You FICKLE, fickle people! I threaten to withhold and I get love. I deliver
the goods and then you turn your back and fall asleep. Well, luckily I am a
long suffering woman, used to this abuse. But, if there are any women out
there (and I know there are), I hereby appeal to our empathetic feminine
side. Show me the love!
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter Universe belongs to JK Rowling.
Chapter 10: The Next Day and the Next Days
Draco also appeared to be covered in blood and guts, and was most certainly not moving. Harry struggled to unsteady feet and stumbled towards him, but paused upon hearing the heavy patter of footsteps. People were coming - running - and it sounded like a lot of people at that. He bent and groped frantically in the area in which his imagined his invisibility cloak could be located. A few seconds of fruitless groping almost drove him hysteria, but then his hand brushed against the familiar cloth and he grabbed it and dashed to Draco's curled form. He picked up the limp body and carried it about a meter until he could prop it against the wall, then he huddled next to Darco and hid them under the cloak. Voices could be clearly heard at this point, and moments latter, Harry watched seven men, several of them dressed in death eater robes (possibly having been alerted by their dark marks), burst in from the corridor.
The scene was greeted with gasps of disbelief, one 'Bloody Hell', and one 'Merlin!'.
"He's dead, isn't he?," asked one of robed men, sounding rather irritated, as the men began to spread out to take a better look at what was left of Voldemort.
"The fool certainly had it coming. How many times did I tell him that he should never be alone?," asked a witch dressed in ordinary blue robes.
"It has to have been Lucius," a third put in.
"Nah. Lucius doesn't have the power to do this, not on his own. And who would he have brought with him besides one of us?," the witch in blue contradicted.
"So, is it a coin toss between Dumbledore and Harry Potter then?"
"He was so sure that neither was powerful enough to take him on, not now, not one on one. . . Maybe he blew himself up." This comment was met with a round of chuckles. Harry was, frankly, shocked. This indifferent behavior on the part of the death eaters was certainly not what he had been expecting, and he couldn't decide if this boded well or ill for the future.
"Ugh. An ugly eyeball. Definitely him."
"I wonder if this is all him, or did he managed to take someone down with him."
"Well, I think I've had enough of this disgusting mess. I'm going to contact Malfoy," said a particularly hefty death eater, then him and two others left. The remaining death eaters continued to poke around for some time, but eventually grew bored and also left, leaving Harry to wait. And wait. He couldn't sneak out now - not with an unconscious Draco, a house full of death eaters, and his own weakened state. Draco's energy transfer had faded to practically nothing, leaving him exhausted after the day's events; then, for the second time that night, he fell asleep holding a beautiful blonde.
*
When he woke, Harry had absolutely no idea how much time had passed and Draco was still out cold, cradled under his arm. But, he did feel surprisingly well rested, suggesting that he had been asleep for quite some time - causing him to be all the more concerned for Draco. Why hadn't the other boy regained consciousness? How badly was he injured? In a panic, he checked for a pulse, only to scold himself for being an idiot, as it was obvious that Draco was still breathing. He gently slapped Draco's face, then he slapped harder, then he pinched him fiercely, but he didn't even get a twitch.
"You stupid thing, I told you not to come after me," Harry whispered, half with affection and half with genuine irritation. He had been more than willing to die killing Voldemort - indeed, that was why he had made no plans for getting out of the dungeon after the battle.
But what to do now? He couldn't just wait forever and Draco definitely needed medical attention. He didn't know how he would manage to drag Draco, unnoticed, through a house packed with death eaters, but the need to do something that wasn't waiting was overwhelming. So he whispered a weight nullifying spell, then he draped Draco's arm around his shoulder, grabbing on to his hand, and wrapped his free arm around Draco's waste; then he hauled them up, re-covered them with his invisibility cloak, and staggered out of the Voldemort's death room.
The going was slow, but steady, and Harry neither saw nor heard anyone, to the point that it was rather disturbing. Eventually, he passed the area where he and Draco had apparated in however many hours earlier; but he had to stumble a good five more minutes before reaching a narrow stone staircase. He paused for a moment to listen, then began to make his way up, torn between not wanting to make noise and wanting to get the hell out of the staircase. Finally, he reached a heavy oak door that, to his surprise, he was easily able to swing open.
He was greeted by stillness and silence. He was in what looked like an old, spacious, and expensively decorated Victorian interior. There was a Persian rug running the length of the corridor, several oil paintings (of the Muggle variety) decorating the wall, and a small chandelier hung from the ceiling. However, the lights were off, and the corridor was lit naturally by sunlight streaming in from rooms at either end of the hallway.
