Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Conscience	By : sordidhumors Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 15282 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: This story is based on "Harry Potter, " the novels and subsequent films created by JK Rowling, licensed to various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic and Warner Bros. This e-publication makes no profit.

Chapter List
- 32
- 33
- 34
SUMMARY: Secrets revealed and the Battle of Ravenwood.

WARNINGS: magical battle, implied minor/unnamed character deaths, vomiting, near-death experiences, Harry Potter may or may not kill a Death Eater (it's ambiguous)

DISCLAIMER: “Life On A Chain” written and performed by Peter Joseph Yorn, released by Capital Records, 2001.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: UGH. UGH. I hate you, Beretta. You and your action scenes and your subtle-like-a-brick subplot make me want to go back to historical romances, I swear to God. I am one explosion, one ricocheted spell away from abandoning you, you worthless heap of rot, excrement and decay. The only thing preserving your pathetic existence is several heart-wrenchingly beautiful sex scenes pre-written from Harry's perspective. You don't deserve them.

CONSCIENCE:

BERETTA –

LIFE ON A CHAIN

I live on a chain

and you share the same last name

as a joke I sent a bottle of whiskey

as you choke, you said it made you feel dirty

I was waiting over here for life to begin

Just look at all the new things

You were the sunshine

in my front line

I was alone

and you were just around the corner from me

“Life On A Chain”

Pete Yorn

Harry recognized Margie Gweir and Sturgis Podmore in the group he was instructing. Margie managed the ancient fire spell but Podmore wasn't having much luck. The Durmstrang guys had gotten the hang of it within five minutes—except for Chereshko. He was still struggling, standing a head taller than anyone else in the room and cursing, loudly and colorfully in multiple languages, each time his attempt to cast the fire spell failed. Nebojsa had gotten it on the first try, causing the empty Butterbeer bottle he was aiming at to explode in a fantastic show of white and blue flames. Harry cast simple color-changing charms on the bottles as fuel for the spell; without magic to be consumed, they wouldn't know if the spell was cast successfully. Just as Auror Williamson mastered Eptir Eldr with a triumphant whoop, Misha came sprinting in.

The young Romanian went right for Nebojsa, pulling potion ampuls out of his pockets for inspection. The more phials he produced, the less pleased Nebojsa looked. It appeared that, whatever the brothers were planning, it was on.

The dining room where they were practicing lit up in shades of orange, shadows flickering on the walls at the sudden light. The sound of muggle emergency sirens pierced the Fidelus Charm; their familiar, alternating low and high tones mutating, breaking down. The explosion came a few seconds later. People in the villa rushed to the windows, looking out into the street. Harry didn't have to see the car fires to know what was going on. The Death Eaters were warming up, spoiling for the fight to come. Inhuman black shapes quickly blocked their view of the carnage—the Dementors were sweeping in, coming closer to the house with each gliding, ghostly pass.

“We don't have much time,” Harry said to Williamson. “I think we need to get into position.”

“Alright, everyone!” the blond man spoke loudly, waving his hands over his head to attract attention. “I need everyone to move out and take your places. Flyers gather in the courtyard with the ground team and wait for my signal. Good luck, everyone.”

Someone threw open the double doors and the defenders of Ravenwood streamed out into the hall. Harry caught sight of Remus and Charlie levitating an injured man down the stairs, meaning the evacuation was at least getting underway. The sooner they got these people out, the sooner they could abandon the place themselves. Fred and George caught Harry at the landing, shoving a nylon bag into his hands.

“Two Portable Swamps and a pinch of Peruvian Darkness Powder,” George said in a rush.

“Use 'em wisely, mate,” Fred added. “We might not be restocking for a while.”

“Thanks,” Harry managed to get out before the twins were bolting down the stairs, magic carpets rolled up and slung around the backs of their necks like sports towels. Harry made to follow them but was stopped by several strong hands at his shoulders, elbows and waist. He didn't have to ask who was grabbing him, drawing him back—he could smell the clove cigarettes and testosterone. “We're supposed to head to the courtyard,” he protested feebly.

“Not yet,” Dima's voice rumbled close to his ear. “Vait. Ve need to check zhe stables.”

Harry was about to ask why when he was distracted by Yura and Dušan coming out of a side corridor, a round ceramic jug and several half-full bottles of alcohol under their arms. They joined with the group, the men shepherding Harry down the hall to a servant's staircase at the back of the house. Three steep flights of crumbling stairs delivered them out into the rear gardens. A modern garage dominated the space, an old thatched-roof shed tucked behind it. That shed had to be the stables.

The Durmstrang crew rushed the place, alcohol and a few broomsticks tossed aside on the grass. Wands lit, they threw open the stable doors and disappeared inside. A great deal of banging and clanking punctuated their progress within. It sounded as though they were ripping the place apart with magic; tools, hay and a few rusty horse shoes flew past the windows and open door, Nebojsa shouting instructions over the din in what sounded like Russian. Dima and Misha stayed outside with Harry. The brothers uncorked twin phials of neon green potion, toasting each other silently before downing the contents. Dima vanished the empty ampuls, grinning peacefully at Harry.

“Ever ridden a horse before?” the brunet asked conversationally.

“Er, not exactly,” Harry shrugged. “A couple of Hyppogriffs. And a Thestral, once, but never a regular horse.”

“A Thestral?” Misha repeated, exchanging a significant look with his brother.

“Yeah,” Harry said slowly. “My fifth year. It was kind of an emergency.”

“Looks like I'm getting lucky,” Misha smiled, running his tongue over his lower lip in a slow, blatant show of sensuality. Dima promptly cuffed his baby brother upside the head.

