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The title of this chapter is taken from a poem by George Eliot, "O May I Join the Choir Invisible."
Chapter Fifty-One: The Choir InvisibleHarry heard the screaming in his dreams.
He opened his eyes slowly at first, certain he would find himself in another vision of Voldemort torturing someone. He wondered grimly how bad the vision must have been to have broken through his Occlumency barrier—or if Voldemort had managed to find some way through the grass that sealed off their link, just to show him these special visions of pain.
But, to his surprise, though he found himself standing in a dark, misty environment he knew must be a dream, he didn't see Voldemort anywhere. He felt slick grass beneath his feet, and, a moment later, noticed the thick lash of rain that must have been falling all the time. He tilted his head up, blinking, and brushed his fringe back from his face when it tried to cling.
He made out a huge shape arcing overhead, but it refused to resolve into anything he knew—a dragon, for example, or a hippogriff. It turned in circles, maddeningly elusive, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed.
The screaming began to prick up and down Harry's spine. He could feel his magic responding to it, which was not something he would have expected. He swallowed and crossed his arms over his stomach defensively, readying a shield in case the creature should swoop down and try to rend him open. He had no idea why he was viewing this scene as yet, and no idea what shields he might be able to conjure—or what damage he might be able to take—in this dream state.
The screaming grew louder and louder, and abruptly died away, like a crack of thunder that had reached the limit of its roll. Harry squinted determinedly upward, wondering if he could see the creature now.
He made out what he thought was a spiked tail, swaying lazily above a taloned paw. Then the paw came down in his direction, powered by a leg like a crushing pillar.
Harry dropped to the ground and rolled out of the way; there was no point in trying to keep his feet on unknown terrain, made worse to balance on by the rainwater. The leg made the ground shake hard enough as it came down to throw him a few feet in the air. Harry tucked his arms around his head as he landed, and probably saved his glasses from being broken.
He scrambled into a kneel, and stared at the thing as it turned its head towards him. It was still unformed, or seemed so, in the rushing rain, but he thought he could make out glinting eyes and teeth.
There was a familiarity about the creature, but the only thing Harry could really compare it to was a dragon, and he knew of no dragons who sounded like they were screaming. Dragons sang, in Acies's terms, and roared, in everyone else's. And he really should have recognized a dragon's shape, after such close acquaintance with them during the Triwizard Tournament.
He tried to calm down, and to make his voice calm when he spoke. "What is your name? What is your kindred? Do you need help? I am vates, and I think that I might be able to—"
The creature screamed at him, its breath deep and rotten with various horrid smells. Harry choked, and went with the blast of sound that bore him further into the dark place, wherever they were—it felt flat and grassy, at least. He wouldn't question the dragon, the thing, if it didn't want to be questioned.
He hit something, probably a boulder, and this time came up with a shield sparking around him. The creature snaked a long neck towards him, bending at odd angles. It paused when it saw the shield, and Harry saw something in the hovering golden eyes—he still couldn't see the face that supposedly encased them—which might have been doubt.
Harry switched to Parseltongue, concentrating on the snakelike curves of the neck. If it was a serpent of some kind, then of course it wouldn't have understood English and his offer to be vates to it. "Are you hurt? Do you need help? What are you? Why have you brought me here?"
The creature held absolutely still. Harry waited, holding his breath until he couldn't do it any longer and let it out with a whoosh.
As if that were the signal it'd been waiting for, the creature lashed out, smashing him in the side with its heavily muscled neck. Harry felt himself fly over the obstruction at his back and land in another grassy path. He gasped in pain, and then again when his hand flew out to catch him too late and he hit his face in the mud.
He sat up, swiping at his mud-covered glasses, until he realized it was useless and he had to pull them off. The creature was right in front of him when he could see again, its mouth open to reveal teeth longer than his arms.
Harry concentrated desperately on trying to wake up.
The creature drew in its breath and screamed, even as the dream shattered.
The scream pursued Harry into waking light, provided by Fawkes, who sat near his head on the pillow and chirped in concern. It took Harry a long moment to realize that, rather than the creature screaming into his ear, he was hearing thunder. He shuddered and turned to face the phoenix, stroking his feathers and breathing harshly.
Wait.
He felt pain when he inhaled and exhaled, not just the terror of the dream. Harry pulled up his pyjama shirt and moved to the side, so that he could see his own ribs in Fawkes's light. He grimaced when he saw bruises, already turning purple and green like night-blooming flowers.
