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Bad Faith	By : Jad Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 6104 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 10
- 11
- 12
X

Laugh, I Nearly Died

I've been to Africa,

looking for my soul

I'm lost in the wilderness,

so far from home

: : : : :

Draco kicked the door to the Cabinet closed, and swore.

He was getting nowhere. May was slipping past one day at a time, June drawing ever closer. This was his last chance, and he was running out of time. He was no closer to success than he had been in September. How could he have been so—so stupid, so bloody stupid, as to think he could do this? With so much at stake?

But what choice had he had? With his father in prison, and his mother alone, unprotected... he was the only one who could—and what could he have done? Refused? Refused Him? The idea was laughable.

He stopped at the door, his ear pressed against the gap, and listened. Crabbe had absolutely refused to help him unless he disclosed further details and Goyle, while loyal to the end, was stuck in detention with McGonagall. He had to be careful; Goyle said Potter had been sniffing around the seventh-floor corridor so much lately that it could hardly be called coincidence any more. The bastard knew...

Holding his breath, Draco edged the door open silently. He paused, still listening at the crack, unable to trust his eyes—he knew Potter had an invisibility cloak, but that couldn't muffle the sounds of breathing and shifting feet. He waited a full five minutes and, wand drawn just in case, stepped out into the corridor, closing the door quickly behind him.

The corridor was empty. Surely, if Potter were here, even invisible, he would have confronted Draco by now. Satisfied, Draco stowed his wand inside his robes, glancing behind him to make sure the door of the Room had vanished seamlessly.

Taking the corridor at a brisk pace, Draco noticed his hands were shaking. He paused, staring at them; they were filthy with the finish from the Cabinet and slightly pink in several places where splinters had become deeply lodged—stowing them in his pockets, he hurtled down one flight of stairs to the sixth floor and took a quick right, dashing into the boys' bathroom. He turned on the tap, his slick fingers fumbling slightly, then rested both hands, still shaking, underneath the freezing water.

He had to stay calm. He couldn't succumb to this—it didn't help, it didn't do anything except exhaust him. He shouldn't have even come in here, she'd be along soon enough, and all she did was make it worse...

He scrubbed his hands clean, turned off the tap and went to work on the splinters. He could barely feel the pain, it seemed to be coming from far away... He scrabbled desperately at a particularly difficult splinter, lodged deeply in the underside of a finger-joint, his breaths coming unevenly, his ears ringing—

'You really should let me help you...'

Draco did not look up, but pressed further into the joint of his finger with his nails. Myrtle, indignant at being ignored, hiccoughed from the cubicles.

'It's all right... it's not the end of the world...'

Draco let out a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. He couldn't focus; his eyes were stinging. He gripped the sink to keep his hands from shaking.

'Don't,' she crooned, her throaty voice echoing around the bathroom. 'Don't... tell me what's wrong... I can help you...'

'No one can help me,' he hissed, fighting to keep his voice from shaking like the rest of him. 'I can't do it... I can't... it won't work... and unless I do it soon... he says he'll kill me...'

Draco gasped for breath, and swallowed thickly. Looking up, his vision blurred, he saw the door behind him was being held open, light from the hall spilling in. Held open by—

Draco wheeled around and drew his wand in one movement, sending the first hex that came to his mind, unspoken, at where Potter stood in the doorway. A lamp shattered, and Potter dived sideways, the door swinging shut behind him. He saw Potter's wand move—

Protego! Draco felt the jinx connect with his shield, and wondered wildly when Potter had learned to cast spells non-verbally. He needed to end this quickly, to distract Potter and get out of here—but he wanted nothing more than to hurt Potter as much as he could...

'No! No! Stop it!' Moaning Myrtle screeched, her voice echoing around the room. 'Stop! STOP!'

Malfoy's next curse missed Potter by a fraction of an inch—the bin behind him exploded. Potter's retaliation rebounded off the wall behind Draco, who had dodged just in time, and cracked a cistern; Myrtle screamed loudly as water flooded the floor beneath her.

Draco snarled, raising his wand, a year's worth of fear, anger, pain and desperation welling up inside of him, 'Cruci—'

'Sectumsempra!'

Draco's world went red.

A dull thud, a shallow splash, a scream... they echoed around his head. He didn't even realise he had fallen until Potter, voice inaudible above Myrtle's screaming, collapsed by his side on his knees. Draco's chest and stomach heaved, the pain like a million tiny, white-hot needles, swimming through his bloodstream, straight into his brain. He couldn't breathe. Cold air and water were stabbing at hot muscle and flesh, Potter was above him, hands twisted in his hair, looking terrified and utterly lost. Draco's ears were full of water, a distant rushing, roaring, the beating of his own heart, an erratic, shuddering beat...

The dim light in the bathroom grew dimmer. Draco blinked, and a dark blob obstructed his view. Myrtle's distant screams still echoed distantly, overpowered by the thundering, shuddering of his heartbeat, which was growing quieter... and steadier. Draco didn't dare try to breathe, it hurt too much—but his body gave in, his diaphragm contracting, and Draco coughed wetly as air swept into lungs that were whole again.

Someone was moving him. His hands closed vice-like against whoever it was, terrified of the pain, but the pain did not come... his neck, chest and stomach ached terribly, but the white-hot, stabbing pain was gone.

A voice was drifting in and out of his range of hearing. ' ...certain amount of scarring...' Draco coughed again, wavering—dizzied by the sudden uprightness, his already blurry vision making the room swim. '...dittany immediately... come.'

Draco went, half-awake, clinging to his saviour, still unable to make any sense of the situation. The halls were a dark blur, and how he navigated the stairs was beyond him. His extremities seemed to be on autopilot.

The doors to the Hospital Wing opened like the gates of Heaven; blinding, white light seared through the doorway, temporarily blinding him. The stout figure of Madam Pomfrey appeared at his unadorned side.

'Severus? What is it? Good heavens!'

'Dittany,' Snape said. 'Quickly.'

Madam Pomfrey did not argue but immediately bustled away. Snape took Draco to the nearest bed, and helped him into it. Draco collapsed gratefully, his entire body aching. He felt like he'd been split in two, and said so.

Snape did not smile, but brushed Draco's hair away from his face, and forced him to lie on his back. 'I know it hurts,' he said quietly, 'but be grateful you are alive to feel pain. I am going to remove your robes.'

This did not take long, as there was not much left of Draco's robes or shirt. Snape cut along what fabric remained with his wand, clearing Draco's neck down to his navel just as Madam Pomfrey returned.

'Oh, my word...' she whispered, eyeing the wound for a moment, before using her wand to evenly apply the Essence of Dittany. Draco could feel it, cold against his skin, spreading from under his jaw to well past his navel.

'He'll be all right,' she said finally, having applied several thick layers of dittany. 'But I'm afraid there'll be scarring... Severus, how did this happen?'

Draco could not focus well enough to see Snape's expression, but his voice was like ice. 'I need to go. I will be back to check on him shortly. See that the Headmaster is informed.'

Snape swept from the room. Draco, still trying to make sense through the pain, tried to reach out. Madam Pomfrey quickly held his arm down by the wrist. 'Try not to move, the wound is still healing. And don't talk,' she admonished, as Draco hissed through clenched teeth. 'I'll bring you something for the pain.'

Draco did not know how long he lay there, only that he could not sleep. The concoction he'd been given helped somewhat, making the pain fade to a distant, dull ache that pulsed in time with his heartbeat and breathing. It also made his limbs feel heavy, as if someone had laid sandbags over his body; he suspected this was to dissuade him from moving. At regular intervals, Madam Pomfrey would return to his bedside to clean the wound and re-apply the dittany. His vision slowly returned to normal, but his eyes, still raw and swollen, ached if he opened them more than a fraction.

There was a knock at the door, and Draco's eyes flew open, causing him to wince. Madam Pomfrey closed the curtains around his bed with a flick of her wand before answering it. He heard a whispered conversation, Snape's deep baritone interspersed with the dulcet tones of the Headmaster. He tried to focus on the words as they echoed around the stone walls, but only made sense of one of them, clipped and snarled rather loudly by Snape: 'Potter.'

A few minutes later, the curtains were pulled aside, and Draco quickly closed his eyes, feigning sleep. A cool, clammy hand touched his forehead.