Clumsy, bull-necked Vadik rushed out of the stables with what appeared to be an old wooden drawer in his hands. He held it out to Dima like a waiter would display a trolly of desserts. Harry peeked past their muscled, hairy arms to see a bunch of leather cords and pieces of metal—horse bits and reigns. Nebojsa came out a moment later, a very large saddle over his lanky shoulder, a tan blanket in one hand and a big metal bucket in the other.

Harry felt his throat go dry. The Ionescues were Animagi; horses, to be exact. But Dima had told Shacklebolt that he and his brother would be “flying targets.” The only flying horses Harry knew of were Thestrals and Madame Maxime's Abraxans—the second about the size of elephants. The saddle Nebojsa carried would never fit one of those! That only left one option.

Dima and Misha selected their bits and reigns, handing them to Nebojsa, who was busy tinkering with the saddle. His careful spellwork was carving out wing notches in the leather. Harry couldn't help feeling the smallest bit excited. The rest of the men picked up their broomsticks and—calling out undoubtedly lewd phrases and laughing—ran off toward the house.

Dima flexed and rolled his bulky shoulders. Misha swung his arms like a gymnast limbering up before taking to the rings. They shared equally dopey grins before their forms began to shift, the air around them bending and clouding with an unpleasant glopping sound. Harry was ready to see some serious shit. He got a surprise.

“Hey! I...” he stuttered loudly over the neighing, snorting and hoof stomping. “I thought you were Thestrals!”

“Zheir fazher is, as vos zheir brozher,” Nebojsa explained as the larger-than-life winged horses gambooled, trampling the neat flower beads to mush. They were almost nipping at each other like dogs, bolting and giving chase with spirited whinnies. Dima was easier to recognize, his auburn coloring a perfect match to his hair and beard in human form. Each strike of his giant hoof made the ground shudder like the shifting of tectonic plates. Then Dima spread his wings, beating at the clouds of dust kicked up by their feet. Harry coughed, waving the dirt away from his face. Dima's giant wings faded into tan feathers at the tips, his wingspan dwarfing a Hippogriff's by over a meter on both sides. And his back was nearly three meters off the ground, making Misha look like nothing more than a pony. Misha was only slightly larger than your average draft horse; leggy and light grey, he was built for speed, decorated with tiny white speckles from rump to withers. Harry swallowed. He'd need a boost just to get in the saddle! And Nebojsa would probably mount up from a second story window.

“I thought Animagus could only be regular animals,” Harry muttered. “Dogs, cats, insects.”

Nebojsa's long nose scrunched. “Zat is normally true. Zheir fazher did zhis to zhem.” He stuck his hand in an old burlap bag by his feet, whistling for his boyfriend. Dima came pounding over to sniff at the very stale oats offered in outstretched hands.

“Vot?” Nebojsa rolled his big blue eyes sarcastically, suggesting his boyfriend was trying his patience. “You've eaten vorse.”

Dima snorted before munching greedily. Misha came over, nuzzling the side of Harry's head until he got the hint and retrieved some oats from the bag. Misha turned his nose up, huffing hard enough that half the oats were blown out of Harry's hands.

“Hey!”

“He's right,” Nebojsa sighed, picking up the blanket and saddle. “Zhere's no time. Grab zhe bucket, see if zhere's any vhisky.”

Harry recalled that Madame Maxime's Abraxans drank only single malt scotch. Presumably these guys would drink anything in a pinch. Harry sifted through the bottles, coming away with three scotches and half a bottle of bourbon, which he deemed close enough. He emptied them into the bucket and brought it to Misha. He got a strong, playful nudge in thanks. Nebojsa cast what looked like a horse brushing spell before heaving the blanket and modified saddle onto Misha's speckled back.

“How much can he have?” Harry asked, beginning to worry at how greedily Misha was drinking. “I mean, if they drink a whole bottle of whisky, won't it make them sick when they change back?”

“Zat's zhe problem vith zhis form,” Nebojsa shrugged, tightening the straps around Misha's belly. “Zhe alcohol increases zheir shielding against magic. Zhey must drink about four times zhe quantity zat vould kill a grown man.” He finished with the saddle, slapping Misha on his spotted rump. Dima had his giant brown head buried in the feed sack on the ground, spilling oats everywhere as he ate, worming his head further and further into the bag. Nebojsa came around to stand beside Harry, a hand idly stroking Dima's chestnut mane. “Zhey vill drink to be impervious to magic zhis night. Normally, zhey would remain in horse form to vait out zhe alcohol but tonight zhey must travel by Portkey, vhich is only possible for wizards.”

“So how do they change back without killing themselves from alcohol poisoning?” Harry asked, reaching out to stroke an adorable white patch running down Misha's nose. The brothers were oddly sweet this way, what with the nickering and the nudging.

“I vill teach you in case you cannot find us or ve do not survive,” Nebojsa said seriously. He reached into his pocket, producing a vial of dark red, syrupy potion. He jiggled it, the blood-colored liquid sloshing. “Zhis is to shut down zhe liver. You must give it to Misha vhile he is still a Granian. Once zhe potion takes effect, he vill change back. He vill most likely be unconscious—zhey prefer to be left zat vay. Vot ve must do... it is not—how do you say?—zexy,” Nebojsa shrugged, as though he found the practice more than a little vain but went along with it because he loved both Ionescue boys that much.

“You must induce vomiting. Zhe medical spell is Epicus. You must continue until zhere is nozhing left, even zough zhey vill be in pain. Misha vill cry and beg you to stop—do not sssstop,” Nebojsa warned in a serious hiss. Misha gave a watery snort of protest from inside his liquor bucket, as though to say he'd never beg. The Serbian gave a quelling look and the Granian went back to his whisky, tongue lapping the metal bucket with soft little rasps.