He listened critically to his own breath and felt his own pain, then shook his head. No, he was fairly sure that he didn't have any broken ribs. He'd felt that when Quirrell cursed him with Crucio in his and Connor's first year, and this pain wasn't as sharp.
"What the fuck," he murmured, for lack of anything better to say.
He sat where he was for a time, rubbing Fawkes's head absently, shifting so that his movements wouldn't disturb Argutus, who lay curled up beside him with his head on his tail. He searched his mind for references to a creature who could do this, and came up with nothing. There were, Merlin knew, dangerous and wonderful fantastic beasts in the world, especially ones that Harry didn't know much about, but he had not heard even a rumor of one like this.
And it had seemed to have a personal enmity against him, as though he had done something that hurt it. That screaming—
He was still hearing the screaming. Or something like it.
Harry closed his eyes, concentrating. The screaming faded as he listened, though, faded into the thunder that shook the castle.
The thunder.
Harry felt his eyes flare open. The creature was connected to the storms. It had to be. It had been raining in the dream, hadn't it? And the screaming had faded into the thunder when he woke. Perhaps this was Voldemort's plan, to conjure a beast to hunt him in his dreams. It seemed indirect and wasteful, but then, Voldemort had never made sensible plans.
There was only one way Harry really knew of to get answers. He would have to go outside, which he hadn't been since the storms started, and try to sense what magic might be stalking him.
He slid across the bed, wincing as twinges from his ribs announced themselves, and made it to his curtains without trouble. When he opened them, though, he jumped. Draco stood there, his eyebrows raised.
"And you were going where?" he asked.
"Just outside," Harry said, flushing and not understanding why. It wasn't like he had been doing anything dangerous, after all. The beast that had come stalking him in his dreams wasn't his fault. "I think I might have a clue to the magic powering the storms, whatever Voldemort is going to do on Midwinter that's stirring the weather up so much. But I haven't been close enough to the rain and the lightning to see if there really is magic behind it. I should recognize his magic, if it's there." And that would explain why my magic in the dream responded, too. I am his magical heir, and it might have sensed the familiarity of his power. "So I'm going outside to see what I can feel."
"Alone?"
Harry gave him an annoyed glance. "Well, yes. It's just a walk on the grounds, Draco, and I thought you were asleep."
"You woke me up with your little groans and complaints," said Draco. Harry was glad that he'd dropped his pyjama top in time to hide the bruises. "And there's no such thing as a little walk on the grounds with you, Harry. You'll find a mad murderer lurking with a knife under the Whomping Willow, or one of Hagrid's pets escaped and trying to find a way to get into the castle. I'm coming with you." He turned to fetch one of his cloaks, presumably, from his trunk.
"Draco," Harry whined, and knew he was whining. But it was bad enough that his own sleep was disturbed and he had suspicions of Voldemort's magic riding the storms. He didn't want Draco exposed to either annoyance or danger.
Draco looked at him over his shoulder. "You could always do the sensible thing and stay inside, Harry."
"I should know tonight," said Harry, and decided that he would have to tell Draco the truth to get past the skeptical expression on his face. "I had a dream or a vision, one of the two. Not about Voldemort," he added hastily, when Draco's face tightened. "But a creature hunted me, one I've never seen before. Its cry faded into the thunder when I woke. I thought I should at least investigate the connection between it and the storms."
"Did it hurt you?"
Harry kept his face blank with an effort. "Just a bit."
Draco hissed at him under his breath. "We're going to Madam Pomfrey when we're done here," he said, and flung his cloak over his head. Harry knew it had enchantments to make it impervious to rain and snow, and took some comfort in the fact that at least Draco wouldn't get wet.
"I don't need to go to Madam Pomfrey," he said, and knew that he was whining again. Somehow his simple little adventure had turned into this. Harry didn't know why this always happened to him. In first year, he had slipped out after Quirrell into the Forbidden Forest and seen him kill a unicorn and drink its blood, and no one had objected to that.
"Unless you can manage to heal yourself, yes, you do," said Draco, and held out the edge of his cloak. "Come on, beneath here. I know that the magic on yours isn't as good."
Harry scowled at him as he tied a pair of robes on over his pyjamas and trudged over to him. "And, of course, the fact that it'll give you a chance to hold me doesn't factor at all into your plans," he muttered.