Harry felt a rush of hope. Maybe the death eaters had left. . . Draco had told him that headquarters moved each week, so it would hardly have been a difficult matter to relocate from the mansion in which Voldemort had so obviously been found and killed. Harry picked the direction that emitted more light, then dragged Draco until he reached a lush, spacious room that opened into what looked like. . . an atrium.
The relief tapped reserves of energy and he ran to the atrium, then to the door, despite dragging another person's dead weight, then he flung the door open.
He felt like he was in some great movie: he breathed the fresh air in deeply, basking the glory of the mid afternoon sunlight of hope and freedom. The giant house was buffered from the other giant houses by a scenic verdant garden, and Harry finally let himself believe that everything was going to be okay.
*
Not ever wanting to return to the house, Harry had removed his cloak and carried Draco (in his arms, now that he didn't have to worry about being seen) to the neighboring house. There, he asked the butler if he could ring them a cab, being that his incapacitated friend had drunk far too much and now needed to be driven home - and the butler was more than willing to do anything to get the smelly, disgusting looking indigents off his porch and lawn.
The cab came, reluctantly picked up the two filthy boys, and drove them quite a distance to central London as Harry requested. By the time the cab finally dropped them off, Sunday evening was encroaching. Harry then used his wand to cast a minor memory spell over the poor Indian driver, as he hadn't the money to pay the fare. Then he dragged Draco's body, drawing surprisingly little attention to himself (though, on the other hand, it was London, the great den of freaks), to a specific closed and decrepit store window. After jumping through the necessary hoops, he and Draco were allowed into the waiting room of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
There were a lot of people waiting; indeed, since the return of Voldemort, there were a lot of people in the hospital generally. Voldemort's supporters were everywhere, acting everywhere, and his army was biding its time, making surgical strikes against strategic places and sources of resistance. It was only then, there in St. Mungo's, surrounded by many who appeared to be suffering from inflicted wounds, and holding his unconscious lover in his arms, that Harry truly realized what Draco had been trying to tell him.
That realization was quickly followed by another: he had cut off the head of the dragon, but in its place would likely spring many more heads, and its body would remain intact, as well as very much alive, and very dangerous. Voldemort's death had freed the men and women he had cast under his Imperius, but at this point, most of 'his' support came willingly or else came from those under the Imperius of one of his willing supporters. The war was not over; in fact, the worst was, in all probability, just about to begin. It had simply been too late to stop a boulder this great from rolling down a mountain so steep.
Then there was a third, immediately relevant revelation and Harry immediately felt his paranoia level rocket to the roof. He was not safe here. Voldemort surely had supporters here, Draco had even said so.
Harry had to force himself not to start creeping towards the exit. Then he had to force himself not to just dump Draco and flee. Draco had stayed in the snake pit to save him, he now felt obliged to stay with Draco in the lion's den to save him. The name of Malfoy would certainly open doors and get the pale boy much needed medical attention, but Harry seriously doubted that Draco wanted his father alerted to his presence. Not now. It made Harry sick to his stomach to think about it and it steeled his resolve, for surely Lucius Malfoy would want his useful son (what had Draco called himself? the human battery?) back, now that Voldemort was finished with him. No! Harry would not let it happen.
So, while in line, Harry discretely used his wand to vanish his scar (in truth, everyone seemed too wrapped up in their own misery to notice), figuring that the dirt, blood, sweat, guts, and general stench would do the rest of the job.
He figured right. When he finally got Draco admitted, under the false name of Dragon Jones, and giving his own name as Brennan Wilder (the name of one of Dudley's friends), no one even batted an eyelash. The thin boy was taken to a bed in a ward on the unexpectedly populous fourth floor (for victims of spell damage), where a mediwitch insisted Harry wait outside while she looked over Mr. Jones. After several impatient and increasingly neurotic minutes of waiting, Harry made his way to the nearest bathroom. There he used the only cleaning spell he knew on his clothes and body - it did wonders for his appearance, though he continued to both smell bad and feel completely filthy. So he followed his magical attempt with what Seamus had once called 'a French whore bath': he wet several paper towels and used them to scrub his face and armpits and chest and groin. That, at least, made him feel cleaner, though he clothes still felt like they carried their own weight in grime.
Then he returned to the closed door of the ward and waited. And waited. And waited. . . until he was stirred out of sleep by a soft, insistent hand. "Mr. Wilder? Mr. Wilder?"