'He's running a fever,' he heard Snape say. 'How is the wound healing?'

'Slowly,' answered Pomfrey. 'But steadily. He'll have to be confined to bed for a week, at least.'

There was a pause before Dumbledore asked, 'And lasting damage?'

'It's hard to say, Headmaster. With Dark magic it's never easy to tell... the wound was pretty deep, from what I understand...'

'It nearly grazed his spine,' Snape confirmed, and Draco fought to keep his breathing even. 'If I hadn't been nearby... hadn't got there when I did...'

He didn't need to say anything more.

'Then let us be grateful you did,' Dumbledore said finally, sounding more grave than Draco had ever heard him. There was a short pause before Dumbledore continued, 'As to Mr Potter, I assume you have taken appropriate action?'

'Short of expulsion,' Snape snapped, 'which I still deem most appropriate. He will be seeing me in detention every Saturday for the rest of the term.'

'That will do,' Dumbledore said. 'Poppy, please alert me to any developments with Mr Malfoy. I will see that his parents are notified. Severus, if you will join me in my office…'

The sounds of footsteps died away. Pomfrey checked his wound again and, apparently finding nothing further to do, covered his chest in light bandages before closing the curtains and finally leaving him alone.

: : : : :

...and the serpent was craftier than any animal of the field...

- Genesis 3:1

: : :

Harry slept restlessly. The night was hot, yet he had broken out in a cold sweat, twisting under non-existent sheets. Across from him, Draco slept on, quiet and comatose. Harry flipped over in his sleep, closed eyes to the dark roof of the tent, trapped inside his mind.

Wherever he was in his dream, it was black. Or more correctly, there was an absence of any light. He felt rather than saw a change in the air around him; and then a flash of razor-like white teeth, a whisper of movement in the depthless void, a wink of narrow, golden eyes.

'Bring him to me alive,' he murmured, the hissed words rolling off his tongue.

A sibilant growl answered him. A pair of eyes stopped, and stared. No matter how long he looked, he could not distinguish a shape in the abyss.

'In return,' he continued, 'I will release you.'

The golden eyes narrowed. Fangs bared, the creatures lunged.

Harry woke up hissing.

: : :

Something very cold and wet was dabbing her forehead. It was clammy and uncomfortable, and Hermione furrowed her brow and groaned. 'Mmumph.'

'Come on, dear,' a female voice cooed. 'It's not the end of the world.' Hermione opened her eyes. Lindsay Peadle was peering down at her like a worried mother, moist towel in hand. 'It's just a baby.'

Hermione blinked, experiencing a very strong whiff of déjà vu. She sat up very quickly, nearly smacking into the Healer.

'Baby!' she cried.

'Yes, baby,' Lindsay confirmed, patting Hermione's forehead dry with a fresh towel. 'Near three months along, roundabout.' Then, sounding more sympathetic as Hermione drew close to tears, she continued, 'You didn't notice the painters hadn't been around?'

'I...' Lindsay waited patiently for Hermione to continue, but she just silently gaped for a few moments before closing her mouth, unable to find the words.

'It isn't the end of the world,' Lindsay said again, more gently this time.

Hermione closed her eyes, willing herself to relax. She unclenched her hands, which had been tightly fisted in the sheets, smoothing out the covers as she took several deep breaths. It's okay, she thought firmly. She's right. It's not the end of the world. It's just a baby... just a baby...

Just a baby. Right.

Well, bugger this for a lark.

'This is a bit personal, but I feel the need to ask,' Lindsay said quietly. 'Do you know who the father is?'

And of course, fate be damned, that was the exact moment Ron chose to walk through the door.

'Hey,' he said in a voice profoundly too cheerful for Hermione's current tastes. 'Good morning, sunshine.' He didn't appear to have caught their conversation, and Hermione managed to breathe again. Ron frowned when she didn't answer, however. 'You look a bit pale,' he observed. 'Did they find anything―'

'No!' Hermione nearly shouted before Lindsay could answer him.

'Oh.' Ron smiled at her as he stopped beside the bed and kissed her lightly on the forehead, then looked at the Healer. 'She's good to go, then?'

Lindsay glanced between them―Ron, happy, relieved, and fairly handsome; then back at Hermione, pale, trembling, and, she suspected, fairly green―and opened her mouth to reply; Hermione locked eyes with her and shook her head, twice, very firmly.

'Erm,' said Lindsay. 'Actually, perhaps Miss Granger should spend another night, just to catch up on some well-needed rest before heading out.'

'But wouldn't it be better if she rested at home?' Ron asked, looking crestfallen.

'No, no, no,' Hermione insisted. 'I quite like it here. It's very white and relaxing and sterile. Very sterile. Good for resting.'

Ron raised an eyebrow at her. 'Are you sure you're feeling okay?'

'Positive!' Hermione practically shrieked.

But Ron did not look convinced, and he said, 'Well, at least, do you want me to get you anything? Bring you something to eat, or―'

The suggestion of ingesting anything right then triggered Hermione's gag reflex, and, shoving both Ron and Lindsay aside without ceremony, she bolted from the bed and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Turning his attention from the door, through which the muffled sound of retching was audible, Ron gave Lindsay a look that indicated that he knew they were withholding something but for the life of him could not figure out what it was. 'Are you sure she's okay?'

'Oh, she'll be fine,' Lindsay said quickly, adjusting her glasses and tucking the clipboard under her arm. She bustled past him towards the door. 'I should be off. People to see, patients to cure! Cheerio!'

: : :

I've died and gone to Hell, Draco thought grimly, his forehead resting against his forearm, which in turn rested against the tree trunk.

Or Heaven, the delightfully perverted part of his mind offered. It's all a matter of perspective, really.

Harry had still been shirtless when Draco woke up. He had taken one look at the naked chest, slick with perspiration, and decided a swift trip to the loo was in order.

Draco returned to camp to find Harry up and stuffing the remaining tent into the knapsack Hermione had left behind. He straightened up as Draco approached, nodding in greeting, the muscles in his neck and shoulders clenching and relaxing; shaking his head, Draco massaged his temples.

'You all right?'

'Yes,' Draco responded automatically.

'Hungry?'

'No,' Draco said, with feeling. 'Are you?'

'Not yet.' Harry shrugged. 'Guess we should get moving, then.'

They moved in silence for nearly two hours, Harry leading the way, Draco just half a step behind and to the side. Harry carried the bag over one shoulder, the sun lavishing the other and accenting every contour, every flex, every freckle, which were so fair that Draco had never realised they were there. Not that he had ever studied Harry Potter's naked shoulders up-close before, but he certainly didn't have freckles anywhere else...

That you've yet to see, the gleeful, demonic voice in his head reminded him.

Here we are, he thought, in the middle of the African savannah, hiding from Death Eaters and in search of something worse and this is all I can think about. He'd need to have a word with himself later about his priorities.

'What are you thinking about?' Harry asked abruptly.

'Freckles,' Draco responded automatically, and then choked. 'Ah,' he added, as Harry's eyebrows shot up and disappeared in his fringe. 'You know, this sun, being brutal and all. If I freckle in this heat I will be the shame of my family, and have to commit hari-kari. And it will be all your fault. Your great pledge to protect me will be a complete and utter failure.'

Harry's eyebrows stayed up, but he swallowed what sounded suspiciously like a snigger. 'If I were you, I'd be more worried about ending up looking like a shrivelled tomato.'

Draco made a face at him. 'Why did you ask?'

Harry shrugged. 'Your face was all scrunched up; I thought it might be important.'

'My face does not "scrunch up".'

'You looked like you were holding in a sneeze, or something.'

'Bugger you,' Draco declared. 'You're blind as a bat; your observations are completely unreliable.'

Harry pushed up his glasses, letting them rest on his forehead, his fringe fluttering haphazardly around them in the breeze. He looked completely alien without them on. 'I actually only need them to see far-off,' he said casually. 'S'why I always had to wear them in Quidditch.'

'Apparently I should have spent more time finding ways to sabotage your specs rather than dressing up in cloaks, then.'

'Apparently,' Harry agreed, with a grin. 'I suppose I should thank you for that, though.'

'What?' Draco asked, perplexed. 'Why?'

