A/N: Hello! Apologies for the delay. I must have tried half a dozen different takes on this chapter and this is the one that feels the most comfortable to me.
Much love and appreciation to everyone who loves this fic.
Thanks ever so much to Madd Girl, anaknisatanas, porcupineapple, Falcon-Jade-Darkness, Helena (I'm trying, honestly, but Harry and Lucius are quite determined to go on being miserable without one another.), Centrau guardian, Kittendragon, Sethian, IcyTanya, Sarrah, Imiryoku, Bobbi, Lady Pheonix Ice Angel, KurumaIsFine, sarcastic, nataleechan ( :smiles and waves: ), Twilight Magician24, celestialuna, Novocaine, TanyaPotter, Xelena, MissJinny, Lady-LunaPotter, Lanfear (who got me addicted to Lightning on the Wave right before my finals...), Clad Longouste, mmjay (I'm trying, but so many possibilities take time to work through.), odducky (Makes sense to me!), louey31, PurpleRaveness, akuma-river, Deadmen's Bells (Shadow's name is mentioned in this chapter, in fact.), silver4fire, angel (of course, I'm back; this story isn't finished yet!), spinnerofdark, Echo, sanzo, Zelphie, Mirror, Sabia, Muthru, Kristin, thuyhy-thuyhy, Yukkienoloveless, Megan13, Penguin Steps, Fiery Pheonix (Harry starts to realize he loves Lucius when Harry stops being a stubborn idiot... whenever that is.), alliekatgal, ura-hd, and OrionLuckyStar ( I try to update quickly, really.)
Harry wishes that he could just die.
Then, at least, he wouldn't feel so miserable. He had closed The Three Broomsticks and made his way to the Hog's Head Inn, where he is about to be thrown out, or picked up by some of the seedier patrons who look at him and see only a pretty victim. Harry has fended off six so far, but a seventh resolutely remains, and Harry suspects that he has slipped something into Harry's drink… or what had been Harry's drink three glasses ago.
The dawn after Lucius left had brought no consolation for Harry, who had spent the night seeing the faces of Draco, Lucius and Nicholas in his mind's eye. Harry had worn sunglasses to class, preferring that his students think he partied too hard on the weekend than for them to see the shadows under his bloodshot eyes.
The crystal ball at his desk had played odd tricks on him all day, showing him bits of his past instead of the future:
A shroud bound in red, dangling charms that to protect the body and prevent its use in necromancy.
Harry washing the body of a blonde boy and performing the rites of burial. His hands shake as he makes the necessary wand movements, but his voice is more sure than he would have thought and the incantations are strong and clear.
That night after he delivered the body to Lucius, which Harry had spends locking up the pain behind fierce barriers of denial, weeding out the withered blossoms of first love and burying them beneath duty and grief.
The funeral that kills in Harry the spark of something to hope for, the promise of a future Harry had not even known he had wanted until it was taken from him.
The dried and yellowed petals of a rose taken from a coffin in which more than one person's dreams were buried.
Harry weighs the benefits of fighting to stay coherent versus giving into whatever was put in his drink. If he gave in, then his wish for death might just be granted… or he might wake up in an alley in Hogsmeade wondering where his clothes were. Either way, he is running out of time, as the edges of his vision are beginning to blur and his limbs are beginning to feel heavy.
The seedy man moves from his chair and Harry can feel himself being manhandled to his feet. "Oy!" someone shouts and then there is the sound of flesh hitting flesh and a loud thud. Harry is left to stand on his own, and the world lurches in the peculiar way it always does when Harry tries to drink himself sick. He is steadied by a different pair of hands, a much gentler pair, and that is all that he has time to register before blackness overwhelms him.
It is still dark outside when Harry wakes in his own bed to find Ron staring at him with nothing but concern.
"Harry?" There is fear and relief in Ron's voice.
Bits and pieces of the night surface in Harry's mind and Harry wants to bury his head in his pillows and smother himself to death rather than face whatever Ron has to say.
"Harry are you alright?"
"What are you doing here?" Harry asks, shifting in bed. That's when he realizes he has no clothing on. "What happened?" Harry panics, for a moment thinking that he had compounded the weekend's stupidity with another stupid mistake. Ron smiles at him softly.
"Relax. I came looking for you to apologize for Hermione being a git. Whatever you drank made you sick all over yourself. So I changed you into your pajamas, but then you were sick all over them too, and I couldn't find anything else to put on you after that."
"Then what happened?"
"Then I took advantage of your vulnerable state and had my wicked way with you—repeatedly. Honestly Harry, what is the matter with you? Have I ever given you any reason to think I'm pervy enough to rape my best friend while he's in a drug-induced sleep?" Ron asks, sounding more hurt than anything.
