Chapter 10: Should Have Guessed

There was a feeling in the air. A viscosity, or thickness. A thrumming.

From the instant Draco landed in Dartmoor he was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of power throbbing in the air. That was the first thing he noticed.

The second was that he was nowhere near where he'd anticipated he'd appear. Not his given coordinates, nowhere in sight of the Two Bridges Hotel, and certainly nowhere near Harry. There was, in fact, not a soul in sight.

The reason for that was very apparent with a gentle probe of his wand and a reaching of his magical senses. Anti-Apparation wards. Evidently, the range of the dome encapsulating Two Bridges had expanded. The air before Draco was pulsing with them. Like layers of gossamer curtains obscuring a window, they hung suspended in the air. Where Draco stood seemed to be the very edge of them, and that edge was in the middle of nowhere. A quick glance around ascertained that much.

The moor, seemingly barren, were still covered in a blanket of whiteness with the persistence of winter. Even in the early morning sun, the prevalent draperies of ice and cold tinged even the darkest mounds and eruptions of rock with pales hues. Clumps of trees in the distance wore frozen crowns and the thin wind carried a bitter edge to it that January had not yet alleviated.

Draco barely felt the cold. He doubted he would have even had he been without his cloak and scarf and his gloves that remained firmly affixed to his fingers. His mind was still chanting in its mantra, eradicating any and everything else and allotting it as 'less important'. He had to know where Harry was, to know he was alright, to confirm with his own eyes that he wasn't injured or, worse still, dead. The very thought caused his stomach to rebel.

Obsession didn't even begin to cover it. When, exactly, had he become so all-consuming in his fixated?

Raising his wand, Draco held it aloft on the flattened palm of his hand. "Point Me, Harry Potter." With a faint jostle, the wand shuddered into movement. It spun like a compass, whizzing in spins for a moment before jolting to a stop with a stab in a north-easterly direction. Without another thought Draco started towards it.

Some part of him, in the back of his mind that was not focused intensely upon coordinating his legs in the most efficient fashion and ploughing over the uneven grounds as fast as possible, that was not contemplating the worst possibilities, marvelled at his own actions. Draco could count on one hand, on half of one hand, the number of people he would willing put his safety on the line for. Those people – or person, really – were exclusively restricted to his family. And maybe Pansy, but that was simply because she was basically his sister in all but blood. But he would likely hesitate even for her. Certainly for the rest of his friends. Draco wasn't idealistic enough to believe in some deep-seated altruism within himself. He knew he was not a truly 'good' person, and didn't particularly want to be. Goodness was overrated, and usually resulted in a very personal death.

Self-preservation took the place of self-sacrifice in Draco's behavioural repertoire. So it was a marvel in itself that he charged headlong in the direction that his wand pointed. Harry, the captain of the Elites, the squad at the very centre of the operation and ever in the thick of things, would certainly be in a dangerous situation. A situation whose threat would very likely shift its attention towards Draco should he happen upon them. How could Draco even consider charging into that? To risk himself and his wellbeing for someone else?

The short answer? He didn't consider it. It was a compulsion. Draco simply had to be there. And that was that. His mind could reach no alternative conclusion.

The Anti-Apparation wards extended further than he'd anticipated. Draco was panting, minutes into running as fast as he could realistically maintain, before he sensed a spike in the magic around him.

And spike it was. A sharp climax, like a mountain abruptly sprung from a monotonously flat plane. Draco stepped into the light of magic and was instantly bathed in throbbing waves ten times as potent as that which already shrouded him. There were no tell-tale signs in his surroundings, no visible features to indicate causation, but it was certainly there. Draco slowed slightly, panting, and glanced around himself.

Nothing. There was still nothing.

He kept running.

It took another five minutes of chasing the direction his wand pointed him before he stumbled upon someone. And it was a blessing that Draco was the one to see them first, for they were no Auror, of that he was sure. As it was, Draco had already hefted his wand into his hand and pointed it towards the slender young woman before she'd noticed him. When she did, everything happened almost too fast to see.

A curse fired. Draco deflected. In a casting more reflex than intentional he retaliated with a Stupefy, showering light shooting towards the woman. With a crack like the limb of a tree tearing loose, she was flung backwards. She crumpled to the muddy snow of the ground, a pile of limbs and black robes that almost blended into the terrain.

Draco paused, almost too stunned by the rapid turn of events to compute what had happened. His breath still panted, but as much from surprise as exertion from his run. When reality did set in, a flood of knee-knocking fear coursed through him. It became a physical strain to remain standing.

This. This was the reason he was an investigator. Draco didn't perceive himself as a coward but this… he was certainly not courageous either. He would never have the capacity to respond adequately in a fight to the death. Why would he? Why would he ever – ever again – land himself in such circumstances? Draco had spent the last years of the war thoroughly over exposed to life-threatening situations. He'd had his fill for a lifetime. Why would he…?

For the right person, a condescending voice in the back of his mind offered. And that single thought was enough to urge Draco back into action, in spite of the scowl it brought to his lips. He barely spared the woman – she must have been one of these so-called Dartmoor Coven witches – before he was racing towards the direction his wand pointed once more.