"Huh?," Harry grunted with a start.
The mediwitch was back, looking sympathetic. "Are you all right yourself?"
Harry nodded groggily. "I'm fine. How's Dra - gon?"
The witch sighed unhappily. "Well, there are no medical reasons for him not to wake up, not physically at least. But with this kind of spell damage, the mind can be so traumatized that it doesn't even want to wake up and it simply can't handle consciousness. If we're lucky, this is just because of the pain, in which case the mind has a good chance of being able to work through it and eventually restore full consciousness. If we're unlucky, as is the case so often these days, then the prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus curse has broken the conscious part of the mind, and there won't be much to come back to."
Harry paled at her words, his mind flashing to memories of Neville's mother, here on the same floor. "Can I see him?," he asked hoarsely.
With a nod, the kindly witch escorted him to and deposited him in a white room, closing the door behind him with the parting instructions, "Don't stay too long. Visiting hours are long over." Harry looked hesitantly at the still body, then crept closer. Draco had been cleaned up and Harry was struck by an awful emotional pain, seeing him so exquisite and so vulnerable. Then a terrible thought struck.
With a broken mind, with no will, Draco would finally be the perfect tool. He wouldn't be able to plot against his captors, he wouldn't be able to fight them off, he wouldn't even know what was happening to him. At least if Harry used him, he would treat him well. . . With that final thought, Harry felt suddenly nauseous and was profoundly horrified by his own mind. He wanted Draco, he couldn't deny it, but his feelings were all muddled and he couldn't make any sense of them.
He reached out to stroke the baby smooth cheek of the peaceful face. "Come back to me, Draco, please." But he didn't know if he wanted this for its own sake or simply to be spared the wrenching temptation of taking advantage of a senseless beauty. Then even he couldn't be so heartless, and he gathered Draco in his arms, kissing his cheek. Either way, he really did want Draco to be okay. After a long moment, he gently placed the limp body down and retreated to a chair in the corner, determined to stay until there was a sign of life, until he willed life back into the sleeping form. Then he snuggled under his invisibility cloak and returned to sleep - everything was so much easier and so much more comforting there.
He was woken several hours later by the sound of a door closing. He opened his eyes to see. . . Dumbledore, staring at him under his cloak. He pulled the cloak off, stretching his legs, and rearranging his limbs, but didn't stand, preferring to glare angrily. "I killed him."
Dumbledore nodded stoically, though a small, sad smile appeared on his face. "I know."
"Do you now?," Harry asked dangerously. "And did you know what this would do to Draco? You knew what he was, you knew that Voldemort was using him, you knew everything. Did you know he would end up a fucking zombie?!"
Dumbledore considered the boy in front of him for a long moment. Finally, he spoke softly, gravely. "Malfoy knew what he was doing. Every war needs someone to do the dirty work, and Malfoy knew that. Like you, he has always been a person with a destiny, and the opportunities for him to get off this path have been virtually nonexistent. He will never be the same, but I doubt the fates are finished with him yet."
Every time Dumbledore used the name Malfoy instead of Draco, Harry was enraged a little more. "Aren't we finished yet?," he growled.
The old man responded sternly, "I think you know the answer to that, Harry. The Dark Lord may be dead, but the war has just begun in earnest."
All of Harry's fears and predictions were being confirmed. He wanted to scream at his headmaster, and tell him to go fuck off, that he WAS finished, that he had already fulfilled his destiny and now it was time to lay back and let someone else clean up the rest of the mess. Unfortunately, the rest of the mess was a large marauding army of Voldemort supporters and undead, led by a vicious and malevolent group of death eaters. So after allowing dozens of seconds to cool his rage, he gritted out, "What do you want me to do?"
Somehow, Dumbledore looked both pleased and defeated by Harry's compliance. "Actually, it's not a job I think you'll mind. I just want you to look over young Malfoy here. His father will be looking for him, and will undoubtedly go to great lengths to get him back. Their blood relation means that Lucius could use his son more effectively than Voldemort was ever able to, provided he gets his hands on certain ancient texts containing spells that complement the Power Transfer Spell. I believe you would be uniquely suited to this task." Harry looked very much like he wanted to interrupt, but the Headmaster pushed on. "You want to know why we didn't try to protect young Malfoy before. The truth is that we couldn't even do this now if it wasn't for the fact that the Ministry's power is falling apart, and it can no longer prevent us from keeping an underage child from his legal guardian. But now. . . civil war makes anything possible. After Christmas, Hogwarts will not be reopening."