"Sorry," Harry mumbles. "I guess that one way or another, I just expected last night to end badly."
"What was that all about? I didn't know you drank. And what did you mean that you expected last night to end badly? Harry, did you know that man had drugged you?"
"Forget it, " Harry mutters, burying his face into the pillow. Ron grabs him by the shoulder and forces him to turn.
" I will not forgot it, especially not if you tell me that you put yourself in danger deliberately. That man could have robbed you, he could've raped you, and he could've killed you, and all you have to say is forget it?"
"I had an argument with Lucius." Ron raises an eyebrow, one that said "And I didn't know you and Lucius Malfoy were on first name basis, either."
"Go on."
So Harry explains in halting words and without making eye contact once, the story of how he came to be arguing with Lucius. At the end of his story, there is an awkward silence, in which Harry waits for Ron to begin cursing and spluttering and making condemnations and cursing some more before going red in the face and silent, signaling the end of his communication with Harry during this lifetime.
He does not expect Ron to hold him tightly and almost desperately. Harry finds himself hugging Ron back just as tightly and making horrible sounds that he is vaguely aware are the sobs he has been fighting back since Lucius left him.
"You are such idiot, mate," Ron says. "What made you think that you had to do this alone, that you couldn't tell us straight out?"
"Because you and your wife were busy jumping to conclusions and treating me like dirt."
"One, you never said anything! You just went all moody and tight-lipped and then you vanished without ever explaining anything. Two, don't tell anyone, but sometimes, Hermione is really quite dense. She forgets that feelings don't follow logic and that people bruise easily."
A sly look suddenly crosses Ron's face, one that reminds Harry of Fred and George.
"Three, I always thought that Draco loved you… and that maybe you did love him, but I kind of thought that you were hot for Lucius."
"I was not!" Harry insists, his face turning bright red. Ron quirks an eyebrow.
"Harry, you are attracted to blondes—arrogant, prick-bastard blondes. In that department, you can't get more top of the line than Lucius Malfoy."
"How very true," says a voice from the fireplace. Harry turns to see Shadow stepping out of the fireplace.
"Evan," Harry says, trying to steady his voice. He is grateful that the bed is draped in shadows, hiding his vulnerable state for the moment, at least. The corners of Shadow's mouth quirk at the use of his given name. Harry doubts anyone has called him by it in ages. Shadow's family is usually referred to by their surname, with the head and the heir known as The Elder and The Younger. Only amongst family or very close friends did they allow their first names to be used.
"Rosier," Ron says with a curt nod.
"The only," Shadow says with a bow. "Minister."
"What do you want?" Ron's voice is guarded, but not hostile.
"I came to get Harry. Something has happened," Shadow replies with unnatural calm.
"What?" Shadow only looked grave, his brown eyes deepening to a fathomless shade of black in the firelight. Harry knows that look and it makes his stomach turn. He is out of bed in a minute, nakedness forgotten. Shadow turns on his heel and focuses on the fireplace, while Ron is caught halfway between being useful and being in the way.
"What are you doing?" Ron says, blocking Harry's way to his closet, but handing him a pair of pants.
"I'm going with Rosier," Harry says, zipping up his pants and reaching for a shoe. Ron hands him the other.
"May I remind you that it was only hours ago that you were passed out under the influence of enough alcohol to send a giant under the table and Merlin only knows what?"
"Yes, you may," Harry says, lacing up the second shoe and reaching for the shirt Ron had summoned from some corner of Harry's room.
"Then may I also remind you that you are in no shape to go anywhere but back to bed?" Harry pulls the shirt over his head and places his glasses somewhat crookedly on his nose.
"Ron, I'm going," he says, meeting Ron's gaze squarely. Ron's gaze doesn't falter as he reaches out to straighten Harry's glasses.
"Fine, but I'm coming with you."
"What's the matter, Minister? Don't trust me?" Shadow asks lightly. Ron doesn't even spare him a frown as he gathers his things.
"This has nothing to do with you, Rosier. This has to do with me not trusting Harry not to be stupid and to know his limitations."
"Ron, this has nothing to do with you," Harry says, thinking that where he and Shadow would be going, Ron would hardly be welcome. Ron does spare a frown for Harry.
"Harry, I love you like a brother. As such, if you ever say those words to me again, I will knock you flat, so help me." Harry gapes at Ron. Ron smiles and shrugs a bit.
From the fireplace, Shadow chuckles. "Shall we, gentlemen?"
More soon, hopefully. Meanwhile, please be a dear and review!
With love, as always,
J. Silver