead bodies, not yet, seeing Remus down there, seeing Charlie down there, laid out on the table like… like…

Like the corpses they were.

It makes bile rise in his throat, makes it more real than even carrying Cedric's body while portkeying did, than having Umbridge's pulse stop beneath his fingers did. He'd been a haze, all those times. This time, the haze had been forcefully cleared, erased until he was left alert and aware, forced to deal with stark clarity instead.

He heads for Ron's room instead, where he knows Draco is hiding.

Draco isn't really fit for crowds. Especially a mourning bunch. Harry knows him too well when it comes to things like that. They are a broody duo, the two of them. If they live long enough to live on their own, they would probably never leave the house.

Harry squashes the thought down, takes it up, crumples it into as small a ball as he can, and stuffs it into the back of his childhood cupboard. No thinking about a distant future, only the near one. Only the next battle, only the next opponent. He has to make it through the war before he will let himself the comfort of such far fetched fantasies. Draco has to make it through the war before he will let himself think of a future together.

Draco looks up at him, one of Hermione's muggle novels in his hands. He actually appears to be reading it. Harry joins him on the bed, draws his knees to his chest and drops his weight on Draco. Draco closes the book– folding the corner of the page in a way that Harry knows will make Hermione go absolutely crazy, and she will definitely yell at him later– before wrapping an arm around Harry.

"I suppose we should… talk about this," Harry says, though he does not feel like talking about this at all. He just wants to stay here, snuggled into Draco's warmth forever, pretending that the only thing he needs to worry about is Hermione's wrath about treating books with respect.

Draco sighs, slumping a little against Harry, "Honestly, Harry, I don't even know where to start."

Harry does. He has to start from the beginning. Or well, the beginning of this particular… fiasco. Chaos. Disaster.

He takes a deep breath, braces himself even though he shouldn't. It's Draco, it's going to be fine, right? It will be.

"Did it put you off to see me kill Umbridge?"

Silence overtakes them both. Draco turns his head to look down at him, his good shoulder cushions Harry's sensitive forehead.

"Do you feel bad about killing her?" The boy asks.

"No." Harry answers honestly.

"You know, last summer, before they all found out about Mother, they used to bring in muggles into the manor." Harry nods at Draco. He knows this already. They've both seen and done cruel things.

Draco's face draws closer and his voice drops, Ron's room an intruding stranger on a conversation only meant for their ears. His breath smells like lavender. A calming draught. Harry doesn't even know how he had gotten his hands on it here.

"I could hear them scream all the time," Draco mutters, "I just… acted ignorantly. I never cared, and if I'm being honest now… I don't think I care at all."

Harry drags Ron's duvet over their feet. It really is too cold. His fingers are already cramping a bit. He grits his teeth and ignores the pain, a part of him missing the painless existence of death. He squashes that thought down as well.

"About muggles?" he asks carefully.

"About anyone," Draco corrects, "If they were wizards or squibs or… I don't know… I just know that deep down, I wouldn't have cared."

But that's not quite true, is it? Harry remembers a distant past. With Bella's body arched over his, her wand pressed against his flesh and her hair brushing against his face. Draco had looked positively sick. He does care. Maybe not for everyone, but he cares. He cares so very deeply, so much that it must hurt.

The kind of hurt Harry knows intimately. The one that has no cure, the one that hurts and hurts and hurts and keeps on hurting.

"You cared when it was me," Harry says, and under their feet, he can see himself, in tattered clothes and flailing limbs. Bella screeching at him, then a faceless man. Rosier. His past self looks into his eyes from the floor, and Harry stares back.

Pain recognises pain.

Draco drags him out of the stupor with a shake of his head, "Because it's you. It's for entirely selfish reasons. And that makes me–"

Harry looks into Draco's eyes, "Don't say it."

"A horrible person," his beloved says. Unabashedly. Harry is not proud of it, but Draco…

"I have darkness inside of me," he continues, bulldozing over Harry, "No matter what side of the war I'm on. I can't really judge you for killing her." His warm fingers press against Harry's wrist, "I might have done the same. I wanted to do the same."

Harry is not comforted, but he is not shocked either. There is not much to say about the nature of humanity after all. They're not good people, either of them. Maybe that makes them really good for each other. Or maybe Draco wouldn't have to worry about being a good or horrible person had there been no war.

