.
vi. out of glass (crystal rose)
.
.
.
Years later, in May 2008, Harry sits in the front row while they uncover the war memorial in Hogsmeade. The event has been months in the making, controversial in the press - a wave of strong opinions from bravely unnamed Ministry officials, complaints about anything from the taxpayer cost, to the aesthetics of the sculpture. Rain pours and cascades down the uneven rooftops, that day, an urgently casted shield protecting the attendees, and droplets of water now glide down a see-through dome, some twenty metres above their heads.
Harry's gaze focuses on the lines they form and follows them down to the ground.
Cutting through solemn silence, Kingsley reads out the names of Voldemort's victims in alphabetical order. They carve themselves, appear onto the white marble obelisk on the main square. Emrys Steadman's name follows Eleanor Smith's and Ginny's fingers gently wrap around Harry's forearm. 'Now's not the time, Harry,' she mutters as his blood boils - he catches her look and nods. If it weren't for her, he'd have stayed home with the kids this morning. If it weren't for Fred's name coming down that list, really.
Kingsley said: 'We're including all casualties between Voldemort's return in '95 and his death.' The list was published in The Prophet, a couple weeks ago. 'I know it might not be the full list,' he conceded. 'But we have to draw the line somewhere.'
Harry slammed the door on his way out. 'Giulia Squicciarino.' There was the wood-panelled office of the Minister's secretary, and the way it swallowed the sound of his voice. 'She was your fucking friend.'
At the ceremony, he shows his face because Gin needs him there, and because Giulia would have called him an entitled twat otherwise. 'You think I care about having my name on a fucking stone?' she would have smiled, daring and sarcastic, a bit like she did that last morning - showing a bit of teeth and the lines at the corner of her eyes.
'Well, maybe I care,' he tells her in his head the next time he visits her grave. 'It's not right.'
She would have laughed at that. 'Well, life's never fucking right, is it?'
And: yeah, maybe it isn't. She is the last casualty of a war that desperately seeks to lower its death toll, and perhaps it isn't right that she died, dies - full stop - but she still does. A curse hits her that day - Harry's injured, about fifteen stones' worth of Muggle machinery's just been blasted in his face, and she's just trying to get to him. She dies like this:
The factory they're in is an old lace mill. It is the 23rd of December 1998. Before they enter the building, Thaddeus – Ron's partner – and Giulia laugh. They play rock, paper, scissors to determine which team will go in first. She wins ('I don't know, T. You just always seemed like a paper kind of bloke,') and Ron gives Harry a little bit of a shove when she add, teasing: 'Better you two go in front, anyway. Got the hero of the wizarding world with me, wouldn't want to damage him before he gives his next interview.'
They clear out the ground floor without incident. A handful of empty rooms, no Dementors. From the outside, Harry counted four stories, rows and rows of tiny windows lining up the façade for what seemed like miles – he couldn't help but wonder if they'd be here all day. The four of them climb up a set of stairs, make their way into the main room. Hundreds of yards of brick walls, dirty floors and empty working stations, stretched out upon them. They take two, maybe three steps in, before his foot hits something.
It's a cable. A cable for an automated appliance that was still plugged into the wall.
Later, in January, when they finally get to sit down and talk about it, Robards says: 'See, that's why I need Muggleborns on my team.' Harry doesn't correct him, doesn't explain that he's not really Muggleborn, strictly speaking. The point is: out of the four of them, he's the only one who picks up on it. Muggles have to pay for electricity. Muggles wouldn't have deserted a building leaving things plugged in unless they were in a hurry.
In Harry's memories of the moment, Ron stands maybe ten feet ahead of him. Thaddeus a little behind. Giulia to his left. He crosses Ron's gaze.
It's a split second before they both shout: 'DOWN!' At the time – he doesn't even fully know why.
(Later, Ron says: 'I dunno, mate. It was just the look on your face. Same look you had in fifth year, when you realised You-Know-Who had tricked you into the Ministry.'
The day Sirius died, so, Harry thinks. Good to know.)
That morning, he grabs Giulia's shoulders. It was her or Ron (sorry, Thaddeus) but, she's closer. Also, Ron's shouted, too, presumably knows he needs to hide. Harry screams 'DOWN!' and launches for her, drags the both of them to the ground. There is a desk to their left – he slides underneath. Hopes (hopes to God, to Merlin, to anything and everything) that Ron's done the same with Thaddeus. He can't check, can't do much of anything, really, because about a millisecond after they hit the floor, the world around them explodes.
The bang is loud enough that Harry wonders if he'll ever hear again. Under them, the ground, the walls (everything) shakes so hard that he thinks, for a moment, that they might collapse onto the floor below. Instead, it's the ceiling that opens up above – rubble, electrical cables, more heavy machinery – Harry lies on top of Giulia under the desk, hoping that his body will shield her from the collapse if the worktop comes to break. Something briefly digs through the flesh of his thigh and he draws blood when he bites on his hand to stifle a scream. Under him, Giulia's still breathing.
(That, ladies and gents, isn't a curse. It's a Big Bang.)
The blast takes minutes to recede. The wave of the explosion washes over them like something that Harry already knows is magical and wrong - it stops rather suddenly, leaving his ears ringing, heart pounding in his neck. There isn't silence, not exactly, he can still hear things breaking, sliding and collapsing around them, electrical cables breaking into little sparks, but the main blow has cleared. Ron, is his first thought. He quickly tries to straighten up, adrenaline pumping, slides off Giulia to see behind the edge of the desk. The room's gone completely dark - half the world seems to have fallen on top of it – at that point, it's all smoke and dust; he can't see anything.
'Fuck,' Giulia whispers, then.