Yorkley had been right. It truly was dangerous. Very dangerous, if the witch would act upon a complete stranger before speaking. No wonder they'd pulled ranks for extra numbers.

It took another three minutes and a second confrontation with a black-robed stranger for Draco to stumble upon the real mess. And when he did it almost floored him. Clambering up a rocky incline that seemed to have arisen from nowhere, he just reached the apex when the battle swept into view.

It truly was like a battlefield. Widespread and far-flung, duels battled furiously like a scene from a medieval play. There must have been dozens of them, interspersed almost as far as the eye could see. Sparks soared, shields sprung into existence, and collisions resounded with the echoes of thunder. Aurors against the black-robed Coven, only their garbs distinguishing them in any certainty and even then only just. For the attacks, the dodging and constant movement of the Coven members, were almost too fast, too confusing, to follow.

And throughout it all wove the distinctive figures of the Elites. Distinctive because Draco sincerely doubted that a bear, a horse, a dog, a puma, would fight so favourably and participate so actively in the fight. It was a testament to how severe the situation was that they even showed themselves; weren't their Animagus forms supposed to be a secret?

But from his perch Draco could pinpoint exactly why. The Coven were strong. They knew how to fight, and they were holding their own. But more than that, they weren't foolishly chivalrous either. There was no undying loyalty and courage spewing forth from within them. As Draco watched, a tall man with burly, hunched shoulders cast a trio of hexes that flung his opponent ten feet in the air. He didn't pause to finish the job, however. He turned, and he ran.

It was not a gesture of cowardice. There was nothing but hard determination on the man's face as he raced from the scene. He was acting entirely in practicality, for himself but also for his purpose. That much was apparent. Draco could relate to that; there was no need to fight when other options were available.

But before he'd even worked up a significant pace, the Elites were on him. It was the deer, the doe, that reached the scene ahead of her fellows, and for the first time Draco considered the stupidity of confronting such a creature. In leaps and bounds, she darted across the uneven terrain and, in a spring like a bird launching into flight, bodily threw herself at the fleeing wizard. Hooves jarred and the weight of her crashing into him was nearly audible even from such a distance. The collision tumbled the fleeing wizard from his feet and, in the moment that he struggled to regain his bearings, the doe had already resumed her own and transfigured into her human shape.

Ophelia El Morag. The pureblood, prestigious witch, heiress of the El Morag fortune, was a doe. Draco would never have guessed. He would never have suspected her of being an Animagus, but in that instant it seemed to fit her perfectly. Not, however, the delicate, shy insinuation of the form. Ophelia's face was a mask of hard determination, more resolute even than the Coven wizard's, and there was no hesitancy when she hefted her wand. Their battle began anew.

The Elites, they were rounding them up. Evidently, with the Anti-Apparation wards the Coven members couldn't leap from the scene into safety. They had to flee on foot. And the four-footed, winged and bounding forms of the Elites were far more adept at giving chase than their human fellows. Even as Draco watched, he spied a large barred owl hightail it after a pair of witches and pin them in seconds from on high, transforming back into a human before his feet had even touched the ground. Ivan Schnoder, it was. Schnoder was the owl.

Another Draco wouldn't have picked.

It was difficult to tell who was winning. There didn't seem to be a clear objective in the minds of the Coven members except attack then escape, and as such the Aurors appeared to be fighting a faceless battle. All that Draco could deduce was that most were attempting to flee, and yet at times they would pool their efforts to target one particular Auror, seemingly at random, and blast them in a vicious rain of curses. Even as Draco grazed his eyes over the fighters, he could make out bodies strewn across the ground. He wasn't sure if they were dead, yet desperately hoped they weren't. He was not fond of death. Fortunately, Aurors didn't kill unless absolutely necessary, and the downed Coven members significantly outweighed the Aurors. That was a relief, especially given that Draco couldn't spy Harry anywhere.

There were more Aurors than Coven, that much Draco could tell. And yet even so they were struggling. The reason for that was evident in a moment of observation; the Aurors emphasised defence and capture to the impediment to their fighting abilities. They would always back down behind their shields if faced with an overpowering force, would always leap to the aid of a fellow in dire need rather than pursue a fleeing target. Thank Merlin for the Elites, because the Coven seemed to realise this and were using it as a means of escaping. The Animal-Aurors had their work cut out for them in chasing them down.

Draco's eyes scanned the field with purpose. He flinched at each moment that he observed a spell strike flesh, closed his ears to each cry and snarl that ripped through the air. There was one reason and one reason only that he was here; Draco didn't care about any of the other Aurors in that moment. He didn't care about his career, or what his superiors would think of him for crashing into the scene. There was no way he could stay away.

His feet were carrying him forwards before he even realised he'd fallen into motion. Skidding down the slight decline onto the battlefield plateau, Draco fell into the thickness of the fight. His wand snapped up of its own accord, and those reflexes that he had never tailored yet rode on his innate sense of self-preservation acted for him. He cast a shield, fired an Expelliarmus, hexed the senses out of an assailant and tripped the legs from beneath anyone who fell in his way. He battered aside fiery curses and ducked beneath those that slipped past his guard, and ploughed onwards. And throughout he kept his eyes peeled.