“It is three minutes before zhe liver damage is permanent, so ve must act sviftly. Zhis restarts zhe liver,” Nebojsa waggled a powder blue potion before dropping it in Harry's outstretched hand. “Zhey vill be veak, even vith Enervate Charms. Zhis is anozher potion for stamina,” he handed over an ampul filled with the neon green potion Harry saw the brothers downing earlier. “It vill enable zhem to valk, zough zhey vill likely be useless for many hours. Ve must protect zhem and get zhem to zhe Portkey—ve carry zhem if ve have to.”

“I understand,” Harry offered before repeating back the order of potions and spells. As he finished, Misha shook his great grey head, knocking the empty bucket off his face. Nebojsa scooped it up and began pouring in the rest of the alcohol indiscriminately. He flicked open the ceramic jug and made a face at the odor. Harry could smell the alcohol from two meters away and it wasn't pleasant.

“Cамого́н,” the Serbian muttered under his breath, leaning back as he emptied the brown contents of the jug into the bucket. It smelled something awful. “Homemade from sugar. Srce moje vill kill me... if zhis doesn't kill him first.”

“Syrce moe-yay,” Harry repeated phonetically. “What does that mean?”

Nebojsa threw the empty jug and stood with full bucket in hand, the contents sloshing wildly. He held it up to Dima. Even the huge Aethonon pulled a face before diving in. Misha tried to get his face in, too, but Nebojsa treated him to a forceful shove away each time. He was used to being the referee between the Ionescue brothers, keeping the peace while they squabbled between themselves; they reminded Harry of himself, Hermione and Ron.

The Serb looked over his shoulder at Harry, blue eyes still visible in the darkness.

“Srce moje is sweetness, my heart,” he explained, stroking a hand down the side of Dima's horse-face. “Ti si srce moje,” he told his boyfriend, nuzzling the horse's neck as he gulped the awful-smelling brew that could both protect and kill him.

Harry flinched when another round of orange light lit the villa, trails of smoke heading skyward from the violence out in the streets. He thought he could almost hear the screams on the other side of the Fidelus Charm, the frightened muggles and sirens and gunfire.

“I think we should get ourselves out there,” Harry muttered, scratching at the hairs prickling along the back of his neck. Misha sighed right above his head; Harry felt the heat of that whisky breath as it ruffled his hair, engulfing him in the smell of horse and booze. Dima slurped in his bucket as though he were agreeing. Nebojsa set the bucket on the ground where Dima could dip his head to drink. The Serb cupped his big hands, offering Harry a boost into the saddle. Even with the assistance, Harry barely made it—he slid into the saddle on his stomach. Misha clamped his wing over Harry's leg so he wouldn't slip and fall. Once he had both feet in the stirrups, Misha's feathery grey wings wrapped his legs in a sort of Granian embrace. Not knowing how else to reciprocate, Harry's squeezed back with his knees. He leaned forward until his stomach was flat against Misha's neck, the pommel digging into his gut and his mouth nearer to those twitching, white-tipped ears.

“We're not going to tell Draco about this,” Harry whispered, scratching Misha's neck as though the Animagus were a dog. “Between the danger, the Dark Arts and the technicality of me riding another man—it's just not a good idea.”

Misha gave a whinny that sounded suspiciously like laughter. With a few beats of his mighty wings, Mishenka broke into a heart-thrilling run, propelling himself into the air. It wasn't anything like the lurching flight of a Hyppogriff or even the steely grace of a Thestral. Misha was clearly a horse, all strength and power as he took off like a shot. He fired right up into the air, the wind whipping Misha's mane and Harry's hair. He still held the horse's neck and soon found himself shouting nonsense, squeezing with every fiber of his body and whooping in delight. This was so much better than a broomstick—it rivaled sex! This type of flying was bloody fantastic. At the back of his mind, Harry understood why the Potions Master Ionescue did this supposedly dark and terrible thing to his sons. It was worth it, to fly like this, to be free like this, to be scuffed raw by wind and stars, your stomach beating out a rhythm where your heart should be with each swoop and dive, earth and sky confused in tremendous, tumbling rolls that left you breathless. Dark or light, Harry didn't care—this was magic at its greatest.

Misha snorted, tossing his head from side to side, trying to shake his rider from round his neck.

“Bollocks! Sorry,” Harry said shyly, backing into the saddle. He'd been choking the Granian in his excitement. Misha kicked his legs against the air, causing Harry's bum to bump in the saddle. It was the oddest form of communication he'd ever encountered, this physical jostling, bonking and jerking about... but somehow it worked. As much as he hated the comparison, it was a bit like him and Draco in bed or just around the house. They didn't need words, just looks and smiles and little touches to convey meaning. He didn't want it to be like that with Misha but it was. At least the connection wasn't sexual. Maybe he would avoid Misha in human form after this, just to be sure.

Harry looked back as they soared over the house. Dima was crouched down in the grass as his boyfriend clambered into the saddle, Disillusioning himself with a quick flick of his wand. Harry watched Dima take to the air as his brother had, feathery wings a blur tipped with tan streaks as he launched into the air. Dmitry was a little slower but made up for it in size and incredible, visible power. If muggles could see Dima and Misha soaring through the sky, they would surely think the apocalypse was upon them. Perhaps it was. At any rate, the muggles were about to see for themselves.

The tearing of the Fidelus Charm was visible at the edge of the property, blue and green sparks flying as the magic tore itself apart. Whatever spells the nearby Death Eaters were throwing at it certainly weren't helping the charm's life-span. Car fires lit the surrounding area, dark blobs lying in the cobbled streets—bodies, Harry realized, watching the Dementors glide amongst them, looking for a last scrap of hope to suck from their dying forms.