At first, Harry feels a rush of panic course through him, wondering: is she hurt? More than pain, it's fear that he hears in her voice, though, (raw, icy) - he turns towards it. For now, something in his gut (feeding on years spent avoiding people who were out to kill him, maybe) seems to beg him to stay quiet. Giulia appears to think the same thing; when she speaks, she mouths and mutters her words, crouched next to him. His ears ring, vision hazy, slightly dizzy.
She's folded awkwardly between him and the desk. They're hidden by a metallic back panel, something that in the past must have been meant to hide the worker's legs and feet. At least, here, they're somewhat hidden from view.
Harry tries to cross her gaze, then, glasses askew. 'Fuck. Harry, don't move,' Giulia says.
Obviously, he tries to move. Tries, because when he does, pain sears through his right leg like it's being cut open and – upon closer inspection – it is. A metallic tube, maybe seven or eight inches long, about the diameter of a pound, is impaled straight through his thigh. Blood is soaking the fabric of his jeans and the moment he looks, Harry feels bile rise at the back of his throat.
Something tells him not to close his eyes. Tells him that if he does, he might not open them again. Gently, he feels Giulia's hand against his leg. She moves, ever so slightly; he's pretty sure she's trying to Apparate them out of there. He's about to shout, say that wherever they are, they can't leave Ron and Thaddeus here but then, 'Fuck, wards,' she says, shakes her head.
There is that, he supposes.
A loud bang echoes from further up the room. They barely have time to glance at each other again, wonder what the hell that was, before a shower of spells comes cruising above their heads. It is a dense curtain of flashes, yellows, and blues, and greens in a relentless flow; they all crash against the back wall and the stuff around them starts catching fire again, explosions and glass flying in all directions.
'Death Eaters!' someone shouts. (Obviously.)
The roar sounds a lot like Thaddeus, from what seems like yards away. Harry's stomach drops even though, to tell the truth, what on earth had he hoped for? A ridiculously unlikely Muggle, gas explosion? Yeah, that sounds right up his street.
A few seconds, perhaps minutes go by. He can't be sure – it's a chaos of spells exchanged overhead; he hears a number of unintelligible shouts – Giulia fires over the worktop a couple of times, aiming for a general point of origin without really being able to look. Trapped to the ground, he tries to shift but his leg clearly refuses to cooperate and collapses under his weight.
'Fuck! I told you not to move!' Giulia admonishes over the noise but -
'I count five!' someone else shouts. It comes from the same general area as Thaddeus' voice did, earlier. Then, 'Giulia?!' it shouts again. 'You two still there?'
Ron, Harry thinks. Ron's alive. That's Ron's voice. Ron's alive, Ron's alive, Ron's–
There is a moment, there, Harry thinks. His gaze finds Giulia's as she casts a silent curse over her shoulder towards their attackers and he sees her hesitate. A second, maybe less. He doesn't hesitate, though. If the first word out of her mouth after the blast was 'Fuck,' his first word is: 'Go.'
Go for Ron. Go for the others. Maybe you can find a way out, maybe -
'Fuck you,' though, is her only response. Her glare is darker than he's ever known it to be, like her fury is currently outweighing her fear. Of course, they spend the next few moments arguing. She shouts at the others 'Cover us! We need time!' and when Harry opens his mouth again (he's slow, the blood loss and the pain make it difficult to focus) she says: 'Fuck you,' (again) 'I'm not leaving you here. That is not happening.'
He defaults on the argument because he passes out.
The next time he comes to, she's pushed him further down under the desk, sat him up against the back. 'Harry, Harry,' she's hitting him in the face. He lets out a groan. 'Stay with me.'
He wants to point out that he doesn't particularly fancy staying around someone who's hitting him in the face but the part of his brain that usually translates his thoughts into words isn't currently cooperating. Later, she speaks to him, he thinks. It's loud in his head and the world spins around them; he feels her shove a piece of wood in his mouth and even if he can't speak, he understands pretty quick what she's about to do but sadly doesn't have the strength to push her off. Now, she looks scared, he thinks. Terrified. 'Okay, I'll count to three, yeah?' she whispers.
She doesn't.
She counts to one, maybe one and a half, he's pretty sure, before she pulls the bloody thing out of his leg. Now, that wakes him up. Real fast. For a moment, he wonders if she actually hasn't chopped it off entirely. Harry closes his eyes, teeth digging holes into the piece of wood in his mouth until quickly, he feels blood, liquid and hot under his hands and his entire limb suddenly feels like it's burning, burning from inside, like his skin itself has come alive and – his eyes open but he can't see, stars clouding his vision and it burns – burns - he vaguely feels her hand hitting his cheek again. 'Stay with me, Harry. Please, please, please stay with me,' her voice shakes with tears and don't faint, he thinks don't faint, don't faint, don't –
Then, nothing. He blinks a couple of times, eyes finally able to focus on her face. His leg feels numb rather than half-open. He looks down and sees a burnt scar through the rip in his jeans, the size of a coin. The tube is gone, bleeding stopped. Careful, she unfastens her belt from around his leg (he hadn't even noticed it was there) and sits with her back next to him, head against the drawers at the other end of the desk. 'Better?' she asks. He flexes his foot. It's working. Hesitantly, he lets the muscle in his thigh clench a bit. He winces with the pain, but it's nothing like it was before. 'Sorry,' she tells him, then. 'I know that spell hurts like a bitch – just had to stop the bleeding.'
He looks at the tube in her hand. It's half-soaked in blood and for some reason, Harry can't help but laugh. Fucking laugh. He shakes his head at her, straightens his glasses and catches her gaze – it's somewhat funny how he can actually breathe again. His voice is raspy, throat dry, still, dusty when he speaks. 'So, you what? Set me on fire?'