It was almost on the far side of the battlefield, as the thickness of the fighters, attackers and defendants alike, began to lessen that Draco found him. And his frantically throbbing heart nearly clambered its way from his throat.

Harry was stationed between a trio of attackers, a witch and two wizards. Spells fired from every direction, and it was only with the sheer mastery of Harry's defensive abilities that he managed to deflect them. He spun like a dancer, wand aloft and dark red robes swirling around his legs like the wings of a bird. His face was a mask of flat concentration, his lips pressed firmly together even as he flung counter-curse after counter-curse, erecting shields in the space of a heartbeat.

And yet he wasn't winning. Draco could see that much. He wasn't losing, but there was no steady overwhelming of the foe. How could there be, with three on one? And though those three acted little by way of coordination, there was only one possible outcome. Someone had to tire first, and it didn't take any great powers of deduction to determine who that someone would be.

Draco threw himself into the midst of the fight without a second thought.

It flowed so easily then. He never would have conceived that fighting, and fighting alongside someone, would ever be so natural for him. Or perhaps that was simply because he fought with Harry. For all their rivalry in the past, for all their taunts and provocations, they knew one another in a way that few did. Draco knew how Harry would respond to an attack as well as any of his closest friends would. Possibly more, given that he'd been on the receiving end of those attacks on more instances than he could count. The shift in stance, the slight lift to his arm, the tilt to his head; they were all indicators of action as indicative as the words of a spell themselves. And Draco could read them all.

Harry spared Draco only a brief glance, an expression of surprise that had a faintly horrified edge to it, before he was forced to turn his full attention onto countering curses once more. But that brief glimpse, that show of expression and upwelling of emotion that played so clearly across his face, was a more profound indicator of meaning than any words could have conveyed in such a limited time. And as Draco turned towards the attackers, positioning himself back to back with Harry, he felt a smile of satisfaction spread across his face. In spite of the danger, in spite of the insanity that had obviously gripped him at leaping directly into harm's way, Draco felt delight flood him.

Harry had looked worried. Worried for Draco.

Evidently, Harry still cared enough to be worried.

Draco almost felt like he could fly. He could certainly win a duel.

The fought as though their lives depended on it, which they likely did. Those protective reflexes that Draco had pulled as if from nowhere arose and acted for him, and alongside them he added a string of attacks. None of them connected, but at least they served to turn the tides of the battle a little. The Coven members that surrounded them were no longer on the verge of overwhelming. If anything, they were retreating, withdrawing from Draco's and Harry's aggressive defence. Draco felt a fierce jolt of satisfaction as the witch stumbled a step in retreat at one of his more explosive counter-curses.

They were winning. They were so close Draco could almost taste it. Another volt of delight coursed through him as, with the combined efforts of Harry's Shield Charm, Draco deflected the taller wizard's curse and retaliated with a vicious attack of his own. The man crumpled to the floor in a heap, downed.

It could have been the jubilation of the moment. It induced overconfidence, acted as a distraction. Or it could have been that, seeing their fellow fall, the other two members of the Coven assumed a heightened state of ferocity.

For whatever reason, Draco was taken by surprise when the underhanded curse struck him. He wasn't even sure which of the two remaining attackers had aimed at him. All he knew was that, in one moment he could feel Harry's warmth at his back, solid and reassuring, supportive as he formed the words of his next spell on his lips. The next, he was thrown from his feet. Like a ragdoll discarded and cast carelessly to the side, Draco was bodily lobbed twenty feet through the air.

The ground struck heavily. He struck his shoulder, jarred his hip, cracked his forehead on a brutally jagged rock. The force of ice-hardened ground impacted every available surface of his body. For an instant, even Draco's vision darkened. All that he could sense was the erupting pain in his muscles and hear the amplified cries of distant spells, of anger, of fear.

He skidded to a stop in a throbbingly, tumbling, painful heap. For an instant he simply lay there. Simply hurt. His limbs twitched with the effects of the curse and it was only because his hands seized on his wand that he maintained it at all. Draco had never been one to throw himself about into a tussle. Such base Muggle modes of aggression were far too inelegant to be deemed acceptable. It was probably the shock to his system, that his body was being so ill-treated, as much as the actual pain that stunned him.

A distant echo brought him back to reality. Gradually, light filtered back into his vision. A white light of… of clouds. He was looking upwards at the sky. It was only then that he realised he was lying flat on his back, limbs sprawled, with the world slowly roiling around him.

"…co… Draco…. Draco…!"

Harry's voice. Even through the pounding in his head, the spiking throbs searing through his forehead, Draco could discern the nature of that voice. He always would. Had always been able to. Even when he believed he hated Harry, he knew he'd been able to distinguish his voice from any other. That certainty was validated when, to the sound of footsteps thudding towards him, Harry skidded into view. His face was little more than a shadow on the backdrop of glaring light, but Draco could still make out the tightness of fear, his forehead wrinkled and eyes tight with worry. It shouldn't have made Draco as pleased as it did. What was wrong with him, that Harry's concern would make him so satisfied?

