Author Alert: This chapter contains material that may be inappropriate for young and/or sensitive readers.
A centrally located conference room at the Auror headquarters in the Ministry had been turned into the clearinghouse for all information on the missing Boy-Who-Lived. Fudge had hastily dubbed the search a number one priority in order to prevent a panic in the wizarding community rather than out of any real concern for Harry, Ron knew. Fudge feared being forced out of power if the shaky confidence the public held him in wavered any more with their hero missing. Ron had come to rely on one of his brothers gripping his arm and holding him firmly in his seat every time Fudge strutted through the Auror department alternately asking anxious questions and making short, self-important speeches to the effect that he was sure a lucky lad like Harry would come out all right in the end. With the certain knowledge that Fudge didn't give a shit for Harry beyond his political capital and the dreadful truth that Harry had now been missing for five days pounding in his head, Ron knew that the next time the Minister showed his face all of his brothers put together would not be able to hold him back from punching the pompous politician.
Ron drew in a deep breath and refocused his attention on the intelligence reports on the table in front of him. Breathing slowly and evenly, he willed the random collection of data to provide the clue that would take him to Harry, simultaneously trying to soothe the rapidly unraveling shreds of his self-control into a calm façade. He felt Moody's all-seeing eye constantly on him, waiting for the chance to claim that Ron was too emotional and take him off the case. Ron knew he was too emotional—it was Harry, for God's sake—but that didn't make him any more willing to abandon him in some pointless bid for professionalism.
How could someone as alive with magic and energy as Harry vanish so completely? Ron felt like the silence of his lonely flat had encompassed all of England, a terrifyingly opaque quiet void that had stolen Harry and would not give him back.
"We've got it!" Hermione crowed triumphantly, bursting into the conference room and shoving a ream of parchment in Moody's face. "I wasn't sure but now—"
"Shut up, Granger!" Moody bellowed, batting the papers away. "Not another word until we've got only key personnel and proper security charms."
Hermione deflated only slightly and when Ron saw as she turned toward him the bright sparkle of hope in her eyes that had become dull with despair over the past five days, he felt his heart lift into his throat. Could she really have found him?
Moody waded efficiently through the Aurors, clerks, intelligence operatives and various other employees camped out in the conference room, neatly sending the ones who were not in the Order to fetch the ones who were in the Order but not present. The non-Order personnel had no idea why they were all shifted around, included in some operations but not others, forced to simply accept Moody's strange machinations as part of his paranoid security features. Thus Moody's cagey reputation enabled him to assemble and mobilize the Order directly out of Ministry Auror headquarters.
Ron realized he was sifting through the ranks of Order members and Moody's clever procedures in an effort to distract himself from the dizzying hope that they might be within range of reclaiming Harry. As heavy counterbalance to the optimistic possibility was the stomach-churning dread of what condition Harry would be in when they found him. Ron willed the Order members to get here quickly. Every moment Harry was in Malfoy's hands decreased his chances of survival.
If he were still alive at all.
Ron shoved the thought firmly away. Of course Harry was still alive. For one thing, he, Ron, would have felt it if Harry had died. For another, Voldemort had yet to decree world domination, emerging triumphantly in a cloud of flames in Diagon Alley or something.
That meant somewhere, somehow, Harry was still fighting. And that was all Ron needed to keep hoping.
As if sharing his impatience, Hermione tapped her foot and pursed her lips as the last Order members came rushing in and Moody placed a complicated set of wards on the door. As silence fell and everyone looked expectantly toward her, she plunged in, her now absolutely wild frizz floating around her head as if to reflect her sparking energy.
"Professor Snape performed a chemical analysis on the poison administered to Neville Longbottom and found that it utilized Cuban earwigs, a fairly rare potions ingredient. When I conducted a search of recent commercial transactions that came through British wards from Cuba, I found an earwig shipment delivered to a Bridethorn Hall in Lancashire. Ginny Weasley was able to ascertain that an order of silver dust, the cause of Remus Lupin's current hospitalization, also recently arrived there. To top it all off, Bridethorn Hall is registered to Narcissa Black, whom we all know as Narcissa Malfoy. Apparently Draco didn't think we would put the pieces together."