She playfully shoves the side of his shoulder with hers. 'Saved your life by the looks of it, you ungrateful prat.' Something between a chuckle and an exhausted sigh escapes his mouth. 'Though you did save mine by getting us under here in the first place, so I'd say we're even. Come on,' she adds. 'We need to get to the others.'
Under a cascade of spells, exploding items, and curses thrown across the room, they make it up to Ron and Thaddeus in a few minutes. Hidden behind a pile of rubble of broken things fallen from the collapsed ceiling, the other two fill them in. There are – indeed - five Death Eaters, entrenched at the back of the room, a few hundred yards out. The two of them have been under constant fire for the last fifteen minutes, Ron quickly explains, haven't been able to move an inch. 'They're not moving either,' he says; Thaddeus fires something over his shoulder. 'They've got these protective spells going on around them – they can fire at us but as long as they stay up there, nothing we cast seems to get through, I -' he starts, then frowns at Harry, looking down at the blood on his jeans. 'Whatever happened to you?'
Harry shakes his head like: maybe I'll explain if we do get out alive someday.
'Have you tried blasting stuff at them?' Giulia asks. 'If spells can't get through, maybe things can?'
It works – for a while. The four of them start raining a downpour of debris, machinery and anything they can levitate or explode at the other side of the room; it gives them a bit of an edge. 'We need to get closer,' Giulia finally says, catching Harry's gaze. 'Get a better aim!'
Slowly, covered by Ron and Thaddeus, the both of them manage to move further up the room. Harry's leg is stiff when he rests his weight on it but it generally functions. This, he supposes, is all he can hope for. The other two follow quickly, hiding behind desks, storage cupboards and everything else they can find.
They make it about halfway up the room when one of the Death Eaters appears to step out of their protective enchantments. It was something Thaddeus threw, Harry thinks, that finally landed close enough to make him slip. Harry's still too far out, in the dark, to truly make out the man's face, but the one thing he does know, in that specific moment, is that because of where he finds himself, hunkered down next to Giulia behind an industrial loom, he's the one, out of the four of them, who has the clearest shot.
'Potter!' Thaddeus shouts to get his attention. 'To your right!'
And, this – this, you see - is why Ron called out for Giulia, earlier, and not Harry. Whatever you do, you don't call out his name. Not with dark, cloaked figures in the vicinity. Giulia knows that. Ron knows that. Even Thaddeus would have known that if he'd worked with Harry before, if he hadn't just been replacing Ron's usual partner, through the bloody 24/7 Christmas schedule. He would have known, then, that you don't shout 'Potter!' in a place like this. That doing so is pretty much a death sentence.
It's a split-second decision. They're going to come after him, Harry knows, will blast both Giulia and him out of this world within seconds. So, before she can stop him (oh, he knows she would have stopped him) he stands, gets out from behind the loom and aims to run towards the next working station, about twenty feet away. Giulia tries to reach for his arm but he's already gone.
He gets the shot. Wordlessly fires a stupefy straight into the Death Eater's chest. Before the man falls to the ground, he runs as fast as he can across the room, as far away as from anyone else as possible and shouts: 'Expelliarmus!'
Go on, come after me, he thinks. Come after me, not after them. It works because, 'THAT IS POTTER!' he hears one of the Death Eaters growl.
Harry throws himself down to the ground as the world around him explodes. Again. About fifteen stones of heavy, Muggle machinery are blasted in his face and –
(There. There, it's coming, isn't it?)
When he opens his eyes, initially Harry thinks he's dead. Then, he remembers: bruises, cuts, a general soreness aren't what death feels like. This, whatever it is, isn't King's Cross, either.
He's just been thrown back, maybe about thirty feet. Miraculously, both his arms and legs seem to still be attached to his body. He takes a quick glance to his right and thank Merlin, he thinks: Giulia's alive. (Still.) She's crouching behind a pile of rubble, desperately trying to find an opening to get to him. There is fear and worry stretched across her face. Through her look, it suddenly occurs to Harry that he's lying flat, his back against the cold, hard floor, right in the middle of the room, completely exposed.
For a moment, he tries to move. Pain cuts through his side, keeps him on the ground. (Broken ribs, he'll find out later). Glancing back, he notices that three of the Death Eaters seem to have finally left their protective bubble, too happy to go and check if Potter really is dead. He's not – not yet - but they're definitely going to kill him, now, aren't they?
Before he can truly worry about that, though, to his left, someone shouts: 'BOMBARDA!'
The sheer force of Ron's spell surprises everyone (including him, it seems). The three bodies hit the wall behind them at once - hard and heavy thuds colliding with heavy bricks. (Later, they find out that two of them died instantly, skulls splitting open upon impact. The third one is in St Mungo's for quite some time after that.)
Boosted by yet another instance of Ron Weasley saving his life (not that he's counting), Harry suddenly realises with four attackers down, they might now - actually might - get out of here alive. A rush of adrenaline courses through him and with it, he manages to get up from the floor, run to cover behind a nearby desk. A flash of white misses him by a couple of feet and whatever that spell was sets the storage cupboard behind him on fire.
Sitting up, he spots Giulia again. She's about fifty feet away, behind him and to his left. She glances to the front of the room, the back, her sides –
It's sudden. She gets up. Runs towards him.
Fifty feet, it's not much. Three seconds, maybe. They're partners, they're not supposed to be separated. Ron and Thaddeus cover her with loud, distracting spells, trying to keep the last of the Death Eaters busy with the both of them. By then, Harry's already trying to think of a plan for what they'll do next, bring the last one down, but then – she trips. On a piece of debris on the ground, about six feet from where he is. Six fucking feet. A safe distance, they say, one that he used to keep from Vernon to make sure he didn't get hit. She's just out of reach.