Harry was saying something, but was speaking too fast for Draco to make out. Or perhaps he was as hysterical as his expression suggested. For it was. He did seem bordering of hysterical, and all of that worry, all of the fear and concern, was over Draco.

Until it wasn't. Draco frowned as Harry's face disappeared from his direct line of sight. In muffled tones, he heard the distinct growl of "Protego!" It said something for his heightened stress that Harry had to speak the defensive spell.

With more effort than he would have anticipated it to take, Draco heaved himself into sitting. It took two tries for the world to spin in a violent whirl around him. Arms splayed on either side of him, he wobbled into a wavering sitting position and blinked rapidly to clear the blurriness from his eyes.

Harry stood before him, back to him and stance poised, grounded. Draco couldn't see his wand, but he could make out the shields he erected at every curse that soared towards him. The attacking witch and wizard stood just past him, faces pulled into nearly identical expressions of determined aggression. The gleaming light in their eyes was illuminated with every released curse, every shower of fireworks that exploded upon impact with Harry's shields. They must have known something that Draco didn't, for there was a vicious triumph playing across their faces, weaving through the determination.

It immediately made Draco furious.

Harry couldn't attack. He was too busy defending, protecting both himself and Draco. But Draco had no such restrictions. And his rising fury gave him focus. How dare they try to attack Harry! To attack his Harry. No one was allowed to do that, no one except Draco. That was the way it was and the way it always had been. The only one who could ever bully Harry was Draco, ever, and Draco would mow down anyone who assumed otherwise.

He didn't need words. The intention coursed through him clearly, prevailing even through his aches and pains. His arm only wavering slightly as he lifted his wand, other arm trembling just a little as he struggled to remain seated upright. In a shower of silver-white, the spell launched from the tip of his wand towards the witch. She didn't see it coming. Perhaps Draco truly did look as incapable as his trembling limbs and increasingly complaining head suggested.

It didn't help her in the slightest when the spell impacted. Right in the chest, exactly where Draco had aimed. The woman didn't fly into the air, didn't roll backwards like a practicing tumbler. Like a flat board she hardened, straightened, and fell flat on her back.

And then there was one.

The remaining wizard wasn't stupid. Nor was he slow. The instant he realised his companion was down, he dropped all pretence of attack. With incredible speed, he spun on his heel and fled. Harry and Draco were left in the abrupt lull, a static stillness, as their opponent rapidly drew into the distance across the moors.

Harry didn't race after him as Draco had expected. Instead, he spun towards Draco so fast that he almost feared he considered him as another attacker. But he didn't attack. Instead, he fell to his knees besides Draco, his face once more a complicated mish-mash of worry and fear, confusion threaded throughout. When he reached a hand out to touch Draco's shoulder, his fingers trembled almost as much as Draco's own arms wavered. Draco had never seen him so… scared. In fact, he couldn't recall ever seeing Harry scared.

"You…" Harry began, but he broke off when his voice broke. His lips still worked, attempted to speak, but enunciation seemed beyond him. Finally he merely dropped his head and shook it as though ridding himself of jumbled thoughts.

Draco could have revelled in being the centre of Harry's attention. After weeks of being ignored, or noticed only to be faced with an expression of betrayal, it was like seeing the sun after a winter of darkness. A very big part of his mind was ecstatic with that attention, in spite of the pain Harry was so obviously feeling. But another part, a surprisingly rational part, was locked on the steadily dwindling figure of their opponent wizard, eyes narrowing with the knowledge that he was getting away.

Lifting a trembling arm, Draco gestured towards the fleeing man. "He's escaping."

Harry spared a glance over his shoulder. Draco couldn't see his expression, but the shrug he gave in response was indication enough of his opinion on the matter. "Let him."

"I believe that goes directly against your cause."

"I'm more concerned about your welfare at the moment than a single escaping wizard, you prat," Harry retaliated, and when he turned towards Draco it was with an expression of anger this time. Not hateful anger, but that concerned anger. It was, selfishly, cruelly and impossibly, one of the most glorious sights Draco had ever seen. He simply loved Harry's anger.

Merlin, but he was twisted.

That brief reward was enough to urge him to fight against every instinct to simply bathe in the moment of Harry's attention. Arching a sceptical eyebrow and struggling not to wince under the pain it speared through his head, Draco affixed Harry with a stare. "I doubt Krax would be too happy about that."

"Krax can go and bugger himself for all I care."

Draco smirked weakly. "Much and all as I appreciate that mental image, I have to refute your suggestion." He gestured towards the nearly disappeared wizard once more and nearly tipped over sideways for the lack of his own physical support. "Although I don't know how you'll manage, not with these Anti-Apparation wards erected. Maybe send one of your Animagus Elites after him. Weasley could possibly run him down." He couldn't help the snort at his own suggestion. Weasley, competent? Just barely.

Harry regarded him worriedly. The anger was still there but his concern was more apparent. He didn't even spare the wizard a second glance, which only added to Draco's warped sense of satisfaction. "I'm not leaving you."