Harry shudders a bit. Pieces of Tom's memories are still staining the back of his mind like blotches of blood. Distant images, of all the ugliness of the world. Images that Harry himself was too familiar with. Death is exquisite, a sweet taste. For the killer and the killed. Harry still believes it wholeheartedly, having been killed rather recently.

But what does that really say about him? The fact that they're horrible people? Is Harry even considered people? Or is he like Tom? So battered by the brutality that he has no element of humanity left within him?

"I'm supposed to be…" he says without really meaning to, "I was supposed to be-"

Draco snorts, a gust of breath against his cheek, "A hero?"

No.

"A good person," Harry says, and then feels rather absurd. He is expecting too much of himself, and too much of an abstract. Goodness, were it a visible thing, would never touch him with a ten foot pole.

But Draco doesn't care. He does not give a fuck. He isn't a good person either, Harry can admit. He can admit that to himself in the recesses of his mind, even if he'll never say that to Draco.

"I will never care who you are," the boy says just on cue, his arms close around Harry in a stifling side-hug, "I will love you and all the terrible things you do and all the good things others can't see."

Harry thinks about Sirius and his empty eyes, about Remus' corpse under the bloodied sheet. About the birds. About Narcissa telling him about the grief he's brought Draco, the grief he will bring Draco. He thinks about Mrs. Weasley's wails, and their eerie similarity to Draco's screams when his mother was being murdered.

"Draco–"

Lavender engulfs his nostrils, "Nothing you do can ever put me off." The voice itself feels like a soft touch.

Nothing.

Harry looks at Draco. His face is resolute. But it wasn't like that in the Great Hall; in shock and unresponsive, hugged to Harry's chest like a frightened bird after Dumbledore died to save him.

No. After Harry made Dumbledore die to save him. He would've died either way.

If he'd let Draco die, he would've died regardless. That was their promise, the unbreakable vow. A vow Harry made out of spite. Because he threatened Dumbledore with his own life, he had basically told the man; 'If you get too close, I will take my own life from you.'

Because that's the only weapon he had, the only card he could play. Harry is such a moron.

"Harry—"

"Nothing?" Harry echoes, thinking about Draco's shaking arms around him, his blanched face and Narcissa's words. He's not good for Draco, not truly. He is venom. He was so to Dumbledore.

Draco chuckles, "Harry, you've thrown up on me at least three times since this whole thing started. If anything, that should prove how much I love you."

Harry returns his grin with a tiny smile, but it falls flat. Draco is pretending. For his sake. Harry doesn't want that. He doesn't want Draco to be okay just because he isn't. He raises his hand and smooths his thumb over Draco's raised scar. They look at each other in silence.

"You were so shaken at the castle. After Dumbledore…" Draco wants to look away, to hide, but Harry won't let him. This is not how it works, how they work. They've been laid bare against each other, every layer stripped away, barer than bones, their very souls exposed and touched each other.

He will not let anything cover that back up. He won't. Not even himself.

"You don't have to pretend with me, Draco. Let's not," he leans to kiss Draco's cheek, "I don't want suave, sarcastic Slytherin right now. I want the version of you that is still scared and… and shaken."

"Why?"

"Because you ground me. I want to ground you too. I don't want you to use some—some potion in order to calm down when—"

"It was just one vial," Draco interjects, although his voice sounds shaky now. Like there's a dam, straining, about the burst open. Harry hammers on. This is not the argument he should push right now. They can talk about the potions some time later.

"I'm sorry you had to see him die. And see me die. And just… all of that. I want you to be able to talk about it." The way I want to talk about it.

You're the only one, Draco.

"Get up," Draco says abruptly, removing his arms from around Harry. Harry mourns the sudden loss of warmth, and blinks owlishly at Draco who's already on his feet.

"What?"

"Come on," Draco urges, holding a hand out to Harry, "Get up. Face me. There." His smile is a soft, fragile thing, but more genuine than the last one. His eyes are bright and it's weird.

"Draco."

"Now turn away. Come on." Draco turns around first, and Harry complies. Draco moves until his back is flush against Harry's, and grabs his hand from behind. Both of his hands. Draco is always so warm, and Harry's already feeling comforted. Then Draco tugs both of them down to the floor.