Draco grinned at him and slipped an arm around his waist as Harry stepped under the cloak. Luckily, the arm gripped him beneath the ring of bruises that went around his ribs, and so Harry didn't need to wince and pull away. "I wouldn't be Slytherin if I admitted to something like that, Harry," he said innocently.
Harry chose to cast a Disillusionment Charm over them instead of replying. Snape often patrolled the dungeons at night, and though it was probably too late for the prefects to be out, there was always the chance of running into someone else, too.
Draco's hold never varied as they crept up the dungeon corridors and towards the front doors, even when they were on the stairs and it was awkward to maneuver with Draco's arm around his waist. Harry tried a few pointed glances and half-tugs away to no avail. Besides, he soon had enough to do, keeping his breath from rasping through his lungs in pain. He had to get outside and see what was happening with the storms, and if Draco saw how badly he'd been bruised, there was the chance that he wouldn't let that happen.
They reached the entrance hall. Harry could hear the storm much better now. The thunder sounded like someone being tortured, so loud that he wondered how anyone in Gryffindor Tower or Ravenclaw Tower got any sleep. He would have noticed dark circles beneath Connor's eyes, though, so he suspected that McGonagall and Flitwick had cast charms on the outer walls to damp the sound.
"This way," Draco murmured, and propelled Harry across the entrance hall towards the doors.
"I know it's that way," said Harry, but didn't try to walk the distance on his own. It wouldn't work, and would just prove embarrassing, so he might as well go along with what Draco wanted to do.
Halfway to the doors, they met a reflected shimmer of movement that indicated someone else was using a Disillusionment Charm. Harry raised his eyebrows, and then decided he had to at least know who it was. Finite Incantatem, he thought, concentrating on the shimmer.
The spell broke and revealed Hermione creeping intently towards the staircase, her face set. Draco drew breath for an exclamation, but Harry clamped an arm around his waist in return and squeezed, making him do nothing more than huff. Hermione stopped and looked around in suspicion, but obviously didn't see them. A moment later, she noticed she was visible, squeaked, and recast the Charm on herself.
Draco waited until they heard the faint sound of her footsteps on the staircase, and then whispered, "Why did you stop me from saying anything, Harry? That's prime taunting material, right there! You know she's on her way back from the Hufflepuff common room—"
"And that's why you're not to tease her," Harry whispered furiously. "How would you like it if we were in different Houses and someone caught you on the way back to the dungeons?"
Draco shook his head. "Wouldn't have happened. We were both always going to be Slytherins."
Harry gave up. Sometimes, Draco was impossible. "This way," he said instead, and this time, he was the one to lead the way to the doors.
They crept out through them, and into the heart of the storm.
Harry felt the magic at once, curling like a snake on the back of the thunder, clenching its talons around the lightning, split and scattered and sparkling in every drop of rain that fell to earth. The wards woven into Hogwarts's stones had kept him from feeling it before; that was the only explanation for the intense difference between inside and outside. Harry put out a shaky hand, gripping at nothing, only to feel Draco take it and hold it.
The wind picked up, and Harry realized he had been at least partially wrong. The beast's cry wasn't just thunder. It was the swift flow of the air, building to gale force, a more varied sound than screaming, but still incredibly loud. He shuddered. There was a mind behind that wind and that thunder, and the mind did not care about hurting others. It would not stalk them out of some sadistic need to torture, but it would sweep them out of the way without even noticing them, as casually as a wizard might step on an ant.
"Harry?" Draco's voice sounded far away, and not only because the storm was roaring like a wild thing.
Harry edged a few steps further away from the entrance, letting the doors of Hogwarts drop shut behind him. He had to get closer to the storm, had to find the answer to this nagging sense of familiarity. There was—there was something more than sentience here, something more than magic. He'd felt it before, he knew what it was, but he couldn't identify it now. Why not?
"Harry!"
Harry felt rain shove his fringe away from his face like harsh fingers, and realized he'd stepped out from under the cloak. He didn't think he could care. There was a pulling force here that he'd only felt once before: with the singing, many-legged creature imprisoned in Grimmauld Place. This wasn't the same song, exactly—that one was far more musical, without the rough edges of wind and thunder—but this was a song. If he could hear the words, if he could make out the notes, then he would know who was singing, and he thought that was important.