Giulia trips. She loses her balance. It's a second, not more. Enough (just enough) for her to get hit.
It's not avada. He knows that. The spell's yellow and there's blood – everywhere. By the time Harry understands, by the time he moves his boots are slipping in it. She falls to her knees, half-standing, and coughs it out. On him, on the floor; he watches as large, open gashes spread across her body, at her chest, at her neck – there is blood everywhere – fucking everywhere – and she looks scared, looks –
Then, another curse hits her – this one, right in the chest. That is a flash of green. A part of him (the part of him that has oddly dissociated from this moment – like: it's not happening, can't be happening, not here, not to her, not this morning, not -), that part of him thinks: this is literally an overkill. She was dying, definitely dying, he wants to scream, with all that blood – on his hands, on his chest, on the floor – so why hit her again, why –
He moves. Loses track of everything he's learnt these past few months about keeping his cool, maintaining cover; Harry drags himself across the six feet and kneels by the side of her head. Kneels in a pool of blood; her eyes are wide open - they face the ceiling. He sits there, in the middle of the alley, and 'Harry, no!' Ron shouts just before another flash of green cruises past. It grazes Harry's nose, an inch or two away. They've killed her, he thinks. They've fucking killer her, they –
He stands. Just fucking stands, in the middle of everything, and looks up.
The Death Eater who fired at him (fired at her) is surprisingly close, now, maybe sixty feet away, and -
It's Greyback. There is a lot to say to that. There is - also, strangely - not much to say to that.
'You missed,' Harry simply states. Something falls off the ceiling in the distance – a light – it barely registers. Greyback missed, fired an avada kedavra an inch from Harry's face and missed. In that moment, he remembers the day Giulia pointed out his 'abysmal' Potions scores, back in the patrol car, but the thing is, at the end of their spell instruction training, his accuracy rate on target, at the firing range, was 99.8%.
In his head, Tom Riddle murders his mother.
There's a flash of green and Greyback falls to the ground.
It's hours, after that. He's not sure where they go. It's not like he faints or somehow loses consciousness; it's just that maybe, he blocks it out. First, it was dark, and he was scared, and Giulia was dying. Now, it's light, and he feels numb, and she's dead. That much he knows. It's glaring at him right in the face, kneeling there next to her body. His hands, his jeans, his jumper are all soaked with her blood. Her eyes are glazed over, a golden shade between green and brown, almost faded. It feels like he was in a daze, just woke up.
'He hasn't moved?'
Robards. A voice in the distance.
There are people, here, now. From where he is, Harry can see their feet moving around him. Dozens of Aurors (he recognises the Ministry issued boots). They're running protective spells, he reckons, collecting evidence or securing the location, tiptoeing around the both of them, filling the fucking place. Everyone is acting as though they can't see him – can't see her. He's not dead, though, is pretty certain of that.
'I'd say he's in shock,' an unidentified male responds.
'Well, if he's in shock, I'll have to get the bloody mediwizards in here,' Robards sighs. 'I mean, appreciate we'd rather not, with all the press outside, but -'
Harry doesn't look away from Giulia's face. Can't look away from her face. Part of him still thinks she might wake up and what if he's not there, watching her when she does? So, 'I'm not in shock,' he says, isn't quite sure if it's true.
His cheeks aren't wet, that much he can tell. When he reaches to wipe a drop of blood away from the corner of her mouth (There. Now, she could be sleeping), his hands don't seem to shake, either. His heart feels oddly calm, in his chest, like: what would be the point of trying to get out now? He only wishes he could stand, wreck Dumbledore's office again, just for something to do. It occurs to him that Dumbledore's dead, too. Seemed indestructible, just like Giulia, seemed –
Suddenly, looking at her becomes unbearable. Harry feels blood thumping against the side of his neck and stands. His entire body screams in protest; he sways a bit, steps away. 'Potter,' someone calls. He flinches.
'Excuse me.' Robards, again. He swiftly materialises at Harry's side, arm catching him before he falls. Harry doesn't move, isn't sure that his legs won't give out under him if he does.
'Where's Ron?' he asks. First question. Always the first question.
'He's fine, he's downstairs with the mediwizards. Livingstone's in St Mungo's,' Robards says. Thaddeus, so. 'Broken bones. You should go, too.'
'I'm fine,' Harry shakes his head. Steps out of Robards' reach, as if to prove it. Can't help it - casts a look behind his shoulder. Giulia hasn't moved.
The boss gives him a sceptical look. 'You can hardly stand.'
'What's going to happen to her?' he asks, instead.
It is the first time that he's actually able to cross Robards' gaze, that morning. The hard, cold, blue stare that the Head Auror usually sports is gone. There is something kinder, almost sad – the older man sets a hand on his shoulder. Seems to ponder over his choice of words. 'They'll take her to St Mungo's, confirm cause of death.' He pauses; Harry feels a light squeeze. He feels like he's going to vomit, too. 'I'll go with her,' Robards says. 'She won't be alone. I promise.'
But I know what killed her, Harry thinks. I saw it, I -
'Potter.' Robards' voice is almost soft. 'Listen to me: there's nothing else you can do here.' Harry swallows, says nothing. There is a slightly anxious tone in the next few words that are uttered to him. 'Go get yourself checked out. If you're able, someone'll take you down to the Ministry afterwards. Internal Affairs will want to speak to you.' That does get Harry to look up at him again, away from Giulia. Robards frowns. 'You – do you remember?' he asks, then, unsure. 'You -'
Harry speaks quickly, shakes his head. 'Killed Greyback, yeah, I know.' His brain is fuzzy, right now, but he remembers that. 'He killed her,' he adds, glances up into Robards' eyes again – they're slightly faded with age, grow wider at his words. Greyback killed Giulia, killed Lavender, condemned Lupin to a life of hiding and misery, and -
'Yeah, maybe don't tell them that -' Robards says. Harry's not sure – he might have been speaking out loud. 'Actually,' Robards adds, seems to reconsider. 'Don't talk to them at all. Not until I'm there. You have a right to have your superior officer with you, do you understand?'