There were huddles of Death Eaters everywhere, waiting. They seemed to have perimeters that protected them from the Dementors' effects. Harry watched one of the hooded and masked men pull several potion vials from his robes and hand them out amongst his comrades. They opened the vials and dumped the contents on the ground, tendrils of purple smoke curling up around them. The Dementors seemed to detect the smoke and kept away from it. Potions meant one thing to Harry: Severus Snape. Maybe Snape was working with Dima and Misha's father or perhaps he'd developed the brew on his own; either way, he couldn't have warned the Order, couldn't have snuck them some to prove his loyalty? Harry's blood boiled as Mishenka swooped lower and lower, making passes over the courtyard to slow his landing. There was a little crowd gathered, hands pointing and faces turned up toward him. Harry saw a few figures hovering on broomsticks and magic carpets. Fred and George were the easiest to pick out with their flaming hair.

Misha landed lightly in a flutter of wings, snorting and stomping his front hooves, warning the wizards to keep back.

“Harry?!” a familiar voice cried. Auror Williamson was elbowing his way through the crowd, trying to get to Harry.

“They're coming!” Harry shouted, waving his arms to gain everyone's attention. “Any second! Disillusionment Charms and spread out!” He pulled his Invisibility Cloak from his bag and slung it over his shoulders, securing the fastenings as fast as he could before throwing the hood over his head. A few people gasped when he disappeared from sight.

“I've never seen an Invisibility Cloak that good!” one man said in awe.

“Get moving, all of you!” Williamson bellowed, mounting the Cleansweep 3 Fred and George had offered Harry earlier.

“Out of the way!” Harry called, waving his arm emphatically before remembering that no one could see him. “We need a running start.” Misha gave a particularly loud whinny before clamping Harry's legs with his feathery wings, keeping him in the saddle as Misha reared back onto his hind legs, hooves beating the air with menacing force. That got people moving. Harry heard the distinctive beat of Dima's wings above him along with the tell-tale sound of broomsticks taking flight. The air was full of overlapping sounds—the thrum of hurried footsteps, the crackle of fire and magic, the whoosh and swoop of broomsticks and carpets, calls of last-minute instructions and warnings.

As Misha barreled off, Harry glanced back at the spreading clump of Aurors. He watched as Margie and a blonde witch exchange a last hug before darting off to take up positions behind garden fixtures. He also caught sight of Chern, his distinctive tall form standing out against the light of the main doorway, issuing a last set of orders before he and the rest of the Durmstrang boys Disillusioned one another. The spells wouldn't last long once the fighting broke out in earnest but it was a chance at surprising the enemy and Dmitry's crew would take advantage of every available opportunity.

Harry kept his eyes on the crackling film of the Fidelus Charm where Ravenwood ended and the cobbled suburbs of Madrid began. You could see the sparks quite clearly now. The air seemed to shudder, like a tree shedding leaves in a stiff breeze. And then the sparks gave one last heave before falling away, leaving the line of Dementors free to advance.

“Now!” Harry screamed.

Bolts of white-blue flame shot out from all over the garden, all racing in a hot rage for the looming shadow-figures at the villa's entrance. Misha went into a steep dive, allowing Harry to aim his wand over the granian's spotted head. The end of his wand sat square between white-tipped ears. He focused as much as he could while careening toward the dirt at sixty or seventy kilometers an hour and rising. His spell veered left but it was good enough. Misha banked hard, his hooves making clopping contact with the top of a garden trellis before sweeping back into the air, gaining height at an alarming rate. Harry gripped with his knees until the insides of his thighs shook, hunkering down behind Misha's neck before the drag ripped his face off. His lips and cheeks burned from the cold produced by the Dementors. Even the car fires didn't help to banish the chill.

Misha's swoop gave Harry a good view of their results. A few Dementors had made it into the courtyard but there was a damned effective bottleneck at the gate. The blue fire of Eptir Eldr wouldn't burn on the Dementors for long—it seemed to singe the ends of their cloaks and cause them pause but it quickly burnt out and the creatures moved on. Those caught at the gate seemed to be having more trouble. The blue flames stuck to their robes, burning through at an alarming rate. Piercing screams went up, sounding like cries unleashed from hell. The creatures rolled in agony, their fellows simply gliding over them. Apparently there was no loyalty amongst Dementors.

“It vorked!” Nebojsa laughed, throwing his arms around Dima's neck in a hug that rearranged the Aethonan's mane. Misha flew close enough that Harry could scream to make himself heard over the din. Already, a second volley of spells was going off; far less coordinated than the first, but the battle was upon them now.

“What'd you do?” Harry shouted.

“Ve poured all zhe old roofing tar by zhe gate,” Nebojsa explained. The only part of him visible was his wand and it was scanning the ground below, seeking out his next target. “Charmed to be attracted to Dark Magic. It should vork against Inferi, too.”

“Brilliant!” Harry shouted before tapping Misha with his heels. The winged horses took off in opposite directions, nickering loudly as their wings beat in tandem. Harry felt his guts shift as Misha took another dive. He aimed his wand between Misha's ears and took a second shot at the gate. His aim was improving. It wasn't easy to fire Dark spells from the back of a flying horse with Dementors all around. His fingers were numb from the cold and he suspected Misha's alcohol shielding was keeping the Dementor's effects at bay as long as he stayed on the Animagus' back. Harry was thankful the brothers were immune to the Dementor's effects in their magical animal form. Those on the ground weren't as lucky. Wrapping the reigns around his wrists, he buried his freezing fingers in Misha's mane for warmth.

Harry started to see Patroni moving through the courtyard, their ghostly forms bounding through the flowers and bushes, trying to drive the Dementors back as they came crashing through the gate. There were clearly too many Dementors for the number of defenders. There had to be at least twenty of the creatures in the courtyard and perhaps twice as many still out in the street. Harry gripped the pommel of his saddle and leaned back, aiming over Misha's rump.