Harry was left reeling. "Civil war?"
Dumbledore nodded. "Word is already spreading of Voldemort's death, giving our side the courage to actively come out against the other side; and this is good, because a stand needs to be made. But the other side is a huge and brutal army pervading our society, now released from the restraint placed on it by Voldemort's monopoly of power. And this army has a whole arsenal of weaponry that we will never be able to stoop so low as to use."
"I don't know. I think we've stooped pretty low already," Harry snapped scathingly.
"We have, we have."
*
Harry rarely left Draco's side for the next week. He ate in the cafeteria and spent most of the non-visiting hours hidden under his invisibility cloak. Still, he was under the distinct impression that the kindly mediwitch caring for Dragon Jones was aware of his presence - especially given the fact that Harry had taken to cuddling up to Draco's lifeless form to sleep. However, she also seemed disinclined to inform of him: Harry suspect that Dumbledore had talked to her. She had even left him a clean set of clothes.
Harry spent some time exploring the area of muggle London that surrounded St. Mungo's, but for the most part, he just sat or exercised in Draco's room, with far too much time to think, avoiding the swamped and increasingly chaotic hospital hallways like the plague. It was all making him bitter and resentful and it fostered a most fowl mood, though luckily it was usually not directed at the blonde on the bed.
On Saturday, after almost a week on Draco watch, and the day after Hogwarts had been let out, possibly forever, Hermione came to visit. Outside of Dumbledore and anyone else he had told, only Hermione and Ron knew where he was and what he was doing, though Harry had left the details to the imagination.
Hermione came up to him in the cafeteria, where Harry was eating quickly and doing his best to be inconspicuous, being justifiably paranoid about the possibility of being recognized. She slid into the seat next to him, and his eyes flickered to her face before registering surprise. "Hermione. . . what are you doing here?"
She raised her eyebrows expressively. "I have been waiting up here for you for hours. I was about to knock on every door to look for you." Then she broke into a great grin and grabbed his hands excitedly. "I'm so glad your okay. I can't believe you did it!"
Harry looked around nervously. "Maybe we should talk about this somewhere else."
Hermione nodded and stood, then followed Harry down a floor. Outside a particular door, Harry stopped and whispered, "Herm. . . can you guess who it is I'm supposed to be looking after?"
Slowly, she shook her head. Her brain put forth a number of suggestions, but all were merely possibilities, not anyone obvious based on her limited knowledge of the situation.
"It's HIM," Harry sighed with pain.
"You-know-who?!," Hermione gasped, panic suddenly flaring.
"No! . . . D - the Giver," he hissed awkwardly.
"Harry," her voice was so low it could barely be heard, but it had gained a sharp edge. "What did you do? You said you weren't going to hurt him."
Her words struck raw chords in himself, provoking anger and guilt. "It wasn't me! You-know-who put him under the Cruciatus, and then he never woke up. He wasn't even supposed to be there! I told him to go back to Hogwarts."
Hermione did not look happy with him, but she finally nodded; then she looked at the door they standing in front of. "Is this his room?"
Harry nodded. "Hermione. . . you have to swear not to tell anyone, especially not Ron. You deserve to know the truth, but he will never forgive me for this. Please don't make it worse for him by telling others, he doesn't deserve that."
"I swear," she replied solemnly, then she followed him through the door.
She froze in shock and a hiss of breath escaped between clenched teeth. Harry closed the door after her. "No. It can't be. How. . .? I can't believe. . ."
"It's true," Harry said expressionlessly.
Hermione continued to gape and stutter in disbelief for a minute or two more, before her and Harry were really able to talk. She told him of the chaos at Hogwarts and Hogsmeade (reminiscent of what the Daily Prophet was saying was happening throughout the wizarding community - attacks, pillaging, rioting, fighting in the street, guerrilla warfare, mayhem), and he told her the details of his encounter with Voldemort, as well as his need, and duty, to defend Draco from his father. Harry respected and trusted Hermione above all others - Ron was trustworthy, but he couldn't shoulder the same responsibility that Hermione could; he couldn't be relied on in the same way. Hermione was. . . his right hand man, and was a brilliant and powerful witch in her own right.
It was a comforting afternoon they spent together, merely by virtue of each other's presence, and both felt renewed hope by the time Hermione left to go stay with Ron at the twins' place. After a few days she would return to the home of her muggle parents, where she would attempt to coordinate lodging and care for the growing numbers of injured and orphaned - from both sides of the war.