Harry's lost, that morning. He's lost and he's grieving, and he's heart-broken, and angry (so, so angry he could make oceans rise around him) but he's not stupid. Understands rather well what Robards is saying, what Internal Affairs will likely be saying, too. Nods. Robards smiles, tense, and gives his shoulder a light squeeze again.
'Okay, get yourself cleaned up as much as you can before you head down, yeah? The bloody press's outside,' he sighs.
In the loo, there's no soap so Harry just runs the tap, clear over his face, his hands, and arms; he avoids the mirror at all cost. When he looks down at the white porcelain of the sink, the water runs red against it.
At the end of the street, the reporters are held back behind a holding charm. The moment Harry steps out of the building, he hears their cameras clicking. Fucking vultures. Ron exits the mediwizards' tent just as he goes in – they hug. It hurts at Harry's side, but in a good way, an alive way. They pull back; Harry notices that Ron's face glistens, like it's been plunged into an entire bucket of Dittany, greenish smoke still erupting in places. His arm's held in a sling. 'Dislocated my shoulder,' Ron says. Harry winces. 'Not that it matters, eh?'
Harry's not sure how to say that it does. That Ron could have died, too. That – 'Shit, Herm-'
Ron quickly shakes his head. 'They're fine. They're all fine. I spoke to Kingsley. He spoke to Mum, Andromeda, Hermione. They've checked all the wards – doesn't seem like there were any other attacks.'
This time, it's Harry who feels like giving Ron a hug, really.
The visit to the mediwizards' doesn't go as Robards had probably hoped. Harry sits on the examination table, takes his shirt off, keeps tapping his foot against the wall. The mediwizard who tends to him is in his late twenties, rather short, already balding, beard thick. 'Okay, you've three broken ribs, then there's the wound in your leg. You're lucky you didn't puncture a lung,' he says. Harry doesn't care. (Doesn't care, doesn't care, doesn't -) The man stares at his chest. 'You sure you didn't take a curse?' he asks.
Harry frowns. Yes, I'd have noticed if I'd – he thinks before following the man's look. Understands.
'That's older,' he shakes his head. It's the avada from last spring. The bruise is about the size of the back of his hand, now, has settled into a dark kind of colour, slightly faded at the edges. Hasn't really hurt in months. A scar's appeared under it - not a lightning bolt but a white outline of something that looks like a web of blood vessels, spreading out over his heart.
'Are you sure?' the mediwizard frowns. 'Has a Healer looked at this? Do you know what kind of -'
The bloke probably means well but Harry's restless with anger and fear, and adrenaline. Just fix me and shut the fuck up, he thinks, snaps his response before he can think better of it. 'Yeah, a killing curse,' he says.
That seems to rob the man of his words for a second. He looks at Harry's face, forehead, opens his mouth, closes it.
'Yeah, didn't think you people would have had much experience healing those, do you? I mean, by all means, if you do, maybe you can think of a way to bring my partner back from the dead, while you're at it?'
The words are rude, and provocative, and pointless. Before the man can think of a response, Harry slides off the table, pulls his t-shirt and jumper back on and storms out of the tent.
In front of him, four stretchers are being levitated out into the street. A wizard with dark robes and a solemn expression on his face is edging them along with his wand; they float down to the other side of the road. White, bleak, covering sheets. Robards follows the procession. Off the side of the third stretcher, a mess of dark curls peaks out. Harry feels bile at the back of his throat and throws up on the ground.
Later, they put him in a room, over at the Ministry. He's not quite sure how. It's probably the first time in his life that Harry just obeys. 'Sit there, Potter,' someone says. He does. There's a table, three chairs, blaring lights pouring out from the ceiling. He sits with his right foot resting on his toes, heel in the air and leg bouncing up and down. It hurts the muscle in his thigh in an almost satisfying way. 'Drink this,' the Auror who shows him in also says, sliding a plastic cup onto the table. It looks and smells like clear water but Harry siphons it with his wand anyway, refills it with an aguamenti.
The bloke gives him a funny look but makes no further comment before leaving the room.
There's no way to really say how long he sits there, on his own. Sometimes, he feels angry. Sometimes, he feels sad. Sometimes, he closes his eyes, opens them less than a second later, hoping that he's dreamt it all. Often, he feels like retching again, dry heaves above the bin but nothing comes out. He wonders what her King's Cross looked like. A pub, maybe, a Muggle one. With a cute girl bartending, slipping her slices of lemons and shots of tequila over the counter. Ah, go on, he thinks. Almost hears her say it. It's all right.
Sometimes, it feels like he can't breathe.
Eventually, Robards enters the room, followed by Kingsley. Another Ministry employee joins them, asks for Harry's wand. A questioning look. Robards nods. 'It's protocol,' he explains. Frankly, it's not like Harry was going to fight it. He just wants someone to explain, bloody fucking explain how they got here, and why, and –
The unnamed Auror places Harry's wand in a velvet box, then leaves with it.
They wait. Kingsley stands, studies his feet. Robards sits on one of the chairs that face Harry, keeps looking at his watch. Harry wonders what for. Under the table, he balls his fingers into a fist, then releases. Again. And, again. Grabs a tissue from a box on the table, makes confetti out of it. Rips in half, then again, and again. When Kingsley finally looks up, Harry notices that the Minister's eyes are bloodshot.