He reached out slowly towards the magic, his own power writhing around his body in inchoate streams of light.
Then the storm noticed him.
Harry felt the focus of the great mind sharpen and point at him, like an arrowhead. Still, he couldn't find it in himself to feel frightened. He was only vaguely aware of Draco hammering on the light behind him; his magic had tightened, forming a barrier between them.
Harry looked up.
The lightning came down.
He felt it hit him like a bite, like a clamping of jaws around his waist. He snapped sideways, once, and every muscle in his body rang. The song he heard changed to a deepening croon, and then the magic draped over him, a mingling of the electric shock he would have expected to feel and hundreds of small, pinching, champing mouths. They were trying to drain his magic, and Harry, stumbling, dazed, was almost of a mind to let them.
Then he heard a hiss close to his ankles, and dazzling light flared above him, to the accompaniment of Fawkes's indignant voice.
The song turned into a hiss, considerably less pleasant to listen to than what Harry recognized as Argutus's insults in Parseltongue. The magic drew back from Harry and lurched up, coiling like a cobra, looking from Argutus to Fawkes as if wondering who it should hit first.
Fawkes dived at it, his talons widespread, his song fearless. The magic turned, its decision obviously made.
Harry woke.
He flung out his hand, and the light that had been keeping Draco away from him turned into a blade that carved the darkness facing him. The darkness writhed and screamed, more in annoyance and anger than pain, Harry thought, and jumped away from him. Now it had almost the form of the beast in his dream, though considerably smaller, bending its neck back towards him, the golden eyes and the long, sharp teeth gleaming in the midst of a body he couldn't see very well.
"Go away," Harry said, and heard Fawkes strengthen his words with a warble. Fire streamed from the phoenix, turning the raindrops to steam before they landed. Argutus was coiled around his ankle, still hissing in agitation, and the darkness watched all of them with wild, contemptuous eyes. "I will not allow you to harm them, whatever you might do to me."
The creature continued watching him for a moment. Then it laughed, a rolling, deep belly laugh that said it could wait for a time when Harry wouldn't escape it, and turned and sprang for the clouds. Wings like wet patches on stone opened around it, and beat once, and then it was gone, dissipated into the roaring, stalking force of a power that, Harry realized, he had felt before.
It wasn't any plan of Voldemort's stirring up the storms, after all. This was the wild Dark, the same force that walked the night skies on Walpurgis Night.
And Midwinter was coming up—longest night of the year, a night without a moon.
Harry felt his mouth tighten. This was worse news than Voldemort, by far.
He shook his head and stooped down so that Argutus could crawl up his left arm. Fawkes landed on his shoulder, both balance and voice unsteady for a moment. His head ducked to brush against Harry's cheek, and Harry winced. The feathers would leave a faint burn. Fawkes had been worried.
Someone else had been, too, and Draco pulled Harry firmly against him, murmuring, "I don't know whether I should kiss you or punch you, to tell you the truth. Or take you to Madam Pomfrey and make sure that she feeds you enough Dreamless Sleep to last you for the next three days."
Harry winced and tugged himself backward as Draco's arms came in contact with the bruises. He ignored Draco's hurt expression for a moment to feel at the edges of his magic. At last, he nodded, satisfied. If the wild Dark had permanently swallowed any of his power, he really couldn't tell. He felt fine.
Well, except for the bruises, and the fact that he'd put his life in danger again without meaning to, and the wild worry in Argutus's voice as he loosed a stream of admonitions, and Draco's silence that throbbed like a toothache.
"I'm sorry," Harry said quietly, turning to him. "But that was the creature from the dream I had before we came out here. It hit me along the ribs with its neck, and when I woke, I found that I carried the bruises."
Draco's expression changed, but to one not that much better. "And when were you planning to tell me about this?"
"Um. After I found out about the storms?"
Draco closed his eyes and shook his head. "I hope it was worth it, Harry, because you frightened me to death." He kept his head turned away, and Harry suspected he knew why when his voice was choked up a moment later. "I thought you were going to die, damn you."
Harry thought of saying that Draco should be used to that by now, but kept the words behind his teeth. Now wasn't a time for jokes. "I know," he said quietly. "I'm sorry."
"I'll get it through your head someday that your life is worth more than the knowledge you get by risking it," Draco breathed. Harry wasn't sure if it was a promise or a prayer. "Someday."