"Merlin, Potter, I'm not incapable."

"You are at the moment."

"I most certainly am not," Draco replied, striving for affronted coolness. "Get your arse moving already."

"I just said I'm not –"

"Dammit, Potter, don't make me go and ask Weasley myself. I don't much fancy talking to a dog, nor asking for its help."

Harry silenced. A brief flicker of amusement interrupted his mask of worried anger. He seemed to war with himself for a moment, chewing on his lower lip in a way that Draco had always found distracting, before finally rising abruptly to standing. "Alright. But I'll be right back. Don't move."

Draco rolled his eyes. He immediately regretted it as it sent a sharp pain lancing through his temple. "I can assure you, movement is the last thing on my mind."

Another flutter of amusement touched Harry's lips, but only for a moment. It was followed by a similarly brief glimmer of uncertainty, of a different kind of concern. As though he was still at war with himself, still questioning his decision. But that too faded a second later into steeled decisiveness. He spun on his heel, robes flaring in that impressive manner he seemed entirely unaware of, and he bolted. Not, however, back towards the greater mass of Aurors.

He ran after the wizard.

Draco didn't have a chance to call after him, to curse and accuse of being an idiot. He barely had time to open his mouth at all, and when he did they died upon his lips. For mid-stride, Harry transformed.

It was a leap into the air. The flurry of robes thinned and morphed, constricting around his shrinking body. And leap though he did, flinging himself into the air ridiculously high, he didn't come back down again. Wings spread and feathered body shot arrow-fast into the distance.

Jack fell upon the fleeing wizards trail like the hunting falcon that he was.

Draco couldn't breath. Had he not been so certain that the transformation had occurred, the Harry had morphed into Jack, he would have considered his eyes played tricks upon him. That perhaps the now increasingly demanding bruise to his forehead was scrambling his brains. But even addled, Draco doubted he could ever mistake Jack's flight. He'd seen the sleek darting, the rapid flap of wings and the incredible speed at low level, agile flight that followed the undulations of the ground far too often to be mistaken.

It was with a sense of disbelieving awe that he watched Jack hone in on the wizard. That he witnessed the distant figures of falcon and man, the attack of a bird of prey as, small though he was, he fell upon the man and downed him with a single snap of talons to skull.

His mind short-circuited after that. Draco couldn't quite recall at what point the battle ended, and whether that point was before or after Gareth McAviary approached him and asked if he was alright. The image of Harry morphing into Jack, of the merlin's gloriously familiar flight, was imprinted on his mind. He could think of little else.

"Malfoy, what the hell are you even doing here?" McAvairy muttered as he crouched before him, peering worriedly at his forehead.

Draco could only shake his head in reply, which wasn't a good idea as it sent the world reeling around him once more. A new mantra had taken up residence in his mind.

What the fuck, Harry?

Draco didn't even know which part of the situation he questioned most.

The communal meeting and aftermath with Krax, whereby every Auror that had been in Dartmoor and witnessed or partaken in the battle was present, lasted for longer than Draco thought was entirely necessary. Draco found himself seated at the very back corner of the room, arms folded and glaring at the ground as Krax's voice seeped into his ears.

He had places he needed to be, a person he needed to find and pin to the ground and bloody well demand answers from. And instead he was embedded in the midst of overly enthusiastic yet now almost comically sombre Field Aurors as they were given the typical talk.

"Your efforts today were exemplary, ladies and gentlemen," Krax said with the same solemnity that gripped just about every other member of the room. "I commend you on your efforts. We have now within our hold thirty-nine of the suspected forty-two members of the Dartmoor Coven. Congratulations."

There was a swell of murmured satisfaction, of muted applause, in which Draco remained in his glaring match with the back of the seat before him. Krax called for silence with an upraised hand. "In the light of current circumstances, however, a delicate situation has arisen. As has no doubt escaped none of your notice, the top secret nature of the Elite Auror squad had been unearthed." There was another rising murmur that Krax silenced again with another upraised hand. Draco had to smother a snort Krax's turn-a-phrase; what were they, children playing Detective Aurors?

"Silence, if you would," Krax continued, holding up his hand once more. "As would undoubtedly strike none as being unexpected, this secret is closely guarded. The Elites have for years maintained their covert status to great benefit of the Department. They have been a greatly-beneficial asset and it has been – and continues to remain – our most ardent desire to ensure that such a status continues. I trust I don't need to outline what this entails."

He didn't. Draco didn't need to listen to the murmurs around him to know that his suspicions were correct. He clicked his tongue at the whispers of 'Keep or Forget' that sounded around him but didn't voice his objections. He understood the need for secrecy, even if he protested to the controlling approach that was taken. He was a Law Enforcer, after all, even if not of the Field kind. He'd taken his Vow of Confidentiality just like everyone else.

"I'll ask each and every one of you to attend to me individually throughout the morning," Krax continued. "I regret that until your Oaths or Obliviates have been enacted that you remain within this room."