He closed his eyes and thought of Draco, of the fierce connection he felt even now, worlds away. He thought of the man's smile, the way his eyes crinkled, the pink apples of his cheeks perking when he smiled that special smile. He thought of pale fingers dancing over black and white piano keys, plying every sensitive part of his body with knowing ease; white fingers gathering fists of his black hair, fists of sheets, that dark and glittering ring of promises made now ever upon his finger. He thought of petal soft and creamy skin made slick with sweat and passion, body writhing, voice breaking, begging. He thought of that secret little spot he'd made his own, that tea-stain of a birth mark hidden at the sweetest juncture of ass and thigh. Draco's taste, feel and essence were burned into his mind forever. That was magic.

His spell burst from his wand without words, a great milky stag erupting into the air, taking flight, its legs beating the air as it careened toward battle, driving back darkness like no other Patronus in sight. His stag was bright, a fixture amongst shadows as it gored Dementors with its horns, pushing them back. The other conjured animals worked in its wake, nipping and growling.

Still more shadows poured through the gate, dragging the blue fire with them. It burned up in the grass but remained on their tattered robes, setting them ablaze in lightest blue. The few Eptir Eldr's cast at them didn't seem to have as much effect as the charmed tar—though the spells still burned for a bit, buying their casters time to turn tail and run. The Aurors were driven back about a third of the way into the courtyard.

Two carpets swooped in from opposite roofs, their Disillusioned riders bearing flaming wands. A second later, two rockets took to the sky. Dima and Misha pulled away to avoid the sparks flying. Harry watched the enchanted fireworks of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes explode in a shower of sparks and light. Much like the dragon that had chased Dolores Umbridge through the hallowed halls of Hogwarts, these fiery marvels transformed into phoenixes made of tiny red and orange explosions. The birds swooped gracefully over the battle, a sort of gold powder falling from their wings and dusting the combatants below. Those who were falling prey to the Dementors were suddenly able to stand up and fight back. The gold powder had to be some form of concentrated Cheering Charm.

Fred and George were already readying their second pass, defenders on the upper floors shooting spells to shield them and their carpets. Harry aimed another Eptir Eldr at the entrance, hoping to keep the tar ablaze as long as possible. Dima and Nebojsa appeared to be doing the same, Dmitry's hulking chestnut form making a dive for the gate. The twins shot off another set of rockets, these aimed at the burning street. Harry couldn't see the results beyond the villa's high walls but he could hear the booms and screams. It had to be the same stuff they'd booby-trapped their shop with. Harry suspected all of Madrid could hear! He prayed the muggles would stay away.

Harry urged Mishenka forward for another pass at the gate, Portable Swamp in hand. The contraptions were built like muggle grenades—you pulled the plug and then threw it before the thing exploded all over you. He tossed it into the courtyard, between the fountain and the gate. Anything that made it through the gate would now have some serious bog to deal with.

Someone sent up white sparks from a third floor window: they needed more time. That could be arranged.

Auror Williamson was shouting from the ground, waving his arms at the men in the air to gain their attention. Harry thought about going down but had to consider the amount of space Misha required to get back in the air; it would be a close call, with the Portable Swamp deployed and expanding rapidly. Caught in the bog, they'd be dead for sure. He saw Vadim and Vitya make themselves visible beside Williamson a moment later, not bothering to dismount from their broomsticks. They nodded at his instructions and took to the air, one flying to Dima and the other to the men and women on the third floor.

Orders were shouted from man to man and soon made it to Harry. We can't afford to lose any more ground. Hold steady and buy time.

Fred and George's carpets crossed the estate wall again, dropping another set of their secret weapons on the throng of waiting Death Eaters. There were fewer human screams this time; instead, Harry heard a decidedly un-human screeching. Inferi. Urging Misha higher, Harry was able to see beyond the swamp, making out the ghastly, grayed forms of the animated dead crawling over the wall of burning Dementors. It was a ghastly sight. The Inferi caught fire almost immediately, adding the stink of cooking, decayed human flesh to the sulfur stench of Dementor. Harry yanked the neck of his sweaty tshirt over his mouth and pressed it to his lips with the palm of his hand, afraid he might gag. Apparently Misha felt the same. The Granian swept away from the billowing cloud of smoke; unfortunately, that sweep took them over the estate wall and out above the muggle street.

Harry gasped. There were probably over a hundred Death Eaters in the street below, their white masks glowing orange and yellow in the light of dozens of uncontrolled fires. Most of the grand houses along the lane were in flames. There were no screams going up from the streets—the muggles were already dead, their bodies laid out on the cobblestone wherever they'd fallen.

Misha let out a squeal and banked sharply. Harry flattened himself against the Granian's neck, gripping the pommel and reigns to keep himself seated against the intense pull of gravity. Then Misha pulled up into a steep climb and Harry felt his bum slide back in the saddle, bouncing when he hit the rear lip. The stiff leather dug into him through his clothes even as he tried in vain to hitch himself up in the saddle. They were shooting straight into the air again, an angry scream following them from the street below. Harry risked a glance back to see a Death Eater shaking an angry fist at the sky, pulling at his mask until the fastenings tore and the face covering fell away. The Death Eater's face was red and livid, a trimmed beard rimming his open, bellowing mouth. The man roared, a wordless cry of rage aimed at their retreating backs, his large form surging forward even as his comrades attempted to hold him back, to wait for the main assault. A second later, the man's body began to glimmer and shift.