Pink with excitement, Hermione concluded and drew in a much-needed breath. Ron felt the grin light up his face at her revelation, and the Order concurred if the surge of renewed vigor that swept the room were anything to go by.
Moody heaved himself to his feet. "All right, people. We don't know if Malfoy's seeming carelessness is truly that or a trap designed to draw us in, so look sharp. We'll be taking in a strike team in two hours. All active Aurors get your gear together, and the rest of you organize in the usual support staff lineups, pre-op and post-op. Pre-op people, we're relying on you not only to make sure we go in with the usual assets but also with a few tricks up our sleeves."
Moody eyed the twins with these words and they leveled evil grins back at him. George actually rubbed his hands in anticipation as Moody continued.
"Post-op people, I want complete medical prep at Grimmauld. We don't know what shape Potter will be in when we get to him and I want to be able to portkey him into a fully operational healing facility. Poppy, you have free rein, and see if you can lay your hands on Fawkes while you're at it, we might need his tears. Apparition is at 1800 hours. Move out."
The room exploded into activity as the Order swung into motion. Ron knew Hermione would remain here in case any new intelligence data came in during the operation, and figured that he could get about twenty minutes of a catnap in and still be able to see her after meeting with the pre-op team to get briefed and supplied with additional weapons. After the days of tense worry he needed a few minutes of sleep to be ready to move out, and now having a real direction to work toward Harry, he had no doubt that he would actually be able to relax into unconsciousness for a short time. Twenty minutes would have to do it, though, because even though he and Harry always deliberately said goodbye to her before any operation in case things went seriously wrong, this time Ron owed Hermione an especially big hug—she had found Harry. Ron hoped the joy of this accomplishment would keep them both from being dragged down by Harry's absence from their customary embrace.
Ron was pleased that he was not even out of breath as he dropped to a crouch behind Kingsley Shacklebolt on the perimeter of Bridethorn Hall. Having apparated in five miles out and flown brooms four miles more, the strike team had taken the last mile at a run to avoid bringing any magical signatures into the wards of the Malfoy property. Ron was wingman to Shacklebolt and Kingsley had set a punishing pace for the run as he took point position for the raid. Ron felt a brief pang as he realized the extra laps while ogling Harry must have paid off, but as he and Kingsley cleared the final row of formal hedges his mind dropped into the clean lines of battle training and infiltration protocol.
He and Kingsley were poised beneath a first-floor window, thus far no signs of alarms, grounds staff, or house elves. A chill breeze from the early dusk ruffled Ron's hair and made him shiver slightly as the sweat from the run began to cool on his face. Kingsley signaled the other teams crouched at windows around the hall by tapping his watch with his wand, triggering a five second countdown. Ron watched the seconds tick down, idly noticing scratches on his hands from the holly bushes they'd hidden behind. He tensed his legs under him, situating one knee forward to provide maximum latent power and stability.
At the signal Kingsley vanished the window above them and they vaulted into it. Ron kept a dual focus, half of his attention trained on his point man and the other half of his senses keenly attuned to threats. As he and Shacklebolt smoothly exchanged positions back and forth, one covering while the other advanced a few feet down a hallway or kicked open a door, the dark silence was broken only by the calls of the Aurors as they stormed the house.
"This is Ministry Law Enforcement! Throw down your wands and show yourselves! Anti-apparition wards have been set!"
Finding nothing on the first floor and the other teams confirming that the upstairs was clear, the group converged and prepared to penetrate the lower levels of the manor. They had fully expected to find Harry held somewhere underground, but as Kingsley took point position again with Ron in a close rear-guard, Ron knew that everyone was uncomfortably aware that there had been no signs of occupation in the house thus far. Ron continued to sweep his wand in smooth arcs, right to left to right from high to low, the repetitive movements requiring no thought. He strained his ears for a cry, a shout, a laugh, an incantation, anything. Had they come this far on a false lead?
Coming to the end of a long spiraled stone staircase damp with age and mold, the Aurors fanned out down a corridor of multiple doors. There was no need to caution anyone to be careful—the thick tension had silenced even the customary commands for suspects to come out and throw down their wands.