'It was the first time I'd ever conjured a corporeal Patronus,' Harry told him. Draco raised an eyebrow, surprised. 'It had always just been silver mist in the lessons with Lupin; I didn't even properly see the stag, I was so preoccupied with the Snitch.'

Draco thought perhaps he had seen that stag well enough for it to cement a fear of all horned fauna in him for the rest of his life. 'That scared the shit out of me, you prick. I thought it was coming to kill me.'

Harry grinned crookedly and said nothing; Draco felt a burning in his cheeks that had nothing to do with sunburn and resolutely turned his gaze to the ground.

: : :

Hermione couldn't sleep.

She lay staring at her ceiling, amazed at the many imperfections in the flat, white expanse that she had never noticed before. There was a chip in the paint reminiscent of Norway and a slightly off-colour spot she only noticed in the candlelight, and should likely look into; a slight leak, probably, they had experienced an unnatural amount of precipitation in the past five years.

Once again, Hermione found her mind dragged back from idle thoughts to what she had begun to refer to as her Very Gravid Situation by her traitorous hands, unconsciously ending up draped protectively over her abdomen.

Hermione gloomily concentrated on her ceiling again. Norway stared back, looking rather lost and alone in a sea of white, and perhaps a bit apprehensive about the slightly bulging, off-colour stain in the corner.

Right, Hermione thought grimly, recognising her symptoms of insomnia. When all else failed, to the books.

: : :

'I'm trying.'

'And failing—badly, may I add. Concentrate, Potter. Stare at the desolate wasteland before you—that we have to cross on foot, in the middle of the summer, thanks to your ingenious planning—and let your mind go blank. Shouldn't be hard for you.'

'Bite me.'

'You're terrible at this.'

'S'kind of hard to concentrate with you prattling on in my ear, Malfoy.'

'Don't hurt yourself.'

Harry grimaced, and resisted the urge to box Draco around the ears. It had been his idea, anyway; he'd spent so many hours complaining about being bored that Harry had succumbed to listening to him explain the basics of Animagus training.

Something to pass the time, his arse. Draco was just relishing the excuse to annoy him.

'Look,' Harry said, desperately, 'it's impossible not to think about anything. I mean, you say that, and then I think to myself, this is stupid. Why am I doing what this pillock says, anyway? And when the hell are we going to find Bill? And bloody fucking Christ, is it hot. I think I'm starting to melt.'

Draco listened to all of this with a slight smile. The smile grew as Harry's grimace deepened. 'That's why they call it meditating, Potter.'

'Meditating,' said Harry. 'Right. Well, whatever you call it, it's bloody impossible. It's like, it's like, you say to me, "Don't think about a pink rhinoceros." And of course the first thing I think about is a bloody pink rhinoceros.'

'A pink rhinoceros?' Draco appeared to consider this. Harry could practically see the images forming. Then he blinked and said, 'What's a rhinoceros?'

: : :

Hermione sat herself at the carrel in the far corner of the Ministry library. One of the few perks of working at the Ministry was this library, its vast resources available to her at all hours. This late at night it was completely deserted aside from an unidentified Auror taking a cat nap, and a small group of Unspeakables huddled in the opposite corner talking in urgent whispers.

She dumped the books on the desk and began to shift through them. There weren't very many; most of the books the Ministry carried on pregnancy seemed to deal with hybrids and halfbreeds, bearing titles like Goblin In The Oven, Werepups: What Are The Odds?and So You're Going To Have A Foal: How To Avoid The Hooves.

Three months. How could she be three months along and not have noticed? She hadn't even felt ill in the mornings! All right, not every woman got morning sickness… but most of them did, surely. Of course, she had been working non-stop for the past several years, and snacked a lot on the go, and certainly didn't keep track of her weight or her monthlies and, come to think of it, her robes did feel a little snug…

Served her right, she supposed, for trying to have a sex life.

Oh, bugger. Mum is going to kill me.

The real issue here was how to tell Ron. It couldn't be anyone else's. The last time she had been intimate with anyone else had been years ago, and he was currently married to a Bulgarian supermodel and could get stuffed, for all she cared.

There was also the issue of whether to keep the baby. It would be irresponsible, this young, with this war, to have a child. She was terrified enough as it was, day in and day out, without having to worry about a baby. She was only twenty-two! And Ron, well – Ron still thought putting beetles in the office coffee-pot in the morning was amusing.

But surely this was his decision, too. At least, for her, it was. After all, this was partially his fault.

Mostly his fault.

Maybe she should talk to Harry first.

No, what was she thinking?

It wasn't that she was worried he'd breach her confidence, or that he wasn't mature enough to give sound advice. He'd already proven he was probably the most mature about sex between the three of them. No, it would just give him something else to worry about, and he had enough of that already. It would worry him for the same reason he himself was terrified to commit to anything – even a girlfriend. Ginny, as intelligent as she was, had never understood that.

Harry's private life wasn't something she thought about too often, not since the catastrophe with Ginny in seventh year. Again. Harry's issues with commitment had fed Ginny's own insecurities; and, honestly, as much as Hermione loved the girl, she was too used to being the little sister. Always protected, spoiled, and smothered with love and attention, she was too clingy – and Harry, starved for affection his entire life, had no idea how to show it. He always seemed too removed, too distant, incapable of expressing empathy. Ginny had taken the treatment personally, and hated him for it. And Harry, poor Harry, had no idea how to give her what she wanted.

Harry had stayed more or less single since then, but that hardly meant he'd remained abstinent since they had left school. Try as he might, subtlety was not his strong point. Cho had been his first; Hermione knew because Harry'd had to tell someone, and then Ron had to tell someone, and, thankfully, Hermione didn't need to tell anyone so it had stopped there. From there on, Hermione had only heard rumours; rumours about Selena Fawcett, who'd been a year behind them in Ravenclaw and was a close friend of Luna's; a Muggle girl from Surrey; the Patil twins (which one, or both, she didn't care to know); Daphne Greengrass' little sister; and even about Luna herself, whom Hermione had inquired to directly, receiving a rare blink in response.

'Is that really any of your business?' Luna had asked her in return.

Then there were the little hints found around his flat; the steam from the shower floating into the hall long before either Ron or Harry had awakened, the random hickey left a little too high above his collar, the lingering smell of sex when he arrived at work in the morning. Hermione had finally cracked after six months of this and said something and, surprisingly, Harry hadn't immediately changed the subject and tried to escape. He had responded maturely, with eye-contact, and even laughed when she asked about the twins. She'd still been digesting that turn of events a week later when she Apparated into Harry and Ron's flat to discover that Ron wasn't home, and that Harry had company.

'Women have a history of being a pain in my arse,' Harry had explained later, once Blaise had gone home, looking pleased with himself, and Harry had sobered her up with a bottle of wine. 'No offence.'

'None taken.' Hermione had taken another long swallow before following with, 'But really, Harry – a Slytherin?'

Harry had burst out laughing. Hermione, unable to help herself, had found herself laughing with him.

It was odd, really, how much the war had affected who they were, what they had grown into―dictating their careers, their friends, even influencing their intimate lifestyles. Hermione was almost afraid to find out what life would be like without that constant, lingering threat hanging over their shoulders, ready to snatch their lives up and away without a moment's notice.

Which brought her back to the baby.

Well, drat. She scowled at the books, which in no way offered helpful advice on breaking the news to your oblivious partner. Waving them back to their places with idle flicks of her wand, Hermione stalked out of the library and pondered her next move. Harry wouldn't tell anyone, not even Ron, but wouldn't have any advice to offer. Ginny, after she calmed down, would have plenty of advice, but would tell Ron at the earliest opportunity. Tonks would probably be the best to talk to, but then she would tell Remus, and then Remus would tell Ron.

Hermione sighed. Her list of confidants was growing short.

: : :

That evening, Harry coaxed a colourful bird down from a lonely-looking tree and persuaded it to allow him to tie a leather satchel to its foot. He furtively watched it go, hoping it'd find Bill okay. Wild birds weren't particularly reliable postmasters. But then again, how many six-foot-two redheads were likely to be wandering around the African wilderness?