'Oh, for Merlin's sake,' Robards suddenly says. The other two just stare. He stands, looks around, as though startled by where he is. 'What are those bloody cunts from Internal playing at?'
In a rush of air and frustration, Robards leaves the room. When the door closes, to avoid looking at Kingsley, Harry glances around and again, wishes back to simpler times when Dumbledore was there to sit everyone down and bloody, fucking explain. The minutes stretch between them. Kingsley seems lost in thought; Harry can't properly think. Keeps imagining the man in front of him as a young Auror, the one who trained Giulia, who still seemed to take time out of his busy schedule to grab pints with her. It's such a fucking waste.
'She was seeing this Muggle girl,' Harry finds himself saying. His voice is hoarse, hasn't made a sound in hours. He sets his glasses to the side, buries his face in his hands. Maybe, he's just trying to cover up the silence, think of anything other than Giulia's dead body in his arms. 'Cynthia? Sylvia? I don't think they were serious. Someone needs to tell her -' but, tell her what? he wonders. Tell her what, exactly, because Cynthia, or Sylvia, or Sonia, or whatever the hell her name is, was never told about magic, was she? Was never told her about her girlfriend's savvy spells, or about her time in the Slytherin common room, about wizards who kill other wizards, or – 'Someone needs to tell her something,' Harry settles, then. Sighs, puts his glasses back on and starts bouncing his leg up and down again.
He thinks that's what he would have liked for Mia, if he'd died. For someone to tell her something.
Kingsley nods, curt. 'I'll take care of it,' he says. Not like: I will ask my secretary to draft a letter; like: I'll take care of it myself. Like out of the mountains of things on his plate, out of everything that being Minister of Magic entails, this is actually what Kingsley Shacklebolt will do today. An achievable goal to focus his energy on, the way Bill spent the day that followed Fred's death illegally moving his family and Harry's money out of Gringotts. Harry wishes he had something to do, too.
'Can I leave the room?' he asks, then. Kingsley raises an eyebrow.
'What for?'
'Does it matter?'
Kingsley shrugs. By the looks of it, actually, it does not. Harry leaves the door ajar - outside, in the corridor, the Auror guarding the room gives him another funny look. Attached to the wall, he quickly spots a light and yanks a candle from it, brings it back inside the room with him.
He sets it down on the table. They took his wand so he fishes inside the pocket of his jacket for the lighter he uses around Mia. It's like, sometimes, he's living this sort of double life - like they all are. Secrets they've got that keep the world safe.
'Harry -' Kingsley says. There is something pleading in his voice, in his look, like please don't do this or, please don't make this real.
Harry's thumb grazes the wheel of the lighter. The flame catches the wick. 'I lit a candle for him,' he tells Kingsley. And, as a matter of fact, Harry can't help but think that the Minister of Magic is the only other person in the world who knows that. Knows that Harry lit a candle for someone whose name he'd rather not say, not because he is afraid, but because it doesn't deserve to be spoken. Not here, not now. 'If I did it for him, I'm doing it for her.'
So, together, Harry and Kingsley watch Giulia's candle burn. (Harry's always thought that she was Tom's last kill).
Later, 'those bloody cunts from internal,' finally do come in. It's the bloke who took Harry's wand, and an older one with grey hair and, rather large ears. Robards claims one of the chairs that face Harry; the younger of the men throws him an irritated look but stands, lets his own boss take the other chair. He leans back against the wall at the other end of the room, seemingly as far from Kingsley as he possibly can. It reminds Harry of his Hogwarts days, a room full of adults trying to assert their dominance over a situation they can't control.
It suddenly occurs to him that he's an adult, now, too.
'Seeing as we're all here,' the older man starts, casting a general glance around the place. Harry notices that he's not particularly looking at him. 'For the record, I'm Mr Andreas Veen, I work for the DMLE's Internal Affairs department.' His voice is quick but not what Harry expected; a bit like Seamus' but quicker, 'ow'-s that sound a lot like 'oi'-s. 'The date is the 23rd of December, 1998 and it is – 6:47 pm.' That late? What feels like just minutes ago, he was still in the patrol car, laughing as Giulia shouted at him to keep his hands on the wheel. 'I am accompanied by Mr Sorjus Teasdale, also from Internal Affairs. We are here on the basis of §10.8 of the Auror conduct code, mandating the interview of any officer involved in an incident resulting in the death of another officer. We are also here on the basis of §10.6 of the Auror conduct code, mandating the interview of any officer following the casting of an Unforgivable curse in the line of duty. Also present in this room are Mr Gawain Robards, Head Auror, and exceptionally -' Harry sees the man shoot an annoyed look at Kingsley, whose presence is most likely unwarranted. 'The Minister of Magic, Mr Kingsley Shacklebolt. We are interviewing Mr Harry Potter, trainee Auror.'
They ask him questions. It lasts hours. Harry gets angry, frustrated, tired – his entire body aches and aches, and they won't leave him alone. Many times, he actually considers simply standing up and walking away, perhaps throwing his chair up in their face for good measure. It reminds him of all those times when he was a teenager and people like Veen refused to believe him or asked him to stand by their side for their own political gain. Harry almost wishes he could give them his memories. Empty all the thoughts that are whirling around on loop in his head into a pensive and be done with it. 'So, you didn't check if anyone was inside, before entering the building?' Veen asks. We were after fucking Dementors. It was routine. You people sent us after Dementors. You didn't verify the report, you – 'Alright, and how did you know it was an ambush, then?' I bloody didn't. Things were plugged in, I reacted on instinct, I – 'Oh, a Muggle thing, then -'
They ask him: how did Ron manage to take out three Death Eaters with one spell ('I don't know, you ask him,'), why Giulia and he got separated ('Thaddeus said my name, they figured I was there,'), why they didn't call for backup (Again: 'It was routine. There was no time.')