The switch-off pattern placed Kingsley in position to kick open the last door, making Ron the first one inside.
Where all of his training sluiced out his head in a sickening rush.
They had found Harry.
Paying no attention to whether or not there were any enemies in the room, not checking for one guard hex or booby trap, Ron found himself on his knees next to Harry with no memory of having crossed the room.
Harry was a mass of dirt and blood, laid out on his back on the stone floor, utterly still. His eyes were open and fixed.
For a heart-crushing moment Ron was sure he was dead.
Then a faint rise and fall of Harry's chest brought noise and reality crashing back. Kingsley was kneeling next to him running medical diagnostic spells while the rest of the team secured the room, sweeping for surveillance charms and reporting back to Moody.
Ron clutched Harry's hand.
"Harry? Can you hear me? Are you all right?" Ron cursed himself for such a stupid question—of course Harry was not all right, he was clearly badly injured.
"Broken ribs, substantial blood loss, slight concussion, broken wrist, lower intestinal damage, numerous abrasions and lacerations, and a crushed kneecap," Shacklebolt muttered as he swept his wand over Harry. Ron looked down and saw that the leg of Harry's trousers was soaked with even more blood than the rest of his stained clothing and his leg was twisted awkwardly.
"Potter? Can you hear me?" Kingsley repeated Ron's question but to Ron's dawning horror, Harry, although clearly awake, continued to stare fixedly into space.
"Weasley, join the outside perimeter team to collect evidence. I'm going to portkey Potter to Grimmauld," Shacklebolt instructed hurriedly.
Ron did not let go of Harry's hand.
"Sir, with respect, you have much more experience with trace evidence correlation. It would be a better use of our strengths if I took Harry back," Ron said evenly, trying to at least appear to follow chain of command. No way in hell was he letting go of Harry, but maybe he wouldn't actually have to openly defy an immediate superior.
Kingsley's raised eyebrow showed he wasn't fooled by Ron's flattery, but since he'd seen Harry and Ron grow up together, he seemed to be inclined to let it pass. A knowing glint in his dark eyes made Ron wonder if he didn't understand his and Harry's relationship quite clearly.
"All right, Weasley, here's the preset portkey. You can wait to report to Moody until you hear Pomfrey's assessment of him."
Ron pressed the portkey into Harry's limp hand and felt his heart clench in fear again as he watched Harry's blank gaze, the streaks of dirt and sweat that marred his pale face making his staring green eyes clash even more with the blood streaking his clothes. Kingsley pressed himself to his feet and began snapping out orders that Ron didn't hear as he and Harry were sucked through space to safety.
Ron started awake as a mediwitch bustled noisily into the room, her robes swishing importantly and her rubber shoes squeaking on the polished floor. Ron scrubbed at his eyes and cocked his head, attempting to release the crick in his neck as he sat forward in the uncomfortable armchair.
"Well, Mr. Potter, awake at last," the dusty blond mediwitch said in the professionally cheerful voice that all St. Mungo's employees had. She hung Harry's chart on the end of his bed and placed a stack of folded clothes on his bedside stand. "Looks like we've got you patched up. Normally we like to keep patients in your condition longer than this, but as I understand security is a concern, we're going to go ahead and let you go pending ongoing medical evaluation. I've been told that the Hogwarts mediwitch will have you under her care. Go ahead and get dressed and the Healer will be in to see you momentarily."
She bustled out with neither a word to Ron nor any verbal acknowledgment from Harry. Staring down at the bedspread for a few moments, Harry eased himself out from between the sheets and reached for the stack of clothes. Before he could even place his full weight on his feet his knees buckled.
Ron was on his feet in an instant, arms wrapped around Harry to support him. "Whoa, there, mate, take it easy. Let me give you a hand."
Harry did not say anything but nodded, which encouraged Ron. This was the first time Harry had communicated at all since his rescue.