They opted to sleep without the tent; there was a mercifully cool breeze, and the sky was clear, the galaxy spread above them like a thousand tiny diamond fragments on navy velvet. Coals glowed in the remnants of the fire Harry had built to cook their dinner—biscuits and tea from Hermione's bag, and the leftovers of some wild animal Harry had decided to try off a fresh carcass. It'd looked like it might have once been a zebra, or possibly a small water buffalo, but it had tasted fine once cooked, whatever it used to be. Draco, who had spent most of the day a vegetarian, opted for the biscuits and an orange he found in the depths of the bag while Harry finished off the meat.

Stomach full, on his back and off his feet (or hooves), Draco was feeling rather more peaceful than was usual for him. The smell of dust seemed muted by the cooler night air, and he was listening to crickets and trying to find various constellations in this strange new sky. Beside him, Harry dozed, not really looking, but listening, and feeling...

Every sound for miles seemed audible. The crickets were the most prominent, stretching from the close foreground across the plains in every direction. A distant rumble, a small tremor by the time it reached them, the echoes of some large herd moving before the last stretch of dusk turned into night. A sharp cry, far overhead and out of sight, marked the passing of some bird of prey returning to roost. Harry's mind focused on that one, unconsciously, until he could almost hear the wind ruffling glossy wing feathers; large amber eyes, hugely dilated, seeing further than the horizon; the world spread beneath, a patchwork quilt of savannah, rainforest, and mountains...

Harry, eyes half-closed in a well-fed stupor, would have been delighted to realise he had succeeded in finally thinking about nothing at all.

'That'd be bloody brilliant,' Draco said the next morning, after they'd packed up. 'Harry Potter, Cricket Animagus!'

'It wasn't just crickets, you prat.'

'Hey, you said you noticed them first.'

'They were loud. And in the bush beside camp. And everywhere else. Anyway, it probably doesn't mean anything. There was like... a bit of everything, really. Close by, far off, high up...'

'I must say I find it endlessly amusing that you need a full stomach and a nap in order to clear your mind, though I suppose that's all very primordial, which makes sense in your case—ow, ow, all right, all right!'

'Still,' Draco said, a little more seriously, nursing the burning red rim of his ear, 'you're on the right track. I think, anyway. Mostly all I heard was horses, but as I tended to practise in the paddocks that really doesn't say much. You've got to like, pay attention to certain details that seem to stand out, or things that reoccur.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, really, it helps to keep a journal, as stupid as that sounds, unless you've got a really good memory. But aside from where I was, which I'm told can sometimes influence it, there were certain things that kept coming back. Like the smell of grass. I'd go to bed smelling grass, even after a long shower. Couldn't even magic it away. The paranoia was a big one, which was a real bugger with being on the run from the Dark Lord; I'd be creeping down the halls of the Manor poking my head around corners on my way back from the loo.' He grimaced briefly at the memory, and then added, 'Oh, and a sudden urge to eat apples. Lots of them.'

'Apples, huh,' Harry repeated, smiling slightly. 'No carrots? Hay? Alfalfa?'

'No. But—well, oats,' Draco admitted sheepishly. 'Mum just put it down to me needing more fibre.'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'Well, I haven't had any urges for oats, or apples. Or for anything else, really. Except perhaps an air conditioner.'

Harry squinted towards the horizon. The endless dead grass and sandy dirt was giving way, slowly but surely, to sparse trees and larger, more colourful tufts of grasses. In the distance was the green promise of another stretch of jungle.

'I mean, I guess it would help if I knew what to expect. I know there's no way to know any details about my form, but I don't know what hints to look for. Maybe it came more naturally to you, or something. McGonagall said you were good at Transfiguration. This—this is impossible.' Harry sighed heavily, and then looked critically at Draco. 'How long did it take you? Before you had an idea, I mean.'

Draco shrugged. 'Couple of weeks? I didn't exactly keep track, and I didn't really focus on it for a while. Figuring out my form wasn't the hard part.'

'What was?'

'Figuring out how to morph without killing myself,' Draco told him. 'It's not exactly healthy to linger with the lungs of a human being and the heart of a horse.'

The hours passed slowly in the intense heat of the day. Draco had long sunk into a stupor of thoughtless, plodding steps before the sun began to set again, turning the sky into a bleeding mess of reds, oranges, pinks and purples. The moon was already visible, waning high overhead. The heat of day quickly turned cold as the first crickets began to chirp, a sound only broken by the rumbling of Harry's stomach.

'I'm hungry,' Harry complained.

'There's plenty of grass,' Draco pointed out.

'Yeah, I can see that.'

'Damn shame you're not an Animagus, yet, I'm sure your cricket form would find plenty of... whatever it is they eat, to eat.'

'Well it's a damn shame your Animagus form isn't something more useful, like a predator,' Harry snapped. 'Then you could do something helpful, like catch us dinner.'

Draco attributed his grouchiness to lack of food. They'd both been snacking on the rations of cheese, bread and fruit Hermione had packed in her bag. While this was fine by Draco, who really didn't fancy flesh after being an herbivore for several hours, Harry seemed to crave meat with every meal.

'We're too far from the river to Summon you some fish,' Draco pointed out, 'but you could always eat some bugs. Very full of protein, I hear.'

'I'd sooner eat the grass, but thanks.'

'We have plenty of fruit left.'

Harry said nothing, but stalked ahead, eyes searching the savannah. There were a few water buffalo grazing in the far distance, and the occasional cry of a bird nearby, but not much else. It was getting dark quickly; they would have to stop and set up camp soon.

Draco was scanning the nearby area for a suitable place to settle down when there was a flash of green light to his left. Very nearly hyperventilating, he wheeled around, clutching his chest.

'What the hell, Potter!'

Harry dug around in a bush and held up a cat-sized creature by the tail, squinting at it in the dimming light. 'Looks like a mongoose, or something. Whatever, it's better than more fruit.'

'You just—could you, I dunno, give me some warning next time? And what happened to not using magic unless we need it?'

'I'm fucking starved, I'd say I needed it,' Harry said, walking past him, the dead critter dangling limply from his hand. 'There's an outcrop of rocks not too far this way, good place for camp, we don't want to start a fire out in the open here.'

'What? Where? How can you see anything so far off in this light? How did you even see that in this grass? Potter!'

: : :

'Oh, that's nice,' Luna said mildly. 'Would you like some tea?'

Hermione blinked. She'd expected some strange response from Luna, but hadn't been prepared for noresponse whatsoever. 'Um. Sure. Tea sounds… yes. Tea.'

Hermione closed the door to the flat Ginny and Luna shared and moved into the sitting room. Ginny obviously wasn't home; it was eerily quiet and the only light in the flat was coming from a few candles floating around the writing desk in the corner, covered in what looked like draft pages for the upcoming Quibbler. Luna reappeared a few minutes later, tea-tray hovering beside her, and sat across from Hermione in an overstuffed armchair.

'Do you know what it is?' Luna asked suddenly, as she directed the teapot to pour tea with her wand.

'Um. A baby?' Hermione hazarded.

'Well, obviously,' said Luna, and offered her a scone. Hermione accepted it gratefully. When had she become so hungry? 'I meant, do you know if it's a boy or a girl?'

'Oh. Um. No,' Hermione admitted. 'I didn't… I was just a bit surprised.'

'I don't see how,' Luna remarked, taking a bite of her own scone. 'It is one of the major side-effects of, well, you know.'

Hermione pursed her lips. 'I know, I know, I just—' she faltered, then plunged on, the words spilling out of her in a rush, 'I thought – I thought I'd been, but apparently I hadn't, and now it's – it might be too late, and Ron's going to freak out, and then Molly's going to freak out, and then my mum's going to freak out, and hell, I'm freaking out and I'm – I'm – too young for this!'

'Yes, I can see why that might concern you,' Luna said mildly, when she'd finished. 'Though you certainly are not too young for this; did you know that, biologically, we should be having our first child between the years of twelve and fourteen? It varies, of course, from female to female; there have been recorded pregnancies in girls as young as nine – '

'Luna, I'm pregnant. With a baby!'

'I would certainly hope so, considering the alternatives,' Luna replied, nonplussed. 'Have you told Ronald yet?'

Hermione gaped at her. Luna took a sip of tea and regarded her with unblinking interest.

'How do you – no, you know what, never mind. I don't care. I just – how? How am I supposed to—' she waved her hands emphatically, '—tell him?'