'I don't know,' Harry says, often. I don't know, I don't know. He finds himself repeating the phrase, over and over - because it's true. He doesn't know. Doesn't know how it happened, or why; was so, bloody focused on trying to survive, trying to find a way out, trying, trying, trying (and failing). She's dead (dead, dead, dead) and the more he thinks about it, the more he wonders if maybe they're right, maybe it was all his fault. 'When you fired at the last of the Death Eaters, did you take note of whether he'd actually stepped out of the protective enchantments?'
The prevailing theory they've built, it seems, is that because of the energy and dark magic present in avada, it may have been the only spell that could actually have gotten through the Death Eater's protective enchantments in the first place. The only spell that could have produced the desired effect, cruised through their defences. Harry doesn't care (if this is true, actually wishes he'd cast it before, perhaps could have saved her, and -); he just wants to be left alone, fucking sleep. 'I don't know,' he sighs.
Kingsley immediately shoots him a warning look. 'Mr Potter,' Veen asks. 'Did you know Mr Greyback?'
Mister? Harry laughs. 'Yeah.'
A sigh comes out of the other man's mouth, hot and heavy air between them. 'Mr Potter, if Mr Greyback had indeed stepped out of the protective enchantments, surely there could have been some other -'
It's too late. Harry's fist flexes in a rage and hammers down onto the metal table between them. The strength of the blow makes his empty plastic cup rattle and fall, Veen's quick-notes quill drills a hole through the parchment. All four men either jump in surprise or recoil and, 'Fucking arrest me, then!' Harry hears himself shouting in response – strangely, he finds he actually means it. Understands what it must have felt like for Sirius, the overwhelming guilt over his parents' deaths that actually made him feel like a lifetime in Azkaban might have been deserved. If there is one thing he doesn't regret, to tell the truth, it's killing Greyback. If that's what they want to lock him up for, however, if that's what this is about, then – Harry lets out a steadying breath before looking up, looking away from his hands that still feel warm and slick with Giulia's blood. 'I don't really give a fuck.'
Veen leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. 'Mr Potter –'
'That's enough.' Robards, again. His low voice and thick accent chill the room at once. It's the first time since they came back in that the Head Auror's actually spoken. 'If Potter didn't have the strongest survival instincts out of anyone in this entire bloody department, I'd have four of my people in body bags,' he says. There is a cold sort of fury to his tone; it makes Harry still in his chair. 'Now, it's been three hours. Either you charge him, or you don't; regardless, you can piss off.'
On Veen's uncomfortable suggestion, the 'adults' agree to 'take this conversation outside.' Through the door that they clearly forget to silence, Harry hears Robards and Veen at each other's throats, arguments half-whispered, half-shouted in the corridor. Kingsley periodically tries to step in between.
'They did everything by the book, how dare you people -' Robards hisses. Veen responds something that Harry can't quite make out. 'Of course, I'm protecting my agents, it's my fucking job to have their back. He's already lost his partner; you spent hours badgering Weasley with questions before him, what are you trying to -'
'Gawain -'
'Well,' Veen seems to hesitate, then, lowers his voice slightly, like that will make a difference. 'I know they've gone through training, but we all know how it is, Gawain,' the man says. 'There's rats,' he pauses again. 'And, there's real life. A successful Avada Kedavra, cast on another wizard - even a lot of seasoned Aurors aren't capable of firing that shot. He's not even out of probation, don't you think it's a bit odd -'
'Of course, it's fucking odd,' Robards responds. This time, he's shouting – roaring, even – Harry jumps a little. 'You know what else is fucking odd? Where the fuck were you people when the Ministry fell last year, eh? When he and his mates were being hunted, tortured, murdered – and after all of that, they still join the Ministry, the whole lot of them, still agree to give their bloody lives for it! That kid loses someone again and he still bloody sits there, answers your fucking questions and you know what? He hasn't jumped up or tried to strangle you yet, and to me, that is fucking odd!'
It lasts a while. If Harry had been told, just a couple days ago, that he'd ever hear Robards praise him like that, he'd probably have responded to whoever was saying it (Giulia, most likely) that they were barking mad. Now, though, the flattery barely even registers – he tunes out of it. The shouting makes him shiver and want to block out his ears like a child, knowing that if they did lock him up inside the cupboard, at least there, he'd be left alone.
Eventually, out in the corridor, it sounds like Veen and his colleague storm out. Harry vaguely hears Robards and Kingsley whispering before they come back in. When they do, Robards plops himself down on one of the chairs facing Harry again, visibly trying to catch his gaze while Harry can't take his eyes off his hands. 'They'll clear you,' Robards says. 'Suspend you for three weeks, for the length of their "investigation," justify their salary, then they'll clear you. Not because of anything you did, it's just what they do. Raise a fuss, pretend to look into it, then close the case, no action needed. Auror misconduct, it gets out into the press, especially if it's you, and no one wants that, not even them,' he adds. 'Now, Potter, look at me,' Robards says. Harry sees, rather than feels, the man's hand against his arm again. His eyes remind him of earlier, when he promised he wouldn't leave Giulia alone. 'You, Weasley and Livingstone did everything right. You were outnumbered, out-planned, you stumbled into an ambush and still took down five Death Eaters, saved three lives. You are not responsible for this. It wasn't even targeted against you, we know that now. They didn't know you'd be there. Just wanted to take down whoever walked in, take down the Aurors who'd been taking them down, an eye for an eye. It was a bloody coincidence.'