When the portkey had activated, Ron found himself in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, arms full of Harry. The post-op team immediately swirled around them in organized confusion, pulling Harry out of his arms and onto the bed that occupied the dining table's usual space. Ron was drawn to the side for a debriefing with Elphias Doge, but he could not speak coherently, too consumed by Harry's limp, pale form being exposed by Madame Pomfrey as she cut away his clothes to reveal more and more injuries. The next ten minutes were a wild blur of Harry's blood and orders barked to the medical assist team and Doge continuing to fire questions at him as the remainder of the strike team portkeyed in. Ron tried to focus on the questioning, knowing it was a privilege to submit a verbal report instead of a written one and that he would catch hell from Moody and Shacklebolt if he couldn't pull it together.
But all Ron could see through the dizzying chaos was Harry's wide, silent green eyes, staring straight ahead with no sign of recognition of anything that was happening to him. As Madame Pomfrey and her team worked on him, Harry didn't make a sound even through what Ron knew were painful procedures.
At last the noise in the kitchen subsided, the medical team finishing its work, the strike team dispersing for food and rest, and Doge ending the questioning, seemingly satisfied with Ron's stammering and disjointed responses. Ron pushed forward toward Harry and felt an arm come around his shoulders. He looked down and saw his Mum's face covered in mingled relief and worry. He was half grateful for her comforting touch and half afraid it would make him break down. Christ, what had happened to Harry to make him react like this?
"Mr. Potter? Can you hear me?" Madame Pomfrey ran a gentle hand over his hair, belying her brusque, urgent words.
Harry did not respond. He continued to stare blankly as her hand passed through his hair again, and then his eyes rolled back in his head, his body going slack.
"He's stable for the moment, but not reacting to stimulus at all. We need to get him to St. Mungo's for a neuromagical workup. I don't want to tackle that kind of specialized procedure here," Madame Pomfrey addressed a worried looking McGonagall. The Headmistress considered for a moment.
"Very well. Let me get a few people to augment the security and we'll portkey him over. Thank you for getting him this far, Poppy." McGonagall hurried out of the kitchen.
"Ron, dear, let me get you something to eat and then you can go to bed. You must be exhausted," Mrs. Weasley said quietly, already heading over to the stove.
"No, Mum, I'm going with Harry. I'm not leaving him alone." Despite his fatigue, Ron infused his tone with as much authority as possible.
She stared at him contemplatively for a moment and then surprised him.
"All right, dear. Just firecall me later to let me know how Harry's doing."
Ron was flabbergasted by her easy agreement but did not question his good fortune. McGonagall bustled back in with three other Order members in tow and seemed too distracted to question Ron's presence as they grabbed the old sock, the toe resting on Harry's chest, and sped away.
Now helping Harry on with his own socks in his room at St. Mungo's, Ron did not know whether to break the oppressive silence or let Harry speak in his own time. The door opened again to admit a middle-aged man with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair wearing the distinctive blue Healer's robes.
"Mr. Potter, an honor to meet you," he said crisply, making no effort to shake Harry's hand but immediately flipping through Harry's chart. "And you, sir," he said to Ron, without actually bothering to ask Ron's name or even look at him. Good thing this idiot wasn't in charge of security.
Ron waited for Harry to acknowledge the greeting.
Nothing.
"The neuromagical tests came back clean, and your preliminary treatment was satisfactory. We actually had very little to do beyond finishing the alignment of your damaged kneecap and finalizing the healing of your lower intestinal damage," the Healer concluded with an air of satisfaction.
His brisk air melted away in the next moment, however, and he sat on the bed next to Harry, setting the chart on next to him and folding his hands in his lap.
"About that lower intestinal and rectal damage, Mr. Potter. It shows clear evidence of sexual assault. I also understand that you have been unable to speak since your ordeal. Can you talk to me about what happened? These things take time to recover from, but we have some very skilled Mind Healers at St. Mungo's," he finished quietly.
Ron was frozen against the wall across from Harry. His blood felt like ice in his veins and there was a fierce pounding in his ears. Sexual assault?
Harry, his Harry, had been…had been—raped?
Oh, God. Please, God, no.
Harry sat silently, not exactly curled up but seeming to subtly take up less space than he had a few minutes before. His eyes flickered briefly up to Ron before staring at the floor again.
The Healer noticed Harry's glance. "You don't have to be afraid to speak, Mr. Potter. I can send your security detail outside while we talk," he finished, looking pointedly at Ron.