Luna shrugged. 'I would suggest with as few words as possible. Ronald tends to overlook subtleties, and you don't want him getting confused. Right to the point, I'd say. "Ronald, I'm pregnant with your child" should be sufficient. Covers all of the major points.'

Hermione continued to gape at her.

'If you're worried about his reaction, you could always send him an owl,' Luna suggested.

: : :

Harry was in a foul mood.

Draco could see it, and the horse could smell it. It made the horse nervous. He plodded just behind Harry, slightly off to the side, ready to bolt if Harry made any sudden movements.

The sun was unforgiving. The heat fell like a series of whip lashes from an hour after sunrise until the very last ray of light disappeared over the horizon and evening finally set in. The horse was oblivious to the heat; the Arabian had been bred into this climate for thousands of years, and the light sloughed off its white hide like water off a duck. Even thirst didn't bother it. The horse could drink lavishly, once, and go for several days before thirst bothered it again.

No, what annoyed the horse was not the heat, but the pace. The dull thudding of a walking pace across miles of flat, open, unpaved landscape with unshod hooves that could gallop across it at four times their current speed, and feel the hot air turn into a cool breeze across its fur.

Draco had thought about this before, and rejected it. If he had inherited anything from his father, it was pride. This did not couple well with the stubbornness he got from his mother.

But this was taking forever, and even the horse, with every sound, smell and sight on the savannah available to analyse, was bored. Draco had long grown bored of the leftover smell of gazelles, the distant thunder of herd migration, the ever-slowly-growing specks on the horizon.

The horse sped up, impulsively, skipping a few steps to bring itself just ahead of Harry, who had his head slumped forward against the midday brightness. Gently, attempting not to knock him completely on his arse, Draco shouldered Harry. Harry bounced to the side with a start, looked up, and glared at him. 'What the fuck?'

The horse cocked its head at him and Harry, apparently assuming Draco was just being annoying, rolled his eyes and pressed on. When Draco went to nudge him again he stopped short, shoving ineffectually at Draco's shoulder. 'I'm not really in the mood, Malfoy.'

Draco wheeled around, planting himself directly in front of Harry and giving him the most severe look he could manage. Harry blinked in the sudden onslaught of dust. Before Harry could side-step him again, Draco turned himself abruptly sideways, and sank to the knee of one foreleg.

Harry's expression quickly progressed through annoyed to blank to dubious.

'Er,' he said. 'Are you sure?'

A horse kneeling down may look elegant and dashing from a human perspective, Draco thought, but it was bloody awkward and uncomfortable for the horse. Muscles and tendons that wouldn't blink at six furlongs at thirty-five miles an hour were suddenly stiff and complaining. He snorted and flicked his tail to show his impatience.

Harry stepped forward, tentatively, as if expecting Draco to leap up and dash off, whinnying in amusement, at any moment. Draco concentrated on keeping the horse still despite the discomfort, reluctant to turn back and explain himself.

His withers itched suddenly, and it took his human brain a moment to catch up and realise that Harry was weaving a hand into the roots of his mane. The other hand came to rest on his mid-back, timidly at first, but the pressure grew firm as the hand in his mane tightened and tugged, heaving a leg up and over his side. Draco had expected it to be painful and to have to fight to keep his balance, but the two-hundred-or-so pounds of Harry Potter were an afterthought to the twelve-hundred-or-so sinewy pounds of the horse.

Harry shifted a few times, finding his centre of gravity. Draco waited and then, one step at a time, began to walk. When Harry began to move with him, he skipped a stride into a trot. Harry wavered then, tightening both hands in Draco's mane, but kept his balance. After several minutes of this, Draco broke into a canter. Harry tightened his hold again, knees digging into the back of Draco's shoulders, but didn't fall. The horse in him was thrilled: this was more like it.

: : :

The time passed so much more quickly this way. It probably would have been more comfortable in a saddle, but Harry didn't mind; shocked at Draco allowing himself to be ridden in the first place, he had no intention whatsoever of insisting upon tack. He'd never used it with Hippogriffs or Threstals, anyway. He kept a firm grip on the white-blonde mane and adjusted his glasses, using them like a shield against the wind much as he did in Quidditch. Draco had steadily picked up pace as they went, judging how fast he could go without throwing Harry off. Harry twisted his fingers deeper into the mane, leaned low over the neck and squeezed his knees into the pits behind the horse's shoulders; he didn't need stirrups to ride a broom, after all. Draco sensed his change in posture and, with an approving whinny, broke into a full gallop.

It felt like they were racing the sun across the sky. Draco had been right; it was about as close as you could get to flying without a broom.

Eventually—hours later, or days, for all Harry could tell—Draco slowed down to a steady trot, two hooves alternating beneath Harry and skipping along the long, dry grass of the savannah. Harry closed his eyes and raised his head to the sky, the sun shining down on his face, and concentrated on the breeze—the wind created simply by moving, turning the hot sweat that coated them both into a cool sheen. The air even felt cooler going into his lungs, making him lightheaded. In the distance, he could hear a bird call, shrieking out into the sky. Harry's hands were so tangled in the strands of Draco's mane he wondered briefly if it would be safe to take a nap.

Overhead, the bird keened. The sound ripped through Harry, shooting through his head like a sonic boom. It physically hurt—it felt like someone had stabbed him in the ear, right through the brain, and his vision went black; the next moment he felt another sharp pain in his side, and realised he'd fallen off Draco—who was still a horse, rounding on him with oblong, grey eyes and flared nostrils. The horse pawed the ground beside him with a dainty yet arguably sharp hoof and tossed his head. Harry looked up, blinking, trying to restore his vision—the blackout's aftermath was particularly nasty in the glare of an afternoon African sun.

A small, red-brown falcon zipped into view and landed on a nearby stump, fixing Harry with a very intent stare. Draco gave Harry a rather rough shove in the back with his muzzle and Harry, unable to see what the fuss was about from within the knee-high grass he'd landed in, stretched up a hand and used Draco's neck to haul himself upright. The falcon gave another sharp call, making him wince, and then Harry realised it had an empty satchel attached to one leg.

He looked up as Draco whinnied, right in his ear, pawing and kicking up dust around their legs. Squinting, Harry could just make out a tall figure, also on horseback, heading their way. They would have been close enough to distinguish, had the sun not already been behind the figure, but all Harry could see was their outline. They were upwind, too, and that was probably why Draco was freaking out—whoever it was, he couldn't smell them.

Harry gave him a reassuring pat. 'Stay horse,' he muttered, drawing his wand.

Ten metres away, the figure coaxed its horse into a quick canter. Harry tensed; the fact that the falcon had a satchel suggested it was a wizard, but what did he know? Maybe Muggles around here used birds to carry important messages—the local post certainly couldn't be that reliable—but before he could decide whether or not to Stun first and ask questions later, the figure slowed down, close enough that Harry could just barely make out his face.

'Harry?' said Bill, tanned and sweating, a wide-brimmed hat slung low over his eyes. 'Thank Merlin, I was beginning to think something ate you.'

His hair was still long, as Harry remembered it, tied back into a ponytail at the base of his neck. He was riding a dark brown horse with a western saddle, and wearing dragon-skin boots and trousers with a light, sleeveless shirt. Harry could see a few new tattoos adorning his upper arms, and a leather cuff tied around his left forearm; and even in the shadow of his hat brim, the scars Greyback had given him stood out clearly. It must be close to a full moon.

'Bill,' Harry said, relieved. He put his wand away. 'I thought we were meeting you in Gondor.'

'Gondor's that way,' Bill said, smirking and pointing just north-east of where they had been heading. 'Anyway, it's faster this way, saves us some time. Gondor was out of the way.'

'How did you find us?'

Bill raised his left arm and the falcon returned to it, landing on the leather cuff, cooing appreciatively. 'Theron's the best tracking falcon I've ever had. Usually use him for locating bandits and grave-robbers to prevent nasty surprises, but once you'd sent that letter and I could give him a scent to follow, it was easy.'

Harry raised an eyebrow. 'I wasn't aware birds could smell that well.'

'Normal birds, no,' Bill admitted. 'Wizarding raptors, on the other hand, if properly trained, can track a magical scent like a shark can track blood in water.' He nodded to the falcon and threw his arm up, and the bird took off into the sky. 'He needs to hunt, but he'll catch up. I see you got yourself a mount,' he added approvingly. 'Hermione's letter mentioned walking.'