Harry folds easily, despite the ache in his legs, despite the fact that he knows getting up is going to be agony with the cramps that are snaking the way up his calves and thighs. He sits, legs crossed, back pressing against Draco's solid warmth.

"Draco…" Harry whispers, leaning his head back so that's pressed up against Draco's as well.

"I remember us like this at the beach. Let's just lean against each other."

Harry nods, and it's quiet for almost two minutes before Draco breaks, a quiet, almost whine escaping him as he whispers, "I was so scared."

"Me too." Harry can feel Draco shaking against him, quiet, stifled tremors that make Harry's heart clench and make him want to turn around and wrap his hands around Draco. But that's not what Draco needs, not now.

"I'm still very scared."

"Me too," Harry repeats.

"I just didn't see Dumbledore die. He died saving me. He took on a curse meant for me and I don't know why."

It's a split second decision, one he barely thinks about before making. He thinks, fuck it. He thinks, there's enough secrets. He can't keep anymore. Not when Draco sounds so lost, and scared, and uncertain. Not when Harry himself feels so unmoored. Not when Harry can give answers.

It's a split second decision, and yet it feels like it takes an eternity for the words to form. "I do."

Draco freezes, "What?"

Harry's throat clicks as he swallows, fiddling lightly with his hands. He's not wearing the braces right now. They'd been too blood splattered, and dirty, from the battle. Someone has probably cleaned them by now, but he doesn't want to look at them in case no one had. He wishes he had them now, though. He misses the lack of pain he'd experienced for a blissful few moments. Hours. The time he spent in that timeless place.

Now they ache. The same hands he'd used to make the unbreakable vow, the sharp, green and red strings, burning hot, wrapping around his wrist and fingers, binding him to Dumbledore in his stupid deal, the stupid deal that resulted in one saved life and one important death.

"He would've died anyways if he hadn't saved you. I… We had a deal."

"What deal?" Oh, there's something dangerous in Draco's voice, right there. Is that what Draco had felt, that day, when Harry had finally found out about the curse Draco had been hiding from him? This helplessness? This echo of regret which isn't really regret but isn't not regret either?

"I would stay alive to fulfil my duties," Harry says, a little numbly, "And in exchange I wanted immunity for you. He had to protect you and it was an unbreakable vow so–"

"Stop," Draco says, snaps really. His voice is strangled, and there's a shocked blankness to it that makes Harry wince. "Stop, right now."

Harry stays quiet for a total of three seconds before he blurts out, "I'm sorry."

It's so inadequate. He feels Draco now. He feels him so intimately. The way he'd lied to Harry. And this isn't the same, of course, it isn't. Harry never lied. But is hiding things any better? Hiding things that are relevant to someone's life or death? Isn't that another stripping of autonomy and decision-making in a series of similar such things happening and causing so much grief?

Harry closes his eyes.

"You made an unbreakable vow over me?!" Draco says, his voice high and shrill, "Who… who was the binder–"

Harry knows it's going to be another blow, but he said no secrets, didn't he? "Snape."

"Severus was in on it?"

"Yes. Nobody else knew. He knew I was out of touch with myself, that I had thoughts of death. And I knew that he needed me alive..." but did that matter? The most important person didn't know, and that was the important bit, the relevant bit. It doesn't matter who else was left out, it only matters that Draco was.

They're both silent for several moments after that. Harry feels the first kindlings of fear, uneasiness. Draco is so quiet now, he isn't even shaking anymore. He's just about to say something, beg, really, when Draco finally speaks up, his voice small.

"You wanted to kill yourself?" he whispers, "After the whole curse thing and all the fucking shit–" his voice grows progressively louder as he speaks, and Harry interrupts him.

"No, I…" Harry opens his eyes, shaking his head, "I don't know what I was thinking. It was just a bargaining chip. I knew that my life was the only thing he wanted. I wasn't myself. But I wanted to keep you safe so I…"

"Harry," Draco cuts him off, and he's a line of tense muscle against Harry, "Do you have any idea what you've done? He was the leader, he was… the only person the Dark Lord feared and you made him trade his life for me!?"

"I'm sorry."

"He… no. No. Even I know that I'm worthless compared to him—" Draco sounds hysterical, sort of similar to how Harry feels, but Harry's feelings are muted, dulled, dragged under a haze of exhaustion and pain. He only knows one thing, and that is that Draco could never be worthless. He would never be worthless compared to anyone. Not even Merlin himself.