'No,' Harry says. Doesn't know what would actually have been worse: for it to be targeted, for it to be all his fault, or this. Wrong place, wrong time. She just died trying to save their lives. 'She's dead,' he says. She's dead and no, they can't have done everything right, can't –
'Yeah,' Robards nods. 'I'm sorry.'
Kingsley leaves them to it, eventually. Robards stays with Harry. It is past midnight by the time he gets his wand back, after he's read and signed his deposition, been told he'll be paid for his time off (as though that fucking mattered) and that the final decision from Internal Affairs will be notified to him by owl in the coming weeks.
'Listen, Potter,' Robards adds – Harry's collecting a couple of things from his desk – the photos of Giulia and her family on the other side are glaring him in the face. 'I don't usually pry but I'm pretty good at knowing when someone's lying to me. If there's somewhere you were trying to avoid being, by working over Christmas, maybe now, that's a good place to be.'
Later, the fire of the Floo roars and engulfs Harry.
When he steps in, the Weasleys' kitchen is silent. Not sure what else he was expecting. A house full of life, maybe, loud bangs and fireworks to take his mind off things. Ron's chess games, Bill's gruff, half-hearted admonitions, George's laughter and Fred's wicked grin. That's where the fantasy has to end, obviously. He lets his jacket drop against the back of one of the chairs, walks on towards the stairs. Doesn't know if Ron will have already set up the camp bed in his room. At this stage, Harry reckons he'd sleep out on the floor if he had to.
Just before he heads up the stairs, though, something catches his gaze. A flickering light in the sitting room, a girl curled up in an armchair, face buried in a book. Harry's gaze focuses on the cover, spots moving pictures: a blonde-haired woman, smiling and winking at him. A Witch's Dream: a story of love and mischief, Harry reads.
He stands there, unmoving, doesn't know how long. She must feel the weight of his stare tracing her features because she looks up at him eventually, alert, like a horse that's just heard a gunshot (it's just noise, just noise). Her gaze settles on him. 'I didn't hear you come in,' she notes. Dog-ears her page and sets the book down to her side; she's already standing, then, takes a step forward but stops. He stills. Wants to look down to the floor, wants to move, but can't.
'I'll go up to Ron's room,' he says.
She nods. Doesn't take her eyes off him. 'Hermione's here, too,' she tells him. 'I think they're asleep.'
Her hair looks a darker shade of red in the candlelight, skin paler than it usually is. Harry loosely wonders (remembers) what it would be like for his fingers to trail over it. His gaze drifts out to the cover of her book again, left abandoned against the side of the armchair and he recalls how he used to make fun of her somewhat scandalous reading tastes, last summer. 'It's not just porn, Harry,' she laughed at him. 'There's feelings and knights, and unicorns - Things that make me feel good,' she added. 'Like you.'
He should move, probably. Doesn't. Just stands there in front of her like (because) there is nowhere else to go, feeling her gaze travel from his face down the rest of his body, to his shoes and his jeans and his jumper – her eyes widen, ever so slightly.
He speaks in a rush. 'It's not mine,' he tells her. The blood isn't his, for the most part, it's hers and -
'I know,' Ginny agrees. (Ginny, Ginny, Ginny.) 'Ron's told us what happened.'
He's not sure what to say to that. Doesn't speak. Lets his fingers run through his hair instead, slightly straightens his dirty, broken glasses. He lowers his arm, follows Ginny's look – his hand is shaking, he notices. Slow, he flexes his fingers, balls them up in a fist. Releases. They continue to shake. He's not sure why, doesn't want her to worry, doesn't want her to think he's weak, and - 'It's just the -' he starts, glance finding hers.
It's the rush of adrenaline coming down, is all. He's fine, he wants to insist, wants to climb up the stairs to find Ron and move, again but Ginny - Ginny just looks at him, then, and stands. There's something in her gaze, something that he doesn't really have words for. He's never really had words for the both of them.
'I know,' she says. 'Come here.'
And, the truth is: he doesn't shatter in front of Giulia's body, that day. Doesn't shatter, either, when they put him in a room to hound him with questions about things he wishes he could control. He sits there and watches as the remnants of Giulia's life break like glass, like sharp edges, hard, glottalised t-s and exhausted breaths, and death doesn't hit him on a schedule.
Instead, he looks at Ginny, that night, and almost falls, then, knees buckling and legs giving out under his weight - she is the one to catch him. Harry shatters like it's finally safe to do so, like Giulia's life and the way it slipped through his fingers, that day, like the cuts of smashed, crystal roses. He shakes. With the adrenaline, with heavy sobs, with fear and pleas for it to end. For him to stop – selfishly – losing the people he loves, for the reasons why the only two lives he's ever known are this and the Dursleys' cupboard.
That night, he tells Ginny how intoxicating Giulia's laugh was, how annoying he found her, sometimes, how she pushed his buttons and taught him to survive, how she seemed to fill entire empty rooms. He tells Ginny that it feels like he can't breathe, like he's trapped in a cage, tells her that he saw Giulia draw her last breath, less than six feet away and still couldn't save her. He asks her why he survives when no one else does and she curls up around him. Holds, steady, heartbeat loud and clear against his back – she lies behind him on the sofa, runs her fingers through his hair until he falls asleep. She tells him she's sorry. She tells him that she knows how much it hurts and that it'll get better, even if that's not something he wants to hear. She whispers in his ear and kisses the side of his head, holds him tight through gut-wrenching sobs and doesn't let him push her away. Years later, when he goes into a rage over Giulia's name not being on the memorial, she remembers why.
'It's okay,' she says, then. 'You're safe. I'm here. It's okay.'
That night in '98, Ginny Weasley slips his glasses off and dries his tears. She lies on her side, her chest pressed against him, fingers dancing over the skin of his arm and ensures that he makes it through.