'Yeah, well, walking was taking forever,' Harry said grudgingly.

'I could have told you that. Where is everybody?'

Harry took a deep breath and glanced at Draco, who seemed for the moment content to remain on all fours. Bill dismounted while he started to explain, occasionally interjecting questions, and seemed genuinely interested about the Widow's Comfort. When Harry had finished, Bill handed him his canteen; Harry hadn't realised how thirsty he was, and was in mid-rehydration when Bill finally spoke.

'I don't suppose,' he said slowly, 'that you'll tell me what's so damned important that you're out here risking your life for it.'

Harry took one last, deep swallow. 'Sorry. I wish I could, but the less people know, the better.' Bill sighed and Harry, not wanting to seem ungrateful, began, 'It's not that I don't trust you. You know I do. I just can't—'

'I know,' Bill interrupted. 'It's fine, Harry, you don't have to explain yourself. Ron trusts you, and that's enough for me.'

Harry nodded, feeling a little pleased.

'Speaking of Ron,' Bill went on, incredulously, 'he usually fights tooth and nail to make sure he's always around to have your back. I can't believe he let you stay here on your own.'

'Er,' said Harry. 'Well, about that...'

: : :

'Still here, I see.'

Blaise looked up from the Playwitch in his hands and raised an eyebrow. His father was standing by the desk in his sorry excuse for a library, idly digging through the parchments piled on the surface.

'I was unaware,' Blaise answered evenly, 'that I had worn out my welcome.'

'Don't be absurd. I merely meant to express my surprise,' Gervasio said dismissively. Blaise felt himself tense, and forced himself to relax. His father was often nosy; his sudden interest in his eldest's extended stay might mean nothing. 'You rarely visit these days, and often don't stay longer than it takes to ask for gold.'

'I have some time off,' Blaise answered casually. This, at least, was partially true. The Dark Lord had dismissed him some weeks previously and the mark on his arm had yet to burn.

'I see,' Gervasio answered, clearly taking his meaning. 'I assumed your mother would require your attention.'

'She's occupied,' Blaise reminded him. This was perfectly true, as well; she had left the debutante ball on the arm of some old, rich bastard who would see an increase to Blaise's inheritance shortly.

'Well, in that case, stay as long as you like.' Gervasio located the parchment he was looking for, and stood to leave. He paused at the door and added, casually, 'You've not heard from the Malfoy boy, have you?'

Blaise closed the magazine and rested it on his lap, turning his gaze back up to his father. 'If I had, do you think I would still be here?'

Gervasio shrugged. 'I do not pretend to know your methods, Blaise. I was merely inquiring on behalf of dear Narcissa.' He smiled at his son. 'She does worry about him so.'

'She has good reason to,' Blaise answered. 'It is, in fact, why I am still here.'

'I see,' Gervasio said again. 'In that case, I will leave you to your… duties.'

Blaise watched his father leave, and sighed. He glanced out the window; even in the dim light of the sunset, he could see Narcissa, a splash of white in the darkness, making her way towards the stables as she did every night, a ploy to avoid Gervasio's attentions as much as she could. He knew Lupin was out there, somewhere, skulking in the darkness at her heels. How long his father would tolerate his presence, a constant reminder of his own mortality, Blaise couldn't guess, but he knew he had to stretch it for as long as he could.

: : :

'Oh, that is so cool,' Bill said when Harry had finished explaining and, after several minutes of snorting, hoof stomping and contemptuous looks, Draco had shown him.

Draco, a stallion once more, preened. He raised his white head and stood up straight, raising his tail high and looking extremely ridiculous as far as Harry could judge. Bill's horse gave Draco a dark look.

'Bloody useful Animagus form.' Bill was looking him over with keen curiosity. Draco seemed to be torn between flattered and disgusted. 'We could conjure another saddle using that leather sack―'

There was an agitated pop and Draco folded his arms. Harry noticed he'd perfected shifting without losing any of his material effects―his hair wasn't even ruffled after the transformation. 'Oi,' he said flatly. 'Your lot may have my freedom but I'll be keeping my dignity, thank you!'

'Malfoy, stop being ridiculous,' Harry said tiredly, rubbing his forehead. 'No, it's fine, Bill. Really. We got this far without one, I don't mind.'

Draco, who had already opened his mouth to argue further, paused and eventually closed it. 'Oh,' he said, looking oddly placated. 'Okay.'

Bill gave Harry a look with raised eyebrows. Harry shook his head and Bill, clearly getting the message that pursuing the issue would cause more problems than it solved, shrugged and remounted his horse with a swift motion of long arms and legs. 'We should probably keep going while there's still some daylight left.'

'I'm not even sure where we're going,' Harry confessed as Draco turned back into a horse so quickly it was painful to watch.

'I do,' Bill said, surprising Harry. 'I've been all over this bloody continent on foot; I don't need a map to know where I'm going. I've never been inside the area,' he continued, as Harry opened his mouth to ask that very question. 'I am aware of its existence, however, having passed it by several times. Good thing, too, the jungles around it are near impossible to navigate if you've never been there before. The place is thick with old magic. Gringotts would probably have had us raid it ages ago if it wasn't protected land.'

Harry nodded, thanking the yet-unfailing luck that had helped him with so many of his quests throughout the years. Draco poked him in the small of the back with his snout and Harry, snapping out of his reverie, turned around, grabbed a fistful of mane, and heaved himself up. It was a lot harder than it looked—the horse was bigger than it appeared from a respectable distance—despite Draco bending both knees in an effort to make it easier for him.

'Right,' Harry said, shifting until he found his centre of gravity. 'How long by...er...' he glanced down at Draco's white-blonde mane, and settled for, '—horse?'

'Not long, we'll be there by midday tomorrow if we make good time.' Bill was watching Draco prance around him and his horse impatiently. 'Assuming Malfoy can keep up.'

'Who cares?' Harry said, rolling his eyes as Draco swished his tail and cocked his head to look back at him, silvery eyes clear in the bright light. 'Maybe we'll get lucky and something will eat him.'

Draco gave a great snort, and nearly unseated Harry with a sudden lunge forward, breaking into a full gallop after a few short strides. Behind him, Harry heard Bill's laugh and the sound of hoof beats as the other horse struggled to keep the pace.

: : :

The track was deserted by dusk. The horses had been cooled down, fed, and stabled; jockeys and stable-hands had long since retired to the casino and adjacent hotel in search of alcohol or companionship, or both. Narcissa removed her heavy cloak and unlocked the latch to the private stables with a flick of her wand. The smell of the barn washed over her, warm and humid, the idle shuffling of stabled horses meeting her ears. Leaving her cloak on a rack by the door, she made her way between the stalls slowly, her footsteps muffled by a layer of musty hay on the floor.

She found what she was looking for in the large corner stall at the end: Onis, Hailstorm, Gervasio's prize gelding, a four-year-old thoroughbred-Granian hybrid. Wingless, it was the fastest land-bound mix ever to have been successfully bred. Narcissa took the bridle from its hook by the door and, pulling the half-apple from the pocket of her riding slacks, let herself inside. The horse regarded her stoically, and did not protest as she applied the necessary tack.

The air outside the stables had begun to chill. Narcissa did not return for her cloak; the vigour of riding would soon warm her. She urged the gelding into a quick trot onto the circuit, capturing her hair and securing it beneath a riding cap as they reached the moist, brown turf. Her mount pawed the ground eagerly; he knew what the long oval of the track meant, and longed to stretch his legs. Narcissa paused only briefly to make sure the tack was tight and secure before leaning low over his neck and, with a nudge from her heels, turning him loose.

Narcissa closed her eyes and breathed. This she could do forever, without tiring. Her consciousness switched to automatic at the familiar surge of muscles beneath her, distracting her from what awaited her return. She had chosen to stay here more for Draco's sake than her own; the Ministry could, in theory, protect her – and Harry Potter and his friends at the Order certainly could – but Draco would linger and worry and put himself at risk if she were so close.