"Don't say that."

Draco ignores him, "How can we even hope to stand a chance against him? And he died such a meaningless death. Compared to him I am nothing-"

"You said nothing can ever stop you from loving me."

Finally, finally, Draco stops. Pauses. Silence. Nothing could ever stop Draco from loving Harry, the same way nothing could ever stop Harry from loving Draco. But that didn't mean anything, not when he couldn't be put up with, not when he couldn't be forgiven.

"Oh Merlin. Harry, Harry what have you done?" Draco says at last, his voice breathy and tired.

"I'm so sorry, I just couldn't bear the thought of you being hurt because of me, and I know I'm the person responsible for his death and so many other people but– but the image of your death was almost always in my mind like Cedric and my mom and—" Harry's breathing too fast, the corpses flashing through his mind like a really bad, horrific tape or something, and he can almost smell it, the death and the rot and the despair.

Draco moves, suddenly, making Harry nearly fall backwards. But Draco's just turned around, wrapped his hands around Harry, and now he's cocooned, safe and not quite comfortable, but loved, within Draco's arms, one tight around his waist.

"Shhh. It's okay. Breathe, okay? Breathe."

Harry shakes his head, realising that maybe he's crying. "But you're mad at me."

"I need you to breathe," Draco repeats firmly, and Harry obeys. He breathes, and breathes and breathes… just pushes in the air. Finally, his chest stops hurting, and his lungs expand properly. His nose is still a little clogged up, but he breathes through his mouth, feeling Draco's heartbeat behind him, the way his chest moves with his own breaths. Alive. How are they alive?

"We need to…" Draco whispers, "Have you told anyone?"

"Only Snape knows."

"Are you planning on telling anyone?"

Harry shakes his head immediately, "No. I didn't even want to tell you. But no lies, right? Not between us. I… I didn't think he would actually die. I just, I can't believe he's gone."

Dumbledore had always seemed bigger than life, and Harry had loved him, and he had hated him. He still loves him, and he still hates him, and it's one person he loves for another person he loves and he still can't believe that he's dead. He thinks it might just be an elaborate plan, a prank, maybe, to get the dark side to lower their guard before baffling them with his continued survival.

Harry managed it, after all. Maybe Dumbledore could as well.

Oh, he's definitely shifting firmly into hysterical territory now, he thinks, a short, unhinged chuckle escapes him. Dumbledore's mangled corpse duelling anyone is a funny sight to imagine, wearing a glittery purple robe, or hanging a fake beard off his skull to seem more like himself...

Harry stops himself from zoning out. Draco tightens his grip around him, resting his chin on Harry's shoulder. He doesn't comment on the breathy chuckle, or the tears that are still running down Harry's face. He thinks Draco might be crying too.

"What are we going to do?"

Harry wants to assure him, but there is no assurance to dish out. Not even fake ones. Sirius has already sealed that door shut. "Sirius said that… I'm the only one they have left now."

"How can they do that to you? You died. You died for them. This should be enough."

It should, but it isn't. Death isn't a reprieve. He knows that now. It had been stupid to threaten Dumbledore with it. And Dumbledore must have known that, surely, and he'd still made the vow.

"Not until he's dead," Harry says quietly because that's all it's been about, hasn't it? Voldemort's death. He's been marked, literally, since he was a child, barely one years old. "And he's not. I know I hurt him badly, but not badly enough. I should've–"

He's like a fucking cockroach. He thinks helplessly. He 'vanquished' him when he was one, then in his first year, and then in his second year, he'd fought him in his forth and then just the day before, and the man fucking refuses to die. Like a fucking cockroach.

They're not so different, Voldemort and Harry, are they?

Draco's fingers dig into Harry's flesh and he pulls away to look into his eyes, "No. Listen to me, you shouldn't have. He can't die, you would've only drained yourself beyond saving and I can't even think about what I would've done when you–"

"Shhh." Harry turns his head to the side, nudging at Draco's cheek with his nose, "Just kiss me, please."

Draco does after a small pause, he presses a kiss against Harry's forehead, his nose, over his closed eyes. Small peppered kisses. Harry wishes he could burn the marks on his kisses on his own flesh. Just something to remember.