And that was how Draco found himself idling the morning away with nothing but his thoughts in the shuttered common area of the Field Aurors. He felt like a duck amongst geese in the collective presence of his distant colleagues, and resolutely kept his eyes trained upon the backs of the chair in front of him. He'd long since grown weary of the scuffed stain on the back, but couldn't shake his attention from it.

The first port of call after the battle at Devon's moors had been to relocate the seized criminals and to ensure the stability of the injured. Thankfully there were few enough of the latter, and even more thankfully no fatalities, but it still consumed a significant portion of the morning. Wands were confiscated, wrists bound and tongues tied in Silencio. They'd been passed along to the Warden sector of the law enforcers, a little seen and even less actively involved subset of the department closeted off Ministry grounds. There had been a very distinct feeling of 'dusting one's hands' when the turnover had fully been completed.

After than Krax had closeted the collective group of defending Aurors in the common area and drilled them on their rights, their responsibilities, and the requests the DMLE had for those involved. Then, leaving with his direct subordinates in tow, he disappeared into his office. Only his deputy, Godestorm, returned to request the next participants in the Keep or Forget ritual. It was a procession line, with the numbers of waiters gradually dwindling as more where shunted into Krax's office. None returned.

It wouldn't have been so bad, the wait. Not really. Though Draco had been healed of all of his wounds – something he knew he would have been more than capable of doing himself yet let McAviary do for him – he still felt wearied from the morning. His initial fear, his determination, the shock of being struck, and his final, flooring surprise.

He had not seen Jack coming. Not from a mile off.

And that was the very problem. Draco had thoughts to air, considerations to raise, questions to jab at Harry-Bloody-Potter and demand answers of. Harry was Jack? How had that happened? He'd been Jack the entire time, every visit the merlin had paid to his home, and hadn't said anything? Regardless of the fact that his Animagus abilities were supposed to be kept secret, Harry should have told Draco.

How had Draco even missed that?

In his mind, Draco was running through every instant in which Jack had visited his home. Like raking with a fine-toothed comb, he sifted through each memory in search of signs, hints, suggestions that would have given the game away. And though a rational part of him considered that he was probably viewing the past from a very biased perspective, there were definitely points that stuck out.

The way Jack almost seemed to talk sometimes. His keen attentiveness that held more inquisitiveness and intelligence than should have been possible in a bird. There were all the times Jack had stolen from his very un-sparrow-filled dinner, or peered over his shoulder as he read a book, or scattered feathers as though deliberately baiting Draco or landed on paperwork like he knew exactly what he was doing. For Merlin's sake, he'd slept on Draco's bed!

Then there had been that time Jack had first attacked him, seemingly so randomly. When Draco considered it had actually corresponded perfectly with Harry's supposed and unwitnessed anger at Draco's presence at Dartmoor… it made a lot of sense. Or at least it did now.

Then there was the moment weeks ago, when Jack had attacked him for the second time. Had honed in through the window like a dart chasing a target and assaulted Draco as he'd been… with that boy from the Falcon's Nest. The entire sequence of that night didn't really make sense to Draco, was still confounding, but he knew there was something there. Something he wasn't seeing. And dammit, he wanted to know what it was. He felt nothing if not foolish for not suspecting something earlier. Jack was strange; he should have guessed.

And Harry-Bloody-Potter was very noticeably absent from anywhere. Just when Draco would have willingly and actively pinned down the bastard, he was nowhere to be seen.

Typical.

So Draco was left to stew in moody silence, mind flickering between images of Harry and Jack and morphing them together like two seemingly unrelated puzzle pieces that just clicked together seamlessly. He didn't even spare a moment's consideration for the Dartmoor Coven; it was hardly his problem, and he had in fact been deliberately excluded from the situation with his previous Oath. And the prospect of Krax rousing on him settled very distinctly upon the horizon? Well, he could deal with that when it came. For in the hours he spent waiting in the Field Auror common area, hunkered behind closed doors, his mind refused to veer from Harry and Jack entirely.

Harry and Jack. Merlin, they were the same bloody person. Bird. Thing.

Finally, quite suddenly, Draco found himself alone. The last of the Field Aurors disappeared through the door and not five minutes later Godestorm returned. The straight-backed, quiet man stood silently in the door for a moment, staring at Draco hard enough that he could almost feel it burning through him. Draco, raising his head, affixed the Deputy with an unwavering stare of his own. Let the short little man know he couldn't be cowed.

"You're up, Malfoy," he said after at least two solid minutes of silent, unspoken exchange.

Draco could have remained where he was. He could have, simply to be objectionable. He was feeling in a particularly objectionable mood. But the fact that it was Godestorm who had broken their silence… well, that in itself felt almost like a victory to Draco. He would allow the opportunity to pass. Instead, he rose silently to his feet and, disregarding the Deputy entirely, swept past him and down the hallway into Krax's office. He almost even managed to shut the door of the claustrophobic office behind him, locking the little man out, but his short, slim figure proved an advantage in this instance, slipping through the closing door like a worm. He didn't appear concerned in the slightest by Draco's attempt.

Turning slowly, Draco regarded Krax before sliding into his own seat. The Head of Department appeared tired. Worn out in the way long, sleepless nights and too much work effected a man. His elbows were propped on the table, sleeves shucked halfway up his arms to reveal thick, hairy arms, and his chin resting upon his interlocked fingers.