"I hope so," Harry said. It wasn't that he liked worrying people, he thought, as he told Draco where to put his arm so that he could support Harry into the school but not press on any of the bruises. He didn't even particularly enjoy risking his life, unless he was doing it in a plan he was fairly sure would work out and could anticipate and exult in the adrenaline rush.
But—well, sometimes risking his life was the only way to learn anything. And what he had learned tonight had been worth the risk.
Of course, he still didn't necessarily know what it meant, what had stirred the wild Dark up so, and why it had chosen this Midwinter to strike when it normally only grew this active around Walpurgis. He knew someone who would know, though.
"You're staying here for the night, Mr. Pot—Harry." Madam Pomfrey, her hair half-wild from sleep, had woken up when Draco insistently called for her, but she wasn't very happy about it. She'd run her wand over his ribs, and then looked even less happy. "You have a few internal injuries, easily cured with potions, and rest." She jabbed her wand at him as if she would cast a sleep spell right there. "And your ribs are fractured, though not broken. You're going to sleep, and then you'll stay in bed until at least noon tomorrow."
"But it was sleep that caused me to get the injuries in the first place," Harry protested, ignoring Draco's little satisfied noise. "How can you be sure that I won't have another dream like that?"
Madam Pomfrey gave a sharp little sigh, a white triangle of skin appearing around her nostrils. "I am sure of nothing where you are concerned, Harry," she muttered. "But Dreamless Sleep at least seems like a reasonable precaution, and I will set a spell to warn me if you manifest any unexpected wounds."
Harry squirmed. This was exactly what he'd hoped to avoid. "Can I wait half an hour to take the Potion, Madam Pomfrey?" he asked, and smiled dazzlingly at her. "I have to talk to someone first."
"You are not firecalling anyone at this time of night," the matron began.
"It's not a firecall," said Harry. "Just a spell that I can use which contacts them right away. I promise, I won't take more than half an hour." Unless she changes her mind at the end of the half hour, he thought hopefully. He hated Dreamless Sleep. It always made him slower to react in the morning, and in the middle of a War, a split second's reaction time could make the difference between life and death.
Madam Pomfrey stared harder at him. "You're not going to take the Potion unless I agree to this, are you?" she asked.
Harry painted a contrite expression across his face. "No. Sorry."
The matron shook her head heavily and went to fetch the vial of dark potion from a cabinet on the far wall. "Half an hour, Harry," she said, as she set it down on the table beside the bed as heavily as a troll had ever dropped a club. "And you'll take these potions now." She held out what Harry recognized as healing potions for internal injuries and fractured bones. He nodded and drank them, wishing absently that whoever had invented these had looked into making them taste sweeter.
"I should go back to sleep," said Madam Pomfrey, and looked fiercely at Draco. Harry expected her to send him back to the Slytherin common room, but she said only, "You'll make sure that he takes the Dreamless Sleep, Mr. Malfoy? And then stay here, in a separate bed?"
Draco flushed, but nodded. "You can count on me, Madam," he said.
"Good," said Madam Pomfrey, and glared one final time at Harry, as if she could make him safer by looking. Then she went back to her private room in the back of the hospital wing.
Harry sighed as he saw the look on Draco's face. He was no doubt taking the Dreamless Sleep now. But Draco appeared content to wait for at least the same period of time that the matron had said he could have, so Harry touched his left wrist and whispered the communication spell.
A moment later, Henrietta Bulstrode, sounding very awake for this time of night, said, "Yes, vates? What can I do for you?"
Harry shrugged his discomfort off—just because vates sounded like a title when she said it didn't mean she meant it that way—and pressed forward in his task. "I need to know what you know about the wild Dark," he said. "Other than Thomas Rhangnara, I think you have the largest library, and he's busy researching ways to break past Ariadne's Web right now."
"Of course," said Henrietta, not even asking why he needed it. "I know a good deal about it without even looking in a book, vates; some of my ancestors once tried to harness the magic at Walpurgis, before they gave it up as a bad idea. What have you learned about it?"
"It's in motion now," said Harry. "These storms that are plaguing the British Isles come from it. It confronted me in my dreams tonight, and then when I stepped out into the storm. I think it plans to strike at Midwinter, when the moon will be dark."
There was a long moment of stillness. Then Henrietta said softly, "Someone has roused the Dark, then. I think it must be the Dark Lord, and not you. Powerful wizards draw its attention, but you haven't done anything to actively irritate it, have you?"