Mikhail put on a burst of speed Harry would have previously thought impossible; then again, both Granians and Animagus were things of magic. And almost anything was possible when you threw the Dark Arts into the brew. Misha didn't stop squealing as he cleared the roof line and kept right on going. The sound was as close to a scream as horses could get. Dmitry followed so quickly that Nebojsa was nearly unseated—Harry watched his wand shoot forward and tangle in Dima's tan mane, meaning Nebojsa's hands was right there, gripping for dear life.

The Inferi were slowed by the swamp but the Dementors just glided through it, ploughing into the defenders with a vengeance. Harry wished the Durmstrang guys had found more tar and distributed it to the defenders on the ground. Then again, it had been a last-ditch effort. How much time had they had to prepare their defenses, anyway? As little as an hour? They were flying, quite literally, by the seat of their pants. It was a miracle Dima's Dark-Arts-Tar had worked as well as it did. Somehow, Harry just knew it had been Dima's idea. It was the way Nebojsa sounded so proud when he'd explained it. Harry heard Nebojsa a few meters behind him, shouting something in Serbo-Croatian or maybe Romanian as his boyfriend soared after his hysterical baby brother.

Harry stroked Misha's neck, checking behind them. Dima's mass blocked most of his vision but he could make out the form of a scaly Thestral in their wake, it's black wings beating at the smoke-filled sky in hot pursuit.

“Your Dad,” Harry shouted knowingly, hoping Misha could hear him over the din. “I know you're scared but we can't let him get into the villa. There aren't enough Aurors in there to stop him. He's following us, though. If we land in the courtyard, he will, too. I know you won't be able to take off again but neither will he. We'll have him outnumbered on the ground. Are you with me?”

Misha made a little whimper and tossed his head. With a snort, he went into another wide, sweeping turn, passing his intent to his brother in a series of whinnies. Dima's response sounded like the battle-hardened roar of a war horse as he reeled, Nebojsa squawking and hanging on for dear life as the bulk beneath him banked hard. They passed the enraged Thestral in mid-air, Ionescue's eyes bulging and red as he growled at his sons. He snapped his teeth, getting a frightened whinny from Mikhail and an answering scream of rage from Dmitry. From the Aethonan's back, Nebojsa shot a Reductor Curse. It was ultimately useless, Thestral skin impervious to magic, but Harry suspected it was done on principle.

Misha dove for the courtyard, not having time to waste on slow, lowering sweeps as he had before. The goal was to get to the ground as fast as possible. It was a frightening thing to see the ground coming at you that fast. It felt like being on a broomstick about to crash. Harry's stomach gave a nauseated lurch as Mishenka pulled up at the last second, beating his wings and throwing dirt and dust everywhere as his hooves hit the ground with a thud that rattled the nearby fountain. The reverberations knocked over a garden trellis. Harry slid from his back, the saddle pressing into his stomach and lifting up his shirt and cloak as he dismounted. He was righting his clothes when Dima landed like an earthquake beside them. Some of the stones making up the fountain actually bounced and water flew up in the air. Harry felt the thud of it deep in his chest. These boys were frightening.

“The Dementorssss don't effect you outsssside human form,” Nebojsa's disembodied voice hissed from Dima's back. A second later, the Serbian's big dragon hide boots hit the ground beside Harry. His Disillusioned hand gave an audible smack to Dmitry's rump. “Go!” he said. “You too, maza,” and he reached out to whack Misha's speckled backside, too, before making himself visible with a flick of his wand.

“Any idea how we hold this guy off?” Harry asked, reaching into the sack from Fred and George and pulling out half a hit of Peruvian Darkness Powder. He passed it to Nebojsa. The man smiled ruefully, nudging Harry with a hip as their mounts ran off into the fray.

“Ve duel,” he replied simply.

Human screams were slowly taking over the courtyard. The Dementors were slowed but not put at bay. They slowly found victims without adequate protection and began to feed, the pleas of their prey fading out as they lost their souls. Harry saw Margie's blonde friend running from a Dementor and directed his Patronus to help her. There were fewer and fewer Patroni around as the fighting thickened, the air brittle and cold from the swarming Dementors. Harry and Nebojsa stood back to back on the Order's side of the fountain, scanning the battle and the sky.

“He issss coming for ussss,” Nebojsa hissed, raising his wand and taking a fighting stance.

“They're all coming for us,” Harry replied.

The Death Eaters were making their attack. They'd transfigured themselves into all manner of flying animals and were now airborne, sweeping over the estate's walls in a dark mass of feathers. The first bird was a large brown hawk. The creature was an Animagus and began the shift to his human form while still in the air, his feet hitting the ground as the other birds landed around him. He started re-transfiguring his colleagues and soon there were about fifty Death Eaters in one corner of the courtyard, off to the side of the burning entrance and the boggy swamp. They aimed wands and curses in every direction like a Spartan legion shooting their spears out from within a protective cocoon of shields. They scattered vials of the Dementor-repelling potion as they cut a line down the south side of the courtyard.

Harry heard hooves strike the cobblestone behind him and knew it was Ionescue. He chanced a peek around Nebojsa's skinny torso to see the Romanian Potions Master shifting back to human form, his angry hazel eyes settling on Nebojsa's recognizable body no longer concealed by spells.

“I can hold him off,” Nebojsa offered, pushing at Harry's back until the smaller man was forced away. “You head for the main attack.”

“Are you sure?” Harry protested.

Nebojsa's response was to shove him so hard he tripped, falling against the fountain. “GO! You're not the only hero around here.”

Harry couldn't argue with that. So he took off, slipping around the fountain and shooting off a Reductor Curse or Impediment Jinx wherever he could be of use. With the dark cloaks and the smoke, it was hard to tell who was who. The stink of corpses and sulfur was so much worse down here. Harry felt the bile rising up in his throat and knew he'd be throwing up soon.