This far removed, her son had a far better chance at succeeding. And while Gervasio was a lot of things, selfishness was above all his distinguishing character. He would do everything in his power to keep her safe as long as he saw her as a possession, and if that meant giving Draco more time, she could deal with it. Every time he touched her, her skin crawled. She'd had to resist shoving her wand through his throat every night she had retired here. But this she could tolerate, however temporarily, for her son. Gervasio would get what was coming to him soon enough and, hopefully, from her own hand.

There was a sudden rush of air, and a loud crack. Her mount pulled a full stop and reared, falling sideways, nearly throwing her. Narcissa cursed and loosed the reins, giving slack, and the horse stumbled sideways on its hind legs before falling heavily back to earth on all fours, eyes rolling. Onis spun in a tight circle, backpedalling, whinnying, throwing his head in agitation. Narcissa stroked his neck, trying to calm him, and followed his line of sight, and stopped.

Three robed figures stood silhouetted ahead of her on the track. The one in the middle, shorter than the other two, began walking forward. Narcissa's mount snorted, kicking up turf as he tried to back away. Narcissa held him firm. The tip of the figure's wand lit up; four feet away, Bellatrix stopped and smiled.

'Dear sister,' she greeted sweetly. 'How have you been?'

: : :

'Sweet Hippogriffs,' Draco said, staring. 'Isn't that—?'

'Merlin's bloody bollocks,' Bill murmured, equally stupefied.

They had stopped to camp for the night in a cosy little outcrop of rocks in the side of a canyon. The canyon itself served as the border to the final stretch of jungle they would need to penetrate, if Bill's information was correct, to gain access to the reserve. The sun was still over the horizon and Harry would have liked to carry on, but Bill had insisted they stop early. The reserve would be another half day's journey even on horseback, he'd pointed out, due to the dense jungle. Harry had grudgingly agreed and had been helping Bill set up the tents when Draco had made a sudden shrill, gleeful noise at some shrubbery he'd discovered just inside the treeline.

'It is.' Draco nodded once, then twice, and then a third time to confirm. 'Merlin. It is it is it is.' He sounded nearly giddy. He shot Bill a furtive glance. 'You think we could—'

'Fleur would have a fit,' Bill advised. His eyes flickered up at Draco, considering. And then, finally, he added, 'I won't snitch if you don't.'

Draco grinned at him. 'Deal.'

'Er,' Harry said.

Neither of them seemed to hear him. Draco had already started harvesting the plants. Bill was stretching out some scrap parchment and poking it experimentally with his wand. He held it up against the bonfire for Draco to see. 'Think this'll do?'

'It'll have to,' Draco said, shrugging. 'Packaging's not important, so long as it isn't toxic. Here.'

He tossed a bundle past Harry to Bill, who caught it and laid it out on one of the long, flat stones by the fire. Pointing his wand at the leaves, he muttered, 'Exaresco.' With a faint crackling noise, the freshly-picked leaves dehydrated, turning a dark brownish-green in colour, and Harry raised his eyebrows, catching on.

'You've got to be joking,' he said.

Draco stepped carefully out of the cluster of plants, dusting off his trousers and looking extremely pleased with himself.

'Abyssinian shrivelfig,' he declared. 'Commonly used as an ingredient in Shrinking Solutions, but when inhaled has the most interesting effect on strapping young blokes such as ourselves.' Bill tossed Draco something very small, and Draco caught it easily.

'Totally illegal, of course,' Draco continued, 'to grow, or import and export without an official permit, but with no specifications on legality if, by chance—and this is purely hypothetical, mind you—you happen to be randomly wandering through the deep jungles of Ethiopia and, by chance, come across a wild crop.' Draco draped his other arm around Harry's shoulders and sagged against him, holding up what Harry could now see was, worst fears confirmed, a joint. 'Savvy?'

'You've got to be joking,' Harry said again, more to himself than to the others. 'Malfoy, I can't possibly condone this. I'm a cop, for Merlin's sake.'

'Since when do you give a flying Flobberworm about rules?' Draco demanded, pulling away and putting on a pout. 'And you are an off-duty copper, who is also in a foreign country, which, if I'm not mistaken, means your authority can kiss my arse.'

Bill placed his own joint between his lips, lit it with the tip of his wand and took a long, slow drag, and then grinned rather alarmingly at Harry. 'Go on, Harry,' he said, blowing out the smoke, 's'good stuff, trust me.' He tossed Harry the third and final fag he'd rolled, and set back to smoking his own.

'Good man, Weasley,' Draco said approvingly, 'good man.' He nudged Harry in the ribs. 'What do you say, eh, Potter? Two drags and I promise all of your worries about Evil and Dark Lords and the Apocalypse will float away with the Nile.'

Harry raised an eyebrow. 'Two drags?'

'Two drags,' Draco repeated. 'What's the worst that can happen?'

While Harry quickly made a list in his head of worst-case scenarios, Draco got bored, and wandered over to squat down before Bill, who leaned forward to light Draco's smoke with his own.

'This is a stupid idea,' Harry attempted, knowing he had already lost the battle. 'What if we get ambushed?'

'It's Africa, Harry,' Bill said, waving an arm for emphasis. 'We're the only sorry blokes for miles. May as well make the most of it. Besides, I put up wards,' he added reassuringly. 'We are Death Eater-proofed.'

'What if we get ambushed by lions?' Harry persisted.

'Lions!' Draco sat down, using Bill's shoulder as a backrest; Bill leaned comfortably back against him. 'Fear not, my lad, for I am a defeater of lions. I am the Lion Tamer. Lions fear my mighty hooves!'

'Lion,' Harry felt urged to correct. 'You are defeater of a lion. What if the next one brings friends?'

'Die fast, live young,' Draco drawled dramatically, 'or something.' He took another deep drag. 'You're not smoking, Potter,' he said as he exhaled, looking crestfallen. 'It doesn't work unless you smoke it.'

'I don't think I want to smoke it,' Harry said, eyeing the joint Draco had given him warily. 'This is probably some evil, Slytherin plot to disarm me.'

Draco scoffed. 'Yeah, right. I'll probably get kicked out of the Slytherin alumni just for sharing with you sorry sods.'

'Hey,' Bill interjected between drags, 'I'm not complaining. Three cheers for Slytherin.'

'Hurrah,' Draco huzzahed, grinning. 'One down, one to go. Scared, Potter?'

Harry squinted at the joint. Actually, he was scared of a lot of things. Dementors scared him. Voldemort scared him. Basilisks scared him. His nightmares scared him.

People he loved dying scared him.

Two drags. What the hell.

He sat down across from them, resting his elbows on his knees. Bill offered Harry the smoking tip of his joint. Hesitating only for a moment, Harry leaned in and lit his own. He jerked away, hacking.

'Virgin,' Draco sneered. 'Don't pull so hard, you're going to rupture a lung. Take it slow.'

It was a few minutes before Harry could breathe without coughing again. By the time he chanced taking another drag, Draco and Bill were swapping stories.

'I had to get drunk to ask Fleur out,' Bill admitted, scowling when Draco tried to laugh and inhale at the same time and started hacking. 'It was the only way I didn't end up trying to tell her I was going to be the next Minister for Magic or some other codswallop, you prick.'

Draco coughed a final time and took another lengthy drag, giving Bill a comforting thump on the back. 'No, no, I wasn't – she is a babe. Was,' he corrected quickly at the narrow look Bill gave him. 'Was, before she got, you know. Married. To you. Other men's wives are not babes,' he told Harry importantly. Harry snorted.

'Worked out for me in the end, anyway,' Bill said, mollified. 'Don't tell me you've not done stupid shit when you're drunk.'

'I tried to do a Hovering Charm on myself,' Draco told him, grinning. 'Except I got the incantation wrong, and Snape found me asleep on the ceiling of the common room the following morning. He gave me detention for the rest of my life.' Bill laughed, and Harry found himself grinning at the image. 'What about you, Potter? Snag any Veelas or defy gravity while you were sloshed?'

'I conjured a Patronus in a pub, once,' Harry admitted.

'Fred told me about that,' Bill said, grinning. 'I put a Locomotor Charm on Charlie's bed after he fell asleep in seventh year. What? The git deserved it; he scorched my best jacket while he was off chasing dragons all summer. Tell you what, his face, waking up in the middle of the village square – '

Draco gave Bill an appraising look. 'And here I thought all of you Gryffindors were boring.'

'I wouldn't call my school life boring,' Harry pointed out defensively.