"No," said Harry, ignoring the way Fawkes chirped on his shoulder. The phoenix had a different opinion, but Harry didn't have to let that influence his response to Henrietta. "But I was under the impression that it could strike back any time it wanted, and it would, too, whether or not someone had actively irritated it."
"No," said Henrietta. "It is above us. Most of the time, it plays in the spaces between the stars and ignores us. Walpurgis draws its attention, and so does the proclamation of a new Dark Lord, but very little else. However, I believe that Voldemort tried to capture it this past Walpurgis, did he not?"
Harry swore beneath his breath. "He did," he said, ignoring Draco's raised eyebrow. "I suppose I thought it would take its vengeance before now."
"No," said Henrietta calmly. "It will wait for Midwinter, the time when the world is furthest from light—and the blackening of the moon will add to its power. It means to play, I think, or it would not have come hunting you. My family has a story of an ancestor facing it one Midwinter in the form of a mighty storm. That storm might have destroyed Britain, but the Dark lost interest and wandered away. This time, I do not think we can count on that."
"Definitely not." Harry shuddered at the memory of the wild Dark's golden eyes, very interested in him. It had obviously tried to take his magic just because it could. It might want to punish Voldemort, but from what Henrietta was saying, it wouldn't at all object to killing whatever was in its path. "Is there any way to tell where the brunt of the storm will fall? Or is it just wherever Voldemort is going to be that night?"
"No," said Henrietta. "The Dark has a sense of ceremony when it comes hunting like this—as you've surmised for yourself, or it would have taken its vengeance already, without the buildup to Midwinter. It intends for this to be more than a simple vengeance-taking. It wants attention, rather like a spoiled child. That is the reason it has reached out to you, vates, beyond your magic, I think. In my ancestor's story, it chose Stonehenge, both because that was the place he'd tried to capture it and because the most powerful wizard in those days was a druid who loved the stones. It will almost certainly find it amusing to choose a place that connects you and Voldemort, a place where something powerful and Dark happened."
Harry felt himself freeze, and Draco shift beside him. He forced the words past his tight throat. "Where something powerful and Dark happened? Or where something almost happened?"
Henrietta's voice turned uncertain for the first time. "That, I will have to look up. It's been a long time since I studied the books on the character and temper of the wild Dark. My family's stories always served me well for most of my needs. But I think it will choose the Darkest occurrence it can, and that means a successful ritual, say, would please it better than one that failed to happen."
That eliminates the Chamber of Secrets and the Shrieking Shack, then.
"Vates?" Henrietta's voice was concerned. "Do you think you know where the storm will come down?"
Harry coughed, and managed to speak again. "I do," he said. "There are really only two places it could. The house in Godric's Hollow where Voldemort gave me my curse scar, or—" He made himself say it. "The graveyard where I lost my hand."
Draco leaned against him. Fawkes crooned. Argutus lifted his head. "I think I know how to control my visions now," he said. "That's why I spent the time away from you that I did, working on them. I can show you, if I can just concentrate."
"I am sorry, vates," Henrietta's voice murmured. "It will almost certainly be the graveyard. The giving of the curse scar involved Dark magic, yes, but that was longer ago. And would I be right in saying that you do not personally remember it?"
"Right," Harry whispered.
"Again, I will have to look up confirmation, but from what I know of the wild Dark, if it's decided to make you a piece in its game, it will want to hurt you as much as possible. And the graveyard holds more and worse memories for you. Yes, it will be there."
"All right," Harry breathed. He managed to kick his brain past the memories it wanted to show him. "Then I'll find out where Tom Riddle was buried. He used his father's bone in the ritual to revive himself, along with my blood. Whatever graveyard it is, we'll find it, and we'll know where to go and block the storm."
"I would say that you cannot block the storm, but I know that you must try," said Henrietta. "I will go to my library and see if I can learn anything about the wild Dark that might help, or might contradict what we know now. Farewell, vates. Try to rest."
"Farewell," Harry echoed blankly, and then he felt the spell ease and vanish.
He closed his eyes and counted to ten, in Mermish, in his head. The memories, which had gripped him like the jaws of the lightning around his waist, slowly eased the same way the spell had. Then he could let himself feel Fawkes on his shoulder again, and Argutus coiled tightly around his left wrist, and—
And Draco holding the vial of Dreamless Sleep Potion to his lips.