*
It was another three, almost unbearable days before Draco stirred.
XXXXX
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Disclaimer: The Harry Potter Universe belongs to JK Rowling.
Chapter 10: The Next Day and the Next Days
Draco also appeared to be covered in blood and guts, and was most certainly not moving. Harry struggled to unsteady feet and stumbled towards him, but paused upon hearing the heavy patter of footsteps. People were coming - running - and it sounded like a lot of people at that. He bent and groped frantically in the area in which his imagined his invisibility cloak could be located. A few seconds of fruitless groping almost drove him hysteria, but then his hand brushed against the familiar cloth and he grabbed it and dashed to Draco's curled form. He picked up the limp body and carried it about a meter until he could prop it against the wall, then he huddled next to Darco and hid them under the cloak. Voices could be clearly heard at this point, and moments latter, Harry watched seven men, several of them dressed in death eater robes (possibly having been alerted by their dark marks), burst in from the corridor.
The scene was greeted with gasps of disbelief, one 'Bloody Hell', and one 'Merlin!'.
"He's dead, isn't he?," asked one of robed men, sounding rather irritated, as the men began to spread out to take a better look at what was left of Voldemort.
"The fool certainly had it coming. How many times did I tell him that he should never be alone?," asked a witch dressed in ordinary blue robes.
"It has to have been Lucius," a third put in.
"Nah. Lucius doesn't have the power to do this, not on his own. And who would he have brought with him besides one of us?," the witch in blue contradicted.
"So, is it a coin toss between Dumbledore and Harry Potter then?"
"He was so sure that neither was powerful enough to take him on, not now, not one on one. . . Maybe he blew himself up." This comment was met with a round of chuckles. Harry was, frankly, shocked. This indifferent behavior on the part of the death eaters was certainly not what he had been expecting, and he couldn't decide if this boded well or ill for the future.
"Ugh. An ugly eyeball. Definitely him."
"I wonder if this is all him, or did he managed to take someone down with him."
"Well, I think I've had enough of this disgusting mess. I'm going to contact Malfoy," said a particularly hefty death eater, then him and two others left. The remaining death eaters continued to poke around for some time, but eventually grew bored and also left, leaving Harry to wait. And wait. He couldn't sneak out now - not with an unconscious Draco, a house full of death eaters, and his own weakened state. Draco's energy transfer had faded to practically nothing, leaving him exhausted after the day's events; then, for the second time that night, he fell asleep holding a beautiful blonde.
*
When he woke, Harry had absolutely no idea how much time had passed and Draco was still out cold, cradled under his arm. But, he did feel surprisingly well rested, suggesting that he had been asleep for quite some time - causing him to be all the more concerned for Draco. Why hadn't the other boy regained consciousness? How badly was he injured? In a panic, he checked for a pulse, only to scold himself for being an idiot, as it was obvious that Draco was still breathing. He gently slapped Draco's face, then he slapped harder, then he pinched him fiercely, but he didn't even get a twitch.
"You stupid thing, I told you not to come after me," Harry whispered, half with affection and half with genuine irritation. He had been more than willing to die killing Voldemort - indeed, that was why he had made no plans for getting out of the dungeon after the battle.
But what to do now? He couldn't just wait forever and Draco definitely needed medical attention. He didn't know how he would manage to drag Draco, unnoticed, through a house packed with death eaters, but the need to do something that wasn't waiting was overwhelming. So he whispered a weight nullifying spell, then he draped Draco's arm around his shoulder, grabbing on to his hand, and wrapped his free arm around Draco's waste; then he hauled them up, re-covered them with his invisibility cloak, and staggered out of the Voldemort's death room.
The going was slow, but steady, and Harry neither saw nor heard anyone, to the point that it was rather disturbing. Eventually, he passed the area where he and Draco had apparated in however many hours earlier; but he had to stumble a good five more minutes before reaching a narrow stone staircase. He paused for a moment to listen, then began to make his way up, torn between not wanting to make noise and wanting to get the hell out of the staircase. Finally, he reached a heavy oak door that, to his surprise, he was easily able to swing open.
He was greeted by stillness and silence. He was in what looked like an old, spacious, and expensively decorated Victorian interior. There was a Persian rug running the length of the corridor, several oil paintings (of the Muggle variety) decorating the wall, and a small chandelier hung from the ceiling. However, the lights were off, and the corridor was lit naturally by sunlight streaming in from rooms at either end of the hallway.