As Draco settled himself into his seat, he could feel Krax's weary regard as strongly as he could Godestorm's intent stare. He ignored them both. Or at least he tried to, but such a resolution was a little difficult to maintain when studied under such intensity. Even harder to overlook when Krax spoke. "Why is it always you, Malfoy?"

His objectionable outlook was making him petulant, Draco knew. Raising his eyebrows he hooded his eyes as he stared back at Krax. "I don't believe it is always me."

"Twice. Twice in the past two months you've been caught on restricted grounds – the same restricted grounds – without express approval from your superiors. The same restricted grounds." Krax spoke slowly and deliberately, as though Draco wouldn't quite understand him if he didn't. As though he spoke to a child. It set Draco's teeth on edge.

"Twice in two months is hardly noteworthy," he muttered, yet even to himself Draco sounded petulant this time.

Krax's eyes closed and Godestorm, persistently quiet Godestorm seated to the side of his superior's desk, uttered a snort. "That's beside the point. If this is going to be a problem, Malfoy –"

"I can assure you it won't be. Sir." Draco interrupted. He ignored Godestorm's sceptical glance for favour of fixing Krax with his full attention. "These were exceptional circumstances."

Krax blinked at him slowly, face slipping into a visage of confused speculation and more than a little exasperation. "And what circumstances are these?"

"Personal reasons."

"Malfoy –"

"Sir."

The twitch of Krax's nose, the tightening around his eyes and the clenching of his clasped fingers, indicated that Draco had pushed him too far. He knew that. But he couldn't help himself. He was angry, and frustrated and… and… dammit, he wanted to be out of here already. He wanted to hunt Harry down and demand answers. Krax was merely wasting his time.

Taking a steadying breath, Draco released it in an audible sigh. "My… apologies, sir. I believe the blow to my head might have hit me harder than I thought. I understand completely if you wish to instil some form of punishment or disciplinary intervention for my actions. But…" He sighed again dramatically. "My reasons were my own and are, if anything, rather shameful at that. Please believe that I thoroughly regret them."

The twitch still picked at Krax's nose, but at least he didn't look like he was going to snort fire anymore. He seemed to be steadying himself, calling upon some inner strength, before he answered. "You're asking a lot, Malfoy."

"I know, sir. I realise I put you in a difficult situation."

"But you won't waver in your resolve, will you?" At Draco's silence, Krax nodded. "That's what I thought." His hands dropped to the table and folded tightly. "Right. Well, something has to be done. I doubt anything so drastic as an expulsion – you're a damn good investigator and you know it; it's not like we want to get rid of you – but we're looking at perhaps a temporary suspension, Malfoy. Possibly even shucking you up with some bottom-of-the-barrel Scouring cases for a while. I can't say for certain; Lurring will get the final call." Krax quirked his lips to the side. He seemed almost apologetic for the fact.

Draco didn't mind. Not all that much, anyway. To be honest, so long as it wasn't expulsion – or, nearly as bad, demotion – he would be content with anything. He'd known in some part of his rational mind when flying to Dartmoor, to Harry's side, that he would be reprimanded for his actions. He'd only hoped for the best, while expected the worst.

Inclining his head, Draco maintained his silence. It lasted for all of a minute before Krax realised he wasn't intending to reply. Glancing down at the scattering of papers before him – they looked to be prompts for the Oath Rod – as though searching for a script to continue the conversation, he opened and closed his mouth a few times before continuing. "Right. Now, regarding tonight. You know the drill. Oath or Obliviate?"

Was it really even a question? Draco didn't need to consider it. The thought pained him almost as much as it frustrated him, that he wouldn't be able to discuss the situation with Harry, that he couldn't hammer him with questions about Jack – about his merlin form.

But anything was better than forgetting it all. That was intolerable.

"Oath, sir."

Krax nodded his head, as though he'd been expecting it. He likely had been. The rod was already waiting on the table. He hefted it like a baton and offered one end to Draco. Draco grasped it, striving to ensure the motion wasn't tentative.

Krax didn't need to glance down at the words typed onto the papers before him this time. He'd evidently conducted the ritual enough times that day to know it without needing the prompts. "Draco Malfoy, do you swear to breathe not a word to any individual, personal or public correspondent, about the events that occurred at Dartmoor National Park, Devon, as officially recorded to have passed on the tenth of January, two thousand and five?"

"I do," Draco agreed mechanically.

"Do you swear to record or depict by modes of written, verbal, mental or physical communication of the reality you witnessed pertaining to the Elite Auror squad and their Animagus forms' relevance to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement unless a trio of direct superiors should request such from you."

That damned trio. Draco would need to work at finding a loophole for that one. It was likely his best bet for being able to filch answers from Harry at all. "I do."

"Do you swear to communicate not through written, verbal, mental or physical communication of the nature of the Elite Auror squad's Animagus forms unless in complete privacy and under the express permission of the Animagus involved?"