"Draco!" he tried to say, but choked. He ended up swallowing most of the potion, resigned to it. He didn't think it had been quite half an hour, but he was in no position to object. Draco eased him back so that he could lie on the pillows.
"Sorry," he whispered into Harry's ear. "But you've just had a pretty hard shock. You deserve a while to rest after this, I think."
Harry closed his eyes. He had a few moments before the potion, swirling in the center of his mind like a maelstrom, covered the whole thing. He murmured sleepily and shifted position.
"Harry?" Draco sounded as if he were on the other side of an ocean. "Can you block the storm at all, do you think? I thought no mortal wizard could stop the wild Dark."
"I don't know," Harry murmured. "But just because it's impossible doesn't mean I can get out of trying."
Draco was silent then. Harry felt his hand for just a moment more before the potion carried him away. The last thought he remembered was absurd gratitude to the wild Dark. This was a problem so overwhelming that he couldn't feel bad about devoting all his efforts towards solving it, at least until Midwinter arrived.
Draco knew Harry had fallen asleep almost instantly—Dreamless Sleep always affected him that way after the initial pause—but he stayed there, staring down into his face, fighting the temptation to curl up in the same bed as Harry after all. Only the remembrance of Harry's injuries, including the bruises flaring along his ribs like the marks of clutching fingers, kept him from doing it. He might jostle Harry in his sleep and hurt him further.
Merlin, Harry. He closed his eyes, but then the vision of Harry caught and tossed by the lightning was there. The lightning had grown around him, wild and weird and disgusting like nothing Draco had seen before, sucking as if it would pull Harry's skin off his bones. The fear had struck Draco like a blade, the idea that he might lose Harry never so present as it had been in that moment.
Now, worse than the fear was the despair. No matter what I can do, I can never keep him safe.
Draco took a deep breath and sat back in his chair, and made himself face the thought. It was one of the things Vera had spoken to him about, and her gentle words rushed past his ears like the sigh of a breeze.
"You love your Harry fiercely enough to go through any storms beside him, I can see that. What you must know now is that the storms are unlikely to end. You dream of a haven where you can live with him and be untroubled, but that will not happen. Your Harry will forever cast himself into danger's path. He does not know the meaning of relaxation, he is only slowly learning the meaning of pleasure, and he will never learn to look aside from the suffering of others. You must decide if you can bear that, and the wounds it will put on your heart."
Draco shut his eyes. He had scoffed a bit at Vera's pronouncement, because while he knew she could see souls, she couldn't predict the future. She couldn't know that Harry would never consent to say he had done enough and retreat from the world.
Now, Draco had to admit that knowledge of the basis of someone's character could be a kind of prediction, if you knew them well enough. And Vera knew them both well enough.
Could he bear this?
The answer was there, though, before he asked the question. Yes. He was too deeply tangled up in Harry to pull back now, without ripping apart half of what he was. Oh, he could heal from those wounds—Vera would probably say that; his father, who did not believe in needing people, would certainly say that—but he didn't want to. So, yes, he could bear this, because he must.
So he had to decide how he was going to bear it.
Draco narrowed his eyes and pushed his hair back from his forehead. Madam Pomfrey had cast warming and drying charms on them, but Draco still thought he could feel the pressure of the rain, and the wind, and the eyes of the lightning-creature that had hurt Harry. The pressure didn't make him weary, or frustrated with Harry, or even very frightened. It just pissed him off.
I am going to bear this, but not like a little suffering wife, or a best friend dragged along against his will. I am going to bear this the way I want to bear it. Harry knows what I want. I won't settle for less, because I shouldn't have to. I deserve what I want from him. And I'm going to make a place for myself in the midst of all the storms and dragons and oceans and Dark Lords he has to face.
I was here first. They can sod off. I can bear this because I know I'm the most important person in the world to him. If I'm not, then I'll get upset, but not before. Harry might help other people, but he's going to share his life with me. And I'm going to be beside him, not behind him.
As spiky and snarly as he felt, Draco wasn't sure he'd be able to sleep, but, surprisingly, slumber descended the moment he curled up in the hospital bed across from Harry's, despite the memory of the storm and the soft light shining from Fawkes. He supposed, as the ground slid out from under him and tipped him down into the abyss, that this was what the sleep of the just felt like.
Surely no one in the world can be as right as I am at this moment.