He saw Chereshko and Dušan engaging the Death Eaters on the ground ten-to-one, Vadim and Vitya supporting them from the air. Fred and George swooped in on their magic carpets, grudges against the Durmstrang fellows forgotten as they pelted their mutual enemies with little pebble-like objects that burst into flame on contact, doing no more damage than singing robes and eyebrows but serving as a distraction during which the men on the ground could strike. The boys were lethal, big meaty fists snapping bones and breaking necks indiscriminately. Dušan, nimble and deadly, landed a rounding kick to a Death Eater's head, bones of the masked attacker's face cracking audibly before he crumpled to the ground with the force of the hit. Harry watched Chern aim his wand with practiced ease, casting a flawless Killing Curse. The Death Eater dropped dead at the tall man's feet. He kept right on fighting—all elbows, teeth and battle cries, throwing as many curses as punches. He went so far as to pull a knife from his dragon hide boot, spilling blood as he went.

Dima's hooves proved almost as effective as Eptir Eldr against the Dementors. He was able to knock them down with his size and weight. There weren't enough Patronus Charms to keep the evil creatures down for long but the delay was enough for the defending witches and wizards to retreat before renewing their attack. Misha stood before the villa's great portress, shielding the door with his bulk, wings outstretched as wounded were carried into the building behind him to be Portkey-ed away. Williamson was down but not out, blood matting his blond hair as he took a knee, leaning against a pillar at Ravenwood's door. The Auror batted away hands that tried to lift him and carry him to safety, instead barking orders and pointing out toward the field with a steely determination.

Harry threw himself into the fray, moving toward the oncoming Death Eaters completely unseen. He aimed his spells low, hitting their legs so that they went down and tripped those behind them. He used every nasty hex he had including Sectumsempra. He aimed carefully, not wanting to hit anyone on his own side with an errant spell. It was much easier to hit one's target with two feet firmly on the ground.

Fred and George's Cheering Powder phoenixes finally died in a great show of light and noise. They burst in a final bang of sparks, one depicting a very inappropriate hand gesture in the sky and the other spelling out in big gold sparkling letters “God Save Harry Potter.”

If Voldemort was out there, they were all fucked.

No matter how many hexes Harry and the defenders let fly, the Death Eaters were making headway. They'd taken the south side of the courtyard, more of them coming over the wall transfigured as birds or under the aid of Levitation Charms. Apparently the Order's Anti-Apparition wards were holding strong. Fred and George pulled the bloodied bulk of Chereshko and Dušan onto their carpets before the foreigners were killed. The Death Eaters dominated the south side of the courtyard and controlled one corner of the fountain, giving them about half of the battleground. A slew of bodies lay in their wake, none Harry could recognize. He ran to Williamson, crouching beside the man and throwing back the hood of his Invisibility Cloak.

“They're gaining too much ground,” Harry told him. “I don't think we can hold much longer.”

“Oh, well, if you think so!” Williamson snapped acerbically, his eyes wide. A trickle of blood oozed sluggishly down his temple. He brushed at it, smearing blood across his cheekbone and into his ear. “The Great Harry Potter thinks we should retreat!”

“We're losing,” said a woman on his other side. Through the dirt covering her features, Harry recognized her as Hestia Jones. She worked in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. The expression on her face said plainly: she'd never seen it this bad. “Harry's right. We need to pull back and preserve life.”

Harry's attention was captured by the sight of Fred, George, Chern and Dušan waving animatedly from a third floor balcony and shooting showers of fat yellow sparks from their wands. They ducked back into the building but not before several more defenders started firing golden sparks, too, running down the halls and aiming their wands out the windows as they went.

“That's the five minute signal,” Hestia told Harry when she read the confusion on his face. “Finally! We can start pulling back to the house. Right. I'm taking over. Hodge!” she called to a man nearby. “Get Williamson down to the cellar. Harry,” she turned to him, “you should grab your fit little friend before he gets himself killed.” She jutted her round chin in Nebojsa's direction.

The young man moved at an almost inhuman speed, his dark head and torso a blur as he dodged curses and fired back in kind. Harry was reminded of the black and white kung fu films he'd seen on tele as a kid—the way Nebojsa moved was stunning, anticipating his opponent's next attack and sidestepping with a sort of liquid-grace ease. There were a few Cruciatus Curses that came too close for comfort but Nebojsa always seemed to move out of the way in the nick of time, rolling through the dirt and springing to his feet, ice-blue eyes in constant motion, taking in and weighing his surroundings. Ionescue's focus was fixed wholly on his enemy, perhaps to his detriment. The man didn't notice anything else around him, all his energy and acuity honed upon the object of his rage—the hard, broken boy with the nerve to fuck Ionescue's perfect pureblood son, the whelp Dmitry betrayed his family to be with.

Nebojsa was an impressive dueler. He held his own. But it was time to get Dima and Misha to some type of safe area where they could shift back to human form and get the hell out of here. Harry stayed low, crouching and sort of waddling his way until he was behind Ionescue.

“Serpensortia,” he whispered, not sure if casting the spell in Parseltongue would make any difference but willing to give it a go. The snake that dropped from his wand was truly massive, dwarfing the boa constrictor he'd released from the Surrey zoo as a kid. This was a pure, deathly black thing, at least eight meters in length and weighing thirty five or forty kilos if the warbling thump it made upon reaching the ground was anything to go by. Several Death Eaters screamed at seeing the thing slither past, jumping away or firing hexes at it. Most of the spells just rebounded off its scales with a little popping sound like a balloon pierced with a needle. Obviously being a Parselmouth had a positive effect on this particular spell, Harry noted.

“There,” he hissed, pointing to Ionescue and hoping the serpent would understand his intent from under the safety of his Invisibility cloak. “Attack that one. Leave the other speaker be.”