His lips, soft despite the way both their lips are chapped and dry and how Draco still tastes a little like blood, bitter and awful, but still Draco.

"You can't leave me, ever," Draco mutters between kisses, "promise me, you'll never leave again like that. Please, please."

Harry kisses the lavender tint away, his eyes closed and his heart racing in his throat.

"I love you."


Severus keeps to himself.

It's not a laborious task now that nearly every adult is too busy with their own grief. To Molly and Arthur, Severus is invisible. Everyone is. To the others, Severus simply does not matter. His arm in a sling, slightly stinging, Severus huddles in his corner in the cramped living room.

The bodies are being transferred back to the castle, not just for a count, but rather for a swift burial. The funeral will be held at a later time. Too many bodies can lead to too much trouble. Disease is only one of them.

Severus looks over at Granger, the back of her head on the couch as she sits entangled with Ronald Weasley. The sight might be a familiar one to him. Lovers that console each other after loss. After a battle. Severus himself never had anyone to do the same for him, not that he was particularly bitter or spiteful for it.

He used to be sad about it, but the sadness morphed into resignation nearly a decade ago.

Potter trudges down the stairs with red-rimmed eyes. Late. Nearly an hour ago, Severus gently prompted him about an urgent matter before he even went to handle Black's grief-stricken body. Severus doesn't begrudge him. It's not that the boy was dallying. He was just with Severus' godson. Two lovers once more, consoling and comforting the other. Severus wonders what that feels like. Surely it would be comforting.

"Potter, how are you feeling?" he quietly asks. Potter nods at him and then looks at Granger's head over his shoulder.

"Good. Thank you." he says a bit belatedly, " And your arm?"

A broken arm is the best deal he could've gotten out of this. Especially compared to Lupin and Moody, Severus barely got away with a scratch. A miracle, considering that not one soul has escaped Valentina's claws since he's known her.

"It'll heal. How is Draco?"

Potter stiffens a bit. "Asleep. I told him about the… I suppose we should tell the others as well..Or not. I don't know."

Sentimental fool. Though, Severus supposes that Draco would have found out one way or another. Their rule of silence only applied if the terms were never put in action. Draco is no idiot, he'd already figured that Albus Dumbledore did not need to die. He already knew that Severus and Pomfrey were covering for him.

That's another difficult conversation to have with the boy.

"Do you think it's a good idea? Telling the others?" Harry mutters, mindful of his friends' silent muttering and the distant wailing by the floo again.

Severus cannot believe that he has to explain this to Potter, but then again, he is a child. Severus should not be expecting much of him.

"That the leader of our side gave up his life for a fifteen year old boy? A Malfoy, no less?"

Potter does not cringe away. Instead, he tenses up his shoulders and narrows his eyes, having sensed a threat or hostility directed at Severus' godson. Severus abhors admitting it, but it is a strong protection to have, and Potter most likely knows it too.

"He is under my protection now." Harry says, "From what Sirius said… the way you're all treating me, I suppose that should mean something."

Severus hides a wince. Black is too careless in his grief, and he's always been too crass with his wordings. No wonder Potter looks crestfallen. Though, as brash as Black is in his assumptions, he is not entirely wrong. Everyone saw what Potter did in that courtyard. Everyone saw a miracle take place. Harry has become a messiah, well, confirmed as one anyways. It would be difficult to contain a community so hell-bent on Potter's peculiarity, not that they would be wrong.

What Potter did in his panic, Albus could not do even willingly. The boy would make for a powerful "hero", but he is fifteen, and the pressure of leading might just break him like a twig.

Severus looks away from the green eyes with hidden contempt.

"Albus had contingencies in place," he mutters. This is not the time for a conversation so heavy. He is just about to take Potter to his doom anyways. The Prophecy was in a precarious position, and time was scarce.

"I know."

He sounds resigned already, and Severus thinks maybe that is a good thing.

"He left with me things that should be of interest. Memories, other diaries and books," he says.

Potter snorts, his eyes hooded with grim amusement. It takes Severus by surprise, the intensity of the boy's gaze. The same way he had regarded the Dark Lord, as though he was a child to be scorned.

"All he told me was lies." Potter says, "I was always meant to take up his place, weren't I?"