Wait… what? Draco struggled to maintain his schooled expression. This, this was the loophole he'd been hoping to search for. Krax offered it up to him on a silver platter. In privacy? That was hardly a problem. Draco had exactly zero intention of interrogating Harry with an audience. And as for permission, he would drag that from Harry whether he liked it or not. Blaise had always affectionately agreed that he was more than capable of drawing blood from a stone when he wanted to. Persistence was a personal characteristic.

"I do."

Nodding curtly, Krax withdrew the Oath Rod from his hand and leaving nothing but a tingle in Draco's fingers. With a sigh, he tossed it with the same carelessness that he always did into his desk draw, followed by the jumbled papers from the desk. Draco could almost hear Godestorm's mental objections as he eyed the mess that now lathered the interior of the drawer. "Right. Well. Right. That's that, then."

"Am I given permission to leave, sir?" Draco asked. He was already rising to his feet.

Krax, still seated and appearing even wearier for having finished with the last of the Oaths, nodded. "Yes, yes. You're all done. The rest of the day is off, Malfoy; all of the Aurors involved are taking it off."

"Thank you, sir." Perfect. Now he could spend the afternoon drilling Harry for answers. He turned to leave, but paused when Krax spoke once more.

"I'll be talking to Lurring… perhaps later this afternoon. You should expect an outcome by tomorrow."

"Thank you, sir," Draco repeated. Honestly, and to the career-driven part of him surprisingly, he couldn't care less. He simply wanted out of that office.

His hand had actually clasped the doorknob when Krax spoke once more. He had to fight back an exasperated sigh. "I heard what you did, by the way."

Pausing, Draco froze. He slowly turned his head towards Krax. From the corner of his eye, he could make out Godestorm regarding him with an intensity equal to Krax's. "I beg your pardon?"

"You. In the battle. You fought alongside Potter." It wasn't a question, but Krax seemed to be seeking an answer nonetheless. Draco didn't give him one and he continued after only a moment's pause. "Weasley told me."

Draco felt his eyebrow's rise incredulously. "Weasley?"

Krax nodded, the quiver of a smile twitching his lips suggesting he heard Draco's thinly veiled incredulity loud and clear. "That he did. Said you did a bloody good job of it."

"Did… he?" Draco couldn't quite believe that.

The smile managed to curl Krax's lips. "I'm not surprised to be honest, Malfoy. Perhaps you'd do well in with the Field Aurors. Or maybe we could even make an Elite out of you yet."

It was a tease. Draco knew the big man was simply teasing him. Too familiar, too friendly, was Krax. Everyone said it, agreed unanimously to the fact. Clenching his teeth together and thrusting aside the upwelling of dread at the very prospect of fieldwork, Draco smoothed his expression once more. "I don't think so, sir." And without awaiting a reply he tugged the door open and strode into the hallway.

It would take too long to search. The instant Draco clicked the door shut behind him he drew his wand from his pocket and held it aloft flat on his palm. The incident with Krax was already being shunted to the side as the present encroached upon him. That he was going to seek Harry, and he was going to do it now. In a mimic of his charm that morning, he cast a quick 'Point Me', and was soon striding at an almost-run through the department hallways.

It didn't take all that long to find him. No one waylaid Draco in his search, for which he was grateful. Not even Yorkley, who appeared to be torn between gossiping with Yvonne Richardson and peering into the hallway leading to the Field Auror offices. It was clear to Draco at least that he was still caught up on the potential gossip, in the excitement and supposed horror of the morning's operation. He was so focused that he barely glanced towards Draco as Draco strode past him. Evidently Yorkley didn't know of Draco's presence on the field.

That was exactly the way Draco liked it. He intended to keep it that way.

Harry was in his office. He wasn't alone, but Draco barely even noticed Weasley and Abigail Sazty in their seats as he strode past them. Harry was leaning wearily on the edge of his desk, but to Draco's eyes appeared less exhausted than Krax. The hint of tiredness faded the instant he lifted his chin at Draco's entrance.

A strange expression flickered across his face. In the three steps Draco took to cross the office, he catalogued each emotion he could identify; surprise, lingering worry, relief, exasperation, annoyance, anger. There were more; Draco knew there were more. He couldn't necessarily identify them, but he knew there were more.

Yet he didn't pause to try and discern them. He didn't pause to glance towards Weasley at the redhead's affronted "hey!" either as he pulled Harry after him from the room. His fingers grasped Harry's wrist in a death grip, refusing any attempts at shaking loose.

Not that Harry made any. He was, instead, remarkably compliant. He didn't speak as Draco dragged him from the office and kept pace as they made their striding way through the ministry to the Floos.

Draco only paused when they arrived at the fireplaces. He spared a moment to glance towards Harry, and when he did his resolve only hardened. So many questions sat on the tip of his tongue, and when he turned towards Harry he could see as plainly as if it were written across his forehead that Harry felt the same.

Harry's face had cleared into a fixed mask of determination reminiscent of that he'd worn on the battlefield. He met Draco's eyes flatly, lips clamped firmly closed. He didn't need to speak, however. The very air breathed, "We need to talk".

Draco couldn't agree more.