“Yesssssss,” the conjured thing hissed happily, slithering forward, its great body moving soundlessly through the grass. Harry fired silent stunners at anyone who came close to it. Ionescue had no idea what was coming.

Nebojsa threw up an impressive Light Shield, blocking a particularly strong nonverbal hex. When he saw the snake rearing up behind Ionescue, a smile split his face. It wasn't a handsome grin but a violent one, full of vengeance and rage. Wand poised in what Draco called “the old style,” a grandiose form for dueling—wand hand raised high over his head and his other arm thrown out for balance—his thin lips contorted as he hissed.

“Fuck you.”

The snake struck, taking a fanged bite from Ionescue's side. Harry hoped a conjured snake could be poisonous.

Several Death Eaters came running at Ionescue's blood-curdling scream, casting Dementor-repelling potion in a wide circle around the man. Their potion seemed to wear off as it dried in the dirt because they kept throwing more down wherever they stood, plumes of purple smoke erupting from the blood-soaked ground.

The snake was coiling around Ionescue even as they hit it with every manner of burning and cutting incantations, all of which had little effect. The man's choked screams became more wet and burbling as the seconds dragged on. It seemed like Nebojsa was content to stand there and watch the twisted fuck of a man die. Harry didn't have the patience for vengeance tonight—it was time to get out with their lives. He whistled for Misha and Dima, sprinting to Nebojsa and taking him by a long, muscled arm. Beneath Harry's hand, the man twitched. His skin was thin, bluish veins raising river-like bumps along the length of his forearms.

“Two minutes,” Harry hissed, dragging the struggling man away from the knot of Death Eaters gathering around Ionescue. “We have to get Dima and Misha somewhere safe before the Order runs out of Portkeys.”

Nebojsa nodded once, taking Harry's hand in his and running to meet their mounts. They ducked behind a line of Aurors making their stand. Dima greeted his partner with a wet lick to his cheek, hooves covered in blood and the stink of Inferi. Misha swept in to lick Nebojsa's other cheek, reminding Harry of how he himself had been kissed before the battle. It was rather sweet that these big, frankly frightening men were so openly affectionate with each other. They felt like a family—Dima and Nebojsa like any happy young couple with Misha as their adopted son. You just got a good feeling from them, even in the middle of a battlefield ripe with death and destruction. It was possible he and Nebojsa had just killed their father—and they were being kissed.

Wiping the horse spittle from his cheeks, Nebojsa came to offer Harry a boost into the saddle.

“Hold on,” Harry cautioned, holding up a hand even as he doubled over, falling against a nearby column. The rancid smell of burning Inferi and the metallic, sulfurous stench of charred Dementor proved a potent cocktail—and it was really getting to him. Every breath he took was worse than the last, the taste caught in the back of his throat. He needed to get it out. “I think I'm gonna be sick.”

“Harry, ve don't have time—”

Nebojsa surged forward the next instant, gathering Harry's cloak and holding it aside as The Chosen One lost it in the nearest flower pot. Nebojsa stroked his back with a warm hand, staying close as the horses formed a protective perimeter with their huge bodies.

“Get it out,” Nebojsa cooed in a hiss, the sound oddly comforting, mouth near Harry's ear and rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades as he heaved his guts out. “You're not the firssst of ussss to be ssssick. Nor will you be the lassssst tonight.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed when it was over, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Cheers, eh?” He really wished he knew the nonverbal incantation Draco used to clean his mouth after oral. It would have been nice right about then. A moment later, Nebojsa cast the spell for him. That disconcerting scrubbing sensation suffused his mouth, ridding him of the taste of vomit and leaving everything squeaky clean and fresh as a daisy, if rather vigorously scoured. He worked his jaw for a second before accepting Nebojsa's hand up.

“I prefer we do thissss outsssside a pub nexsssst time,” the Serbian commented, brushing ash and dirt from Harry's knees before dragging him over to Misha. “And under generic conditionsssss. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Harry smirked, allowing himself to be hoisted into the saddle like a girl; thin strong hands at his waist and then pushing at his thighs, sliding him around until his rump was situated properly in the worn leather grooves. Dima folded his legs under him, getting his bulk as low to the ground as possible so Nebojsa could jump on. The Serb took a handful of Dima's mane and smacked his generous hindquarters with a smile. The subtle familiarity of the gesture told Harry beyond a doubt who was the top in their bedroom. He could have done without the knowledge—but at the same time, knowing made him feel like part of the twisted little family, in on the secret. He held tight as Misha took off at a gallop behind his brother, Nebojsa blasting a hole in the villa's wall with a well-aimed Reductor Curse and Harry firing at anything dumb enough to stand in their way. The winged horses ploughed through the opening in the wall and took to the sky a few meters beyond, wings flapping and hexes running off them like water. Harry and Nebojsa would have been dead thirty times over had they been on broomsticks. The magic of the Animagus form had saved their lives... and it was about to potentially kill the brothers for their efforts.

“Where are we going?” Harry shouted. The Death Eaters who had remained on the streets were tearing through the villa's front wall, using magic to throw great hunks of stone out into the street. Burning cars were crushed by the flying debris, dead bodies crunched with sick squelching and popping sounds that made Harry's mercifully empty stomach churn all over again. Nebojsa just pointed toward the villa. Misha was turning as gently as possible, knowing Harry's guts were still queasy. He stroked the young man's grey neck, knowing he wouldn't be a horse for much longer and it would be odd to do this later.

They set down in the back yard where Chern, Dušan, Vadik and Vitya had set up a sort of perimeter along with two of the witches who had been assisting Healer Purlish. Harry readied his stock of potions as Misha swooped closer to the ground