'Oh, right, terribly exciting, chasing monsters and dark lords all over the castle, I'm sure,' Draco said dismissively. 'Oi, Weasley, still with us? Hey, in fifth year, we bewitched the Hufflepuff team's brooms to fly backwards – '

'Y'know Charlie, that sod, actually rode backwards during a game once on a dare? And we still won the match?'

'Who were you facing, Hufflepuff?'

'Yes. But – fuck you, Slytherin,' Bill said, grinning as Draco snorted with mirth.

'But yeah,' Draco continued when he could breathe again, 'those brooms? We used them to play broom-tag in the dungeons. That was a bad, bad idea.'

' – word to the wise, by the way,' Bill interjected, 'don't ever try to Apparate when you're drunk, worst fucking hangover I've ever had – '

'Pansy turned my hair fuchsia one night.'

'It'd suit you,' Harry commented casually through a line of smoke. He was finding it increasingly difficult to focus on the conversation, which seemed to be changing topics at lightning speed.

'Least your own brother didn't fill your knickers with peppermint snaps; I couldn't sit properly for a week.'

'Took bloody ages to get it out, too. My hair looked like candy floss.'

' – I snogged Cassie Clearwater, too, sixth year; I think she was drunker than I was…'

'I got off with Blaise.'

'You what?' said Harry.

Even Bill, irises already dilating, blinked. 'Zabini? Isn't he dating my sister?'

'Is he?' Draco asked. 'What a ponce.'

'You what?' Harry repeated.

Draco glanced briefly in his direction before standing up, with some effort. 'I,' he announced to the camp at large, 'need to take a piss.'

'Take one for me, too,' Bill requested, taking another drag but making no effort to move.

Draco had got lost, Harry thought; it must've been ten minutes since he'd wandered off. Or possibly eaten. Okay, maybe not ten minutes, but Harry was sure he had had something important to ask him when he returned and had already forgotten what it was.

Harry was just considering going to find him when Bill decided to scoot over and use his stomach as a pillow.

'He's not so bad,' Bill said by way of conversation.

Harry rolled his eyes. 'You want to babysit him for a while?'

'Well, he's a bit self-absorbed and definitely still a git, but he's no Lucius Malfoy, either,' Bill said fairly. 'You two seem to get on all right.'

'Only because we have to.'

'Mm,' Bill considered. 'Old grudges die hard, I suppose.'

'I don't have a grudge,' Harry insisted. 'I just hate him.'

Bill chuckled. 'You've not changed much.'

'What d'you mean?' Harry asked blankly.

Bill waved the hand holding his fag about. 'You. Just you, the one I remember when you came over for holidays and things. Teenager-you. Ginny says that, too.'

'She says I'm still teenager-me?' Harry asked, frowning.

'Yeah. Well, no, not exactly, but she says, she says you're still you, you know?' That really didn't make any sense, but then whatever they were smoking seemed to negate any sense at all, so it wasn't worth pointing out. 'She never told us why you two stopped seeing each other,' Bill added thoughtfully. 'Ron said you felt guilty 'coz it was his little sister.'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'He knows that's not why. We just—'

Harry was saved having to say anything more by Draco returning. He took one look at them and narrowed his eyes. 'Comfy?' he asked.

Bill yawned and closed his eyes. His head was heavy against Harry's stomach. 'Extremely.'

: : :

'If you're here to interrogate me about my son,' Narcissa said briskly, 'you know you are wasting your time.'

Bellatrix smiled crookedly at her sister. It was very dark on the deserted track, and she could hear the distant hoof beats of the creature Narcissa had dismounted and released, which had taken one look at her and fled. 'Nice to see you, too,' she said sweetly. She glanced briefly around the estate, her eyes lingering on the Palazzo, its many windows alight and glittering. 'I see you haven't done so badly for yourself. Again.'

'Jealousy does not become you.' She did not flinch when Bellatrix snarled, her upper lip curling back to reveal a flash of white teeth. 'If you want my son, I suggest you hunt down Harry Potter.'

'Actually,' Bellatrix began, 'the Dark Lord has asked me to deliver a message. An offer. A rather generous one, I should say.'

'That… creature has nothing I want.'

Bellatrix hissed. 'You dare insult him? He, who has given you so much?'

'Given me?' Narcissa rounded on her sister, her cool demeanour replaced with wild fury. 'He has given me nothing! All he has done is take—steal! My husband, my son, our futures, livelihoods—my sister—what more could he possibly want?'

'He has given your family purpose, dear sister!' Bellatrix snapped. 'What was Lucius, before the Dark Lord? A petty politician, shoving gold into the robes of rich old men, making them richer—and your son? A bully, and a pathetic one at that! Spoiled rotten by you and your weak husband—'

Narcissa's hand connected sharply with the side of her face before she could finish, snapping her head to the side. Bellatrix was silent for a moment, her hand feeling her cheek; the skin was hot under her fingertips.

'Don't you dare,' Narcissa hissed, her voice low, 'insult my husband.'

Bellatrix did look at her then, and smiled. 'Or what? You'll swat me again? Pardon me if I don't cower in fear.' She laughed, high and shrill, the noise carrying deep into the night. 'No, Cissy, you listen to me. The Dark Lord could make an example of you and your precious little boy with very little effort. But lucky for you, he is quite fond of me.' She paused to smile again, and was pleased to note that Narcissa was watching her carefully, waiting for her to finish. She was interested. Good. 'And knowing what situation Lucius left you in, who could blame you and Draco for hiding as you did? After all, Lucius surely filled your heads with terrible, terrible lies about our Lord, that he would punish you both like he was going to punish Lucius. But our Lord is merciful, Cissy. He knows Lucius was a liar, and he doesn't blame you. Or Draco.' She tilted her head, pouting magnificently. 'This has all been a very terrible misunderstanding.'

Narcissa's blue eyes were unreadable. 'Is that so.' She folded her arms, her riding whip tucked tightly against her chest. 'So, what does he want?'

'Oh, not much,' Bellatrix said, shrugging. When Narcissa raised an eyebrow, she turned away, stretching her arms into the midnight sky. 'Just the Manor.'

'The—he wants the estate?' Narcissa grabbed her sister by the arm, twirling her back around. 'Why? Why does he want the Manor?'

Bellatrix made a face and shrugged again. 'It is not my place to question—'

'Why?' Narcissa demanded.

Bellatrix dropped the act. 'Your husband,' she spat, then smiled, 'lovely chap that he was, of course, I'm just repeating what I've heard, mind you—' Narcissa made to interrupt, but Bellatrix rolled her eyes and continued, 'He had something. In the Manor. The Dark Lord lost access to it when Lucius died—'

'You mean when that bastard killed him,' Narcissa interjected.

Bellatrix hissed. 'When your husband passed,' she countered. 'The Manor is not rightfully Draco's. And the Dark Lord needs it back.'

'What for?'

'No idea.'

'Bella—'

Bellatrix gave her a look. 'Look, Cissy, it's quite simple. I pass the message to you, and you pass it on to your spawn. All he has to do is let the Dark Lord in. Then you can go. Both of you. It's of no consequence to the Dark Lord whether you live or die, though he certainly would prefer for as many pure-bloods with... reproductive capabilities to survive this war as possible. Draco, of course, will make any number of suitable young girls a fine husband; and even you, little sister, still have some years left in you.'

Narcissa seemed to consider this for some time. Bellatrix twirled her hair around her wand, looking bored.

'It's a good offer,' Bellatrix said finally, growing impatient. 'You both get to live. That's all you care about, isn't it?'

Narcissa looked up at her, chin held high. 'I will tell him.'

'Lovely,' Bellatrix said, pinching her sister on the cheek. 'Say hi to Draco for me, will you?'

She watched Narcissa ride away into the night, the darkness swallowing her up as she reached the other side of the circuit. Her husband and brother-in-law stepped forward on either side of her, a slight ruffle of the breeze announcing the movement.

'Did she buy it?' Rodolphus asked.

Bellatrix looked sideways at her husband. He was a fairly simple man; simple in looks, lifestyle, habit and personality. Always right to the point. She liked that about him.

She smiled. 'We shall see.'

: : :

Notes:

Lyrics and chapter title from Rolling Stones. It was just so very appropriate.
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