Well, he's not wrong. Albus always intended for Potter to take his place, by his side, or take his position entirely. He just never knew that he would have to do it when the boy was only fifteen and raw with age. He is mature enough, and Severus is begrudging to admit as such, but he is still a child.

Albus had hoped that Potter could develop a mechanism or cure for enduring grief before having to unload such a heavy role on him. Albus was worried that Potter was not mentally strong enough to handle strong strains. He died in that concern.

"He had concerns." He sees no reason to lie to the boy, "Particularly about your mental health and your ability to care for yourself. You are reckless with your life."

"Am I more capable now than I was last week?"

"Not even remotely."

Potter takes the answer well and crosses his arms. They start walking out of the cottage, not unnoticed this time. Granger cranes her neck over the couch to see them go, and so does Ronald. Their eyes narrowed, and slightly confused. Severus nods at them, a hand on Potter's shoulder to guide him outside. Granger seems to get the message and gently drags Ronald back down into her arms.

Severus looks away. He can never feel too bitter about something he never had.

They survey the tall bushes that circle the burrow. They walk on the muddy ground. They need to get out of the wards to apparate. It would be safer than using the floo, certainly in not leaving any traces behind. Potter was already sought-after as he was.

"What happens if someone else takes my place?" Potter asks, "An Auror, the Minister, or you?"

Again, Severus really does not see any reasons to lie or sugar-coat things. Potter, in the position he is now, would be better off aware and with his eyes wide open.

"We would try our best. Organise some troops and lead some counter attacks. But how long can we try to go on by minimising the damage? The numbers surpass us. The odds are against us. This is not a war to be won by defence."

They truly need a miracle. Potter is said to be a miracle. It is a fucked scenario. Severus admits that in its vulgarity. This is why Narcissa died. She knew too.

"What do you expect me to do?"

"Come." He grabs Potter's arm as they reach the end of the wards, "You and I need to fetch something before it is too late. Albus urged me to tell you right away,"

Harry pockets his glasses with his free hand, "Where are we going?"

"The ministry. The best chance we have at going unnoticed. It's mostly vacant now,"

"But Draco—"

Severus drags the boy through the wards with no delay, "Your friends will take care of it. Hurry along, Potter."

Time is of the essence.


Draco's hand is clenched around a harried note. He lets the wind harshly blast against his face, making his scar sting in particular. He should let go of the note, his fingers are starting to cramp from how hard he is clutching at it.

The house is emptying around him, and for once, no one pays any attention to him. Not even a spared glance. It's like he's invisible, or like someone cast a Notice-Me-Not on him. He's grateful, if a little baffled. There had been a quiet permeating the air earlier, and despite the hurry everyone seems to be in, it hasn't dissipated.

He looks up, towards the porch where he can see Granger and Weasley sitting, despite the storm still raging. There's a shimmering protective ring around them, preventing them from the worst of the blast. It's a fairly advanced spell, and he wonders who spared them the time to erect it.

He wouldn't be surprised if Granger learned it on her own though, that unhinged overachiever.

Despite the pleasant surprise of being mostly ignored, Draco finds he doesn't want to be alone right now. He never wants to be alone, really. He'd rather just be with Harry than anyone else. But since Harry decided to leave without even waking him up… he'll settle for his friends.

"Thunderstorm, huh?" Hermione says quietly, and there isn't even any disdain in her voice.

Draco looks up at the darkened sky, nearly completely dark now, with flashes of lightning illuminating it every few seconds. The shield really is expertly cast, it even muffles the sounds of thunder a little.

"Appropriate, really," he agrees, "Where are they-"

"To help with the bodies back in Hogwarts. They need a distraction," Ron says, and Draco turns to look at him. He sounds flat, dull. Drained out. There's a hollow look on his face that doesn't look appropriate there. Weasley is supposed to be an immature brat, burning with anger and indignation about some perceived slight. Not… not this.

Draco stares, then speaks quietly, "You guys should rest."

He knows how hypocritical he sounds. Each one of them has been tortured at least once on this day, each of them has been through a war and they're all roughly the same age as well. They should all be resting. Harry included. Who, of course, is off doing… something with Severus.

He wishes he'd been able to kiss Harry before he left.

"Could you?" Hermoone says, cutting through his thoughts, "We're waiting for him too."

"Why is he always so far away from us? Too far away." Draco sounds bitter, and he almost doesn't realise what he's said until he's said it. It feels too raw, too real.