Harry felt a rush of hope. Maybe the death eaters had left. . . Draco had told him that headquarters moved each week, so it would hardly have been a difficult matter to relocate from the mansion in which Voldemort had so obviously been found and killed. Harry picked the direction that emitted more light, then dragged Draco until he reached a lush, spacious room that opened into what looked like. . . an atrium.
The relief tapped reserves of energy and he ran to the atrium, then to the door, despite dragging another person's dead weight, then he flung the door open.
He felt like he was in some great movie: he breathed the fresh air in deeply, basking the glory of the mid afternoon sunlight of hope and freedom. The giant house was buffered from the other giant houses by a scenic verdant garden, and Harry finally let himself believe that everything was going to be okay.
*
Not ever wanting to return to the house, Harry had removed his cloak and carried Draco (in his arms, now that he didn't have to worry about being seen) to the neighboring house. There, he asked the butler if he could ring them a cab, being that his incapacitated friend had drunk far too much and now needed to be driven home - and the butler was more than willing to do anything to get the smelly, disgusting looking indigents off his porch and lawn.
The cab came, reluctantly picked up the two filthy boys, and drove them quite a distance to central London as Harry requested. By the time the cab finally dropped them off, Sunday evening was encroaching. Harry then used his wand to cast a minor memory spell over the poor Indian driver, as he hadn't the money to pay the fare. Then he dragged Draco's body, drawing surprisingly little attention to himself (though, on the other hand, it was London, the great den of freaks), to a specific closed and decrepit store window. After jumping through the necessary hoops, he and Draco were allowed into the waiting room of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
There were a lot of people waiting; indeed, since the return of Voldemort, there were a lot of people in the hospital generally. Voldemort's supporters were everywhere, acting everywhere, and his army was biding its time, making surgical strikes against strategic places and sources of resistance. It was only then, there in St. Mungo's, surrounded by many who appeared to be suffering from inflicted wounds, and holding his unconscious lover in his arms, that Harry truly realized what Draco had been trying to tell him.
That realization was quickly followed by another: he had cut off the head of the dragon, but in its place would likely spring many more heads, and its body would remain intact, as well as very much alive, and very dangerous. Voldemort's death had freed the men and women he had cast under his Imperius, but at this point, most of 'his' support came willingly or else came from those under the Imperius of one of his willing supporters. The war was not over; in fact, the worst was, in all probability, just about to begin. It had simply been too late to stop a boulder this great from rolling down a mountain so steep.
Then there was a third, immediately relevant revelation and Harry immediately felt his paranoia level rocket to the roof. He was not safe here. Voldemort surely had supporters here, Draco had even said so.
Harry had to force himself not to start creeping towards the exit. Then he had to force himself not to just dump Draco and flee. Draco had stayed in the snake pit to save him, he now felt obliged to stay with Draco in the lion's den to save him. The name of Malfoy would certainly open doors and get the pale boy much needed medical attention, but Harry seriously doubted that Draco wanted his father alerted to his presence. Not now. It made Harry sick to his stomach to think about it and it steeled his resolve, for surely Lucius Malfoy would want his useful son (what had Draco called himself? the human battery?) back, now that Voldemort was finished with him. No! Harry would not let it happen.
So, while in line, Harry discretely used his wand to vanish his scar (in truth, everyone seemed too wrapped up in their own misery to notice), figuring that the dirt, blood, sweat, guts, and general stench would do the rest of the job.
He figured right. When he finally got Draco admitted, under the false name of Dragon Jones, and giving his own name as Brennan Wilder (the name of one of Dudley's friends), no one even batted an eyelash. The thin boy was taken to a bed in a ward on the unexpectedly populous fourth floor (for victims of spell damage), where a mediwitch insisted Harry wait outside while she looked over Mr. Jones. After several impatient and increasingly neurotic minutes of waiting, Harry made his way to the nearest bathroom. There he used the only cleaning spell he knew on his clothes and body - it did wonders for his appearance, though he continued to both smell bad and feel completely filthy. So he followed his magical attempt with what Seamus had once called 'a French whore bath': he wet several paper towels and used them to scrub his face and armpits and chest and groin. That, at least, made him feel cleaner, though he clothes still felt like they carried their own weight in grime.
Then he returned to the closed door of the ward and waited. And waited. And waited. . . until he was stirred out of sleep by a soft, insistent hand. "Mr. Wilder? Mr. Wilder?"
"Huh?," Harry grunted with a start.
The mediwitch was back, looking sympathetic. "Are you all right yourself?"
Harry nodded groggily. "I'm fine. How's Dra - gon?"
The witch sighed unhappily. "Well, there are no medical reasons for him not to wake up, not physically at least. But with this kind of spell damage, the mind can be so traumatized that it doesn't even want to wake up and it simply can't handle consciousness. If we're lucky, this is just because of the pain, in which case the mind has a good chance of being able to work through it and eventually restore full consciousness. If we're unlucky, as is the case so often these days, then the prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus curse has broken the conscious part of the mind, and there won't be much to come back to."
Harry paled at her words, his mind flashing to memories of Neville's mother, here on the same floor. "Can I see him?," he asked hoarsely.
With a nod, the kindly witch escorted him to and deposited him in a white room, closing the door behind him with the parting instructions, "Don't stay too long. Visiting hours are long over." Harry looked hesitantly at the still body, then crept closer. Draco had been cleaned up and Harry was struck by an awful emotional pain, seeing him so exquisite and so vulnerable. Then a terrible thought struck.
With a broken mind, with no will, Draco would finally be the perfect tool. He wouldn't be able to plot against his captors, he wouldn't be able to fight them off, he wouldn't even know what was happening to him. At least if Harry used him, he would treat him well. . . With that final thought, Harry felt suddenly nauseous and was profoundly horrified by his own mind. He wanted Draco, he couldn't deny it, but his feelings were all muddled and he couldn't make any sense of them.
He reached out to stroke the baby smooth cheek of the peaceful face. "Come back to me, Draco, please." But he didn't know if he wanted this for its own sake or simply to be spared the wrenching temptation of taking advantage of a senseless beauty. Then even he couldn't be so heartless, and he gathered Draco in his arms, kissing his cheek. Either way, he really did want Draco to be okay. After a long moment, he gently placed the limp body down and retreated to a chair in the corner, determined to stay until there was a sign of life, until he willed life back into the sleeping form. Then he snuggled under his invisibility cloak and returned to sleep - everything was so much easier and so much more comforting there.
He was woken several hours later by the sound of a door closing. He opened his eyes to see. . . Dumbledore, staring at him under his cloak. He pulled the cloak off, stretching his legs, and rearranging his limbs, but didn't stand, preferring to glare angrily. "I killed him."
Dumbledore nodded stoically, though a small, sad smile appeared on his face. "I know."
"Do you now?," Harry asked dangerously. "And did you know what this would do to Draco? You knew what he was, you knew that Voldemort was using him, you knew everything. Did you know he would end up a fucking zombie?!"
Dumbledore considered the boy in front of him for a long moment. Finally, he spoke softly, gravely. "Malfoy knew what he was doing. Every war needs someone to do the dirty work, and Malfoy knew that. Like you, he has always been a person with a destiny, and the opportunities for him to get off this path have been virtually nonexistent. He will never be the same, but I doubt the fates are finished with him yet."
Every time Dumbledore used the name Malfoy instead of Draco, Harry was enraged a little more. "Aren't we finished yet?," he growled.
The old man responded sternly, "I think you know the answer to that, Harry. The Dark Lord may be dead, but the war has just begun in earnest."
All of Harry's fears and predictions were being confirmed. He wanted to scream at his headmaster, and tell him to go fuck off, that he WAS finished, that he had already fulfilled his destiny and now it was time to lay back and let someone else clean up the rest of the mess. Unfortunately, the rest of the mess was a large marauding army of Voldemort supporters and undead, led by a vicious and malevolent group of death eaters. So after allowing dozens of seconds to cool his rage, he gritted out, "What do you want me to do?"
Somehow, Dumbledore looked both pleased and defeated by Harry's compliance. "Actually, it's not a job I think you'll mind. I just want you to look over young Malfoy here. His father will be looking for him, and will undoubtedly go to great lengths to get him back. Their blood relation means that Lucius could use his son more effectively than Voldemort was ever able to, provided he gets his hands on certain ancient texts containing spells that complement the Power Transfer Spell. I believe you would be uniquely suited to this task." Harry looked very much like he wanted to interrupt, but the Headmaster pushed on. "You want to know why we didn't try to protect young Malfoy before. The truth is that we couldn't even do this now if it wasn't for the fact that the Ministry's power is falling apart, and it can no longer prevent us from keeping an underage child from his legal guardian. But now. . . civil war makes anything possible. After Christmas, Hogwarts will not be reopening."
Harry was left reeling. "Civil war?"
Dumbledore nodded. "Word is already spreading of Voldemort's death, giving our side the courage to actively come out against the other side; and this is good, because a stand needs to be made. But the other side is a huge and brutal army pervading our society, now released from the restraint placed on it by Voldemort's monopoly of power. And this army has a whole arsenal of weaponry that we will never be able to stoop so low as to use."
"I don't know. I think we've stooped pretty low already," Harry snapped scathingly.
"We have, we have."
*
Harry rarely left Draco's side for the next week. He ate in the cafeteria and spent most of the non-visiting hours hidden under his invisibility cloak. Still, he was under the distinct impression that the kindly mediwitch caring for Dragon Jones was aware of his presence - especially given the fact that Harry had taken to cuddling up to Draco's lifeless form to sleep. However, she also seemed disinclined to inform of him: Harry suspect that Dumbledore had talked to her. She had even left him a clean set of clothes.
Harry spent some time exploring the area of muggle London that surrounded St. Mungo's, but for the most part, he just sat or exercised in Draco's room, with far too much time to think, avoiding the swamped and increasingly chaotic hospital hallways like the plague. It was all making him bitter and resentful and it fostered a most fowl mood, though luckily it was usually not directed at the blonde on the bed.
On Saturday, after almost a week on Draco watch, and the day after Hogwarts had been let out, possibly forever, Hermione came to visit. Outside of Dumbledore and anyone else he had told, only Hermione and Ron knew where he was and what he was doing, though Harry had left the details to the imagination.
Hermione came up to him in the cafeteria, where Harry was eating quickly and doing his best to be inconspicuous, being justifiably paranoid about the possibility of being recognized. She slid into the seat next to him, and his eyes flickered to her face before registering surprise. "Hermione. . . what are you doing here?"
She raised her eyebrows expressively. "I have been waiting up here for you for hours. I was about to knock on every door to look for you." Then she broke into a great grin and grabbed his hands excitedly. "I'm so glad your okay. I can't believe you did it!"
Harry looked around nervously. "Maybe we should talk about this somewhere else."
Hermione nodded and stood, then followed Harry down a floor. Outside a particular door, Harry stopped and whispered, "Herm. . . can you guess who it is I'm supposed to be looking after?"
Slowly, she shook her head. Her brain put forth a number of suggestions, but all were merely possibilities, not anyone obvious based on her limited knowledge of the situation.
"It's HIM," Harry sighed with pain.
"You-know-who?!," Hermione gasped, panic suddenly flaring.
"No! . . . D - the Giver," he hissed awkwardly.
"Harry," her voice was so low it could barely be heard, but it had gained a sharp edge. "What did you do? You said you weren't going to hurt him."
Her words struck raw chords in himself, provoking anger and guilt. "It wasn't me! You-know-who put him under the Cruciatus, and then he never woke up. He wasn't even supposed to be there! I told him to go back to Hogwarts."
Hermione did not look happy with him, but she finally nodded; then she looked at the door they standing in front of. "Is this his room?"
Harry nodded. "Hermione. . . you have to swear not to tell anyone, especially not Ron. You deserve to know the truth, but he will never forgive me for this. Please don't make it worse for him by telling others, he doesn't deserve that."
"I swear," she replied solemnly, then she followed him through the door.
She froze in shock and a hiss of breath escaped between clenched teeth. Harry closed the door after her. "No. It can't be. How. . .? I can't believe. . ."
"It's true," Harry said expressionlessly.
Hermione continued to gape and stutter in disbelief for a minute or two more, before her and Harry were really able to talk. She told him of the chaos at Hogwarts and Hogsmeade (reminiscent of what the Daily Prophet was saying was happening throughout the wizarding community - attacks, pillaging, rioting, fighting in the street, guerrilla warfare, mayhem), and he told her the details of his encounter with Voldemort, as well as his need, and duty, to defend Draco from his father. Harry respected and trusted Hermione above all others - Ron was trustworthy, but he couldn't shoulder the same responsibility that Hermione could; he couldn't be relied on in the same way. Hermione was. . . his right hand man, and was a brilliant and powerful witch in her own right.
It was a comforting afternoon they spent together, merely by virtue of each other's presence, and both felt renewed hope by the time Hermione left to go stay with Ron at the twins' place. After a few days she would return to the home of her muggle parents, where she would attempt to coordinate lodging and care for the growing numbers of injured and orphaned - from both sides of the war.
*
It was another three, almost unbearable days before Draco stirred.
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