Harry's arm darted out spasmodically toward Ron and then returned to his lap. He placed a thin hand to his throat as he swallowed, drawing in several deep breaths as he tried to speak. The Healer reached over to the bedside stand and poured him a glass of water, which Harry took several sips of before handing it back. His throat worked again and he clenched his eyes shut for a moment.
"No," a thin whisper came out. "No, Ron can stay." The voice was a little stronger this time. "He's not security, he's…he can stay."
Relief at hearing Harry speak at last warred with horror at what the Healer had diagnosed. Ron had been so relieved to find Harry and then so afraid when he couldn't speak. Now he was so relieved to hear Harry's voice but terrified of what he would say.
The Healer waited patiently while Harry took several more deep breaths. Harry's face seemed to compose itself and a little of the tension drained out of his body. Ron felt a corresponding sense of calm waft over him at these signs of Harry's return to normal.
"I wasn't sexually assaulted," Harry said, carefully pressing his hands flat on the bedspread. "I was captured by Draco Malfoy, an old boyfriend of mine. I thought he wanted to hurt me or deliver me to Voldemort, but he only wanted a chance to talk to me and knew he would never get it without taking me by force. He took me to the house where his mum grew up. He wouldn't let me leave until he told me how much he cared for me, enough to defy Voldemort's orders to assassinate me on sight."
Harry looked up at Ron, his eyes emerald pools of sadness.
"He said he just wanted one chance with me, to let us both see if the love we had before could have been salvaged. I killed his father, you see, and it broke us apart," Harry directed to the intently listening Healer. Ron was equally riveted by the story, not sure where it was going but thankful at least that Harry hadn't been raped.
"I told him I was seeing someone else, but when he kissed me it was like we were eighteen again, like no time had passed. There always was a lot of chemistry between us. Everything just flew out of my head and—and I slept with him. It was fast and kind of rough, the way we always like it, which I guess is why I'm kind of banged up down there. Back when we were in school he would always heal me after we were done."
Harry addressed this last bit to the floor. A screen of red descended across Ron's vision. Blistering rage gathered slowly, feeling like a physical burn in his throat. Harry and Malfoy—oh, God. Harry had never gotten over him, Ron had been afraid of that all along. Bitterness washed over Ron at the knowledge that his fumbling until-recently-straight best mate wasn't enough for Harry—he needed Malfoy's expertise. But Harry was still talking.
"After it was over, I told him it was a mistake and I never wanted to see him again. He pleaded with me for awhile but I just told him to give me my wand back and that I never wanted to see him again. He kissed me again and then apparated out, taking my wand with him. He didn't seem that angry but I guess he was because the next thing I knew the room was full of Death Eaters. They must have been under his orders because they didn't take me to Voldemort. They just hit me and kicked me a lot and cast cruciatus a few times. Then they dumped me in the basement and left. I couldn't walk because of my knee and I lay there for four days before you lot found me," Harry finished, mute apology flooding his green eyes as he gazed up at Ron.
The Healer was frowning by this point but said nothing for the moment. Ron stood there shaking his head mechanically back and forth, feeling short of breath, hot and cold at the same time. How could this be happening? But there was no way around it.
While he and Hermione had been mad with grief and fear Harry had been fucking Draco Malfoy.
"Ron, I'm so sorry," Harry said, his chin starting to quiver. "I don't know what came over me. I guess I just wanted to finish things with Draco completely so you and I could be together, free and clear." Harry seemed to have lost all self-consciousness in front of the Healer, whose eyes widened at the clear implication that he and Ron were involved.
Ron stared at the slight, well-formed body that he knew so well, the fine but powerful features of the pale face, suddenly hateful and ugly to him. The furious heat that had washed his face drained away and he felt his heart turn to ice. He closed his eyes against the pleading green gaze but saw only visions of Harry's taut body entwined with Malfoy's tall, lean build, dark hair tangling with pale blond tresses, grasping hands, thrusting hips—
Ron's eyes snapped open. The Healer had started talking but Ron didn't hear a word he was saying. Ron walked rapidly out of the room without speaking. His mind felt far away.
He wished Harry's voice had not come back.
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