Too pathetic.

It's not like Harry's gone. Not like before. He's still alive. And Severus is with him. And Severus won't let Harry die. Not after blowing up his cover to save him. And Draco of all people knows just how capable his godfather is.

Harry isn't even that far away, he said he'd return in a few hours tops.

He never would have said such a thing a few months ago, let alone to Ron and Hermione, and yet when he blurts it out, he doesn't feel the urge to swallow the words right back up.

Ronald snorts, "Welcome to the club, pal."

Despite the shield preventing the rain from getting in, there's still some of the wind weaving its way through the little group, cold and sharp against his face. He raises a hand to touch the thick scar down his face. It doesn't feel like anything, yet it's still stinging. He quickly drops his hand.

"You were terrified too. When he died. Does it ever get easier?"

It shouldn't, he thinks. Watching Harry in danger should never, ever get any easier. Getting easier means it's happened enough times for it to be regular, it'll mean Draco's grown apathetic, it means he doesn't love him as much as he does. And he wants none of it.

Except he can't. He can't keep worrying like this. He thinks one of these days his heart will just… give out, if it keeps up. Or his mind. Maybe both. He feels like he's growing crazy every moment of time he is away from Harry.

He can't.

"Fuck, no. That's Harry's best and worst quality. He's always got something bigger up his sleeve. Hermione and I have this debate–" Ron starts, his ashen face finally regaining two twin spots of colour on his cheeks.

"We're not going to die of a heart attack, Ron." Granger interjects.

Draco's lips quirk a little, before falling back into a grim expression. Because as nice as this is, nothing is the same. Everything's irrevocably changed.

He looks at Ron again, the dark circles under his eyes. He's been cleaned up, so there's no visible blood on him anymore, there's not even a bruise, really. But his eyes convey things better than a battered body ever could.

"I'm sorry, Weasley. About Charlie."

Ron is quiet for a moment, and Draco braces himself a little. Weasley's unpredictable. Grief is unpredictable. The boy might just lash out in anger, they aren't exactly friends. But his shoulders just slump, and he goes boneless on the plush armchair he's sitting in.

"I'm sorry too. He really deserved better." A sharp, painful sounding laugh bubbles out of Ron, "He hated all this."

No one says anything for a moment, and the rain batters against the shield, muted pitter patters filling the silence.

"I need alcohol." Or a huge fucking dose of the calming drought, far more than what Severus deigned to give him last night. He needs something to take his mind off everything, to put up a shield between him and his feelings, between him and the world. Mute everything. Muffle it up like a scarf wrapped all the way around his head.

He misses Shell Cottage and the little secret cupboard he and Harry had pilfered, and he misses dancing with him to his mother's favourite song. He misses his mother.

"Yeah."

Granger's agreement is enough to jolt him out of his state of melancholy, and he stares at her, only a little incredulous.

"Really, Granger?"

"I've been under Imperius, tortured, and fought all in the same day. I need alcohol."

"We can sneak some in tonight," Ron says, "I think Bill keeps some whiskey in his room. Sirius is asleep there now—"

There's a loud, very familiar crack of apparation, so loud that it cuts through the sound of thunder that rumbles at exactly the same moment.

He doesn't even realise he's taken his wand out until Ron, Hermione and him are standing in a defensive position, wands pointed at a very, very harried looking Weasley.

A Weasley, Draco fills in, as the man stares at them with startled eyes from behind his cracked glasses. He probably cannot see a thing through the shattered lenses, a quiet part of Draco thinks hysterically, remembering how awful Harry's vision is without his glasses as well.

"Is that–" he chokes out, not lowering his wand. How did he get through the wards otherwise? It can't be an imposter. The Order won't leave the Burrow so open, they wouldn't have left without erecting some serious wards. They wouldn't have allowed themselves to grieve without first ensuring safety. The Order is a group that's been surviving through two wars, they won't make such a serious mistake.

"Percy," Ron growls.

Percy does a remarkable job of gathering himself up, ignoring the wands still pointed at him, "Ron! Ronald, where's mom and dad–"

"You fucker." Ron drops his wand arm down, and Hermione does as well. Draco keeps his own up, too shocked to really process what's happening. Percy's arrival had sparked every nerve in his body, sent him right back to the Hogwarts courtyard, and his heart hammers in his chest so hard it actually hurts.

"I just heard–" Percy starts.

"It's been hours and you just heard?" Ron yells, stalking closer to the man who is now soaking wet in the rain. The shield vanishes. Ron is still spitting, "You useless shit, it's been months!"

"Where is everyone and–" Percy takes a stumbling step backwards, his foot slipping on a patch of mud on the ground. He rights himself quickly enough, gaze flicking behind them and into the house.

"Why don't you take a fucking guess."

Draco lowers his wand, a little hesitantly. He doesn't think Percy's here to hurt them. Hopefully. God, he really fucking hopes not. He'll be fucking pissed if he is. Don't they deserve a goddamn break now? He'll wring the man's neck himself if he's here to cause more pain and hurt.

Although, looking at Ron's alarmingly red face and wild eyes, he's already doing that.

"Dad…"

"Charlie," Ron snarls, now right in Percy's face. Percy's height isn't insignificant, but Ron still has inches on him. The boy is fucking tall, and usually he's awkward and gangly and lanky about it, but right now he looks ready to rip Percy to pieces.

"No," Percy breathes, going very very still, "No, Charlie…"

"Where were you? Hmm? Mom was sobbing her eyes out. Where the fuck were you, Percy?"

"Charlie," Percy repeats, his eyes a little unfocused before they sharpen right back up, "Was Harry there? Is this why-"

Ron punches him.

It's a flurry of movement. One moment Percy is standing here, and the next he isn't. There's a sickening crack that echoes around them, and the man crumples to the floor with a yelp. Ron's panting like he's just run a marathon.

"That's all you have to say?!" Ron's voice has grown impossibly shrill, and Percy stares up at him in shock, clutching his cheek. There's a thin trickle of blood at the corner of his lips. Ron goes on, stepping closer to Percy, now also in the rain. "He saved us! He actually meant something to Charlie, you piece of rubbish!"

"Ron!" Hermione says, moving as if to grab onto Ron's arm. The boy just brushes her off, advancing on Percy, with murderous intent in his eyes. Like he's about to beat the shit out of his own brother.

Not that Draco blames him. He'd felt the urge himself, sometimes. When he thought about how his father hadn't done anything while his mother got tortured and killed. How his father spoke not a single word as his mother screamed herself hoarse.

He relates to an uncomfortable degree.

"Why wasn't it you? Hm?! You never cared anyways!"

"Ronald," Draco calls out, before the boy can really start beating the shit out of him, "That's enough." They've had enough violence for today, if Ron still has murderous urges, he can employ them the next day.

"I don't need your pity, Malfoy." Percy sneers, effect cumbered by the way he is still on the ground, muddied and wet and pathetic.

Fortunately, Ron stops advancing, "Leave now or I swear to fucking merlin himself I will beat you black and blue, Percy."

Percy looks away from Draco, towards Ron, and his face crumples a little, "I'm sorry, Ron. He was my brother too, I–"

"They're at Hogwarts, piling up corpses. Just get out of my sight." There's a fire in his eyes, and Draco knows danger when he sees it. He really hopes Percy obeys, or the Weasley family will have two corpses on their hands today.

Thankfully, Percy seems to recognise it too. He stares at Ron for a moment, struggles onto his feet, and then apparates away. This time the tell tale sound of apparition is much quieter. Ron turns on his feet and stomps inside, uncaring of the way he is tracking mud and water all over the floor.

Draco stares after him, and then tucks his wand back up his sleeve. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Hermione sigh, rubbing at her forehead as she starts heading inside. Draco falls into step beside her.

"Black sheep?"

Hermione snorts, "Which one, Ron or Percy?"

Draco thinks about it for a second, then shrugs. "Both, I suppose."

She shakes her head in exasperation, "You wouldn't be wrong. I'm surprised Percy even bothered coming. I haven't heard of him in such a long time."

"Seems like the Ginger hasn't either," he comments lightly.

"He's usually level-headed. He actually gets less angry than I do. He's protective though. When it concerns Harry, he just goes berserk."

Draco raises his eyebrows. Ronald seems perpetually angry to him, but he can see where she's coming from, actually. He still remembers her creative threats on his first day at Grimmauld Place.

"You're right, Granger," he says finally, listening to a crashing sound coming from upstairs, "We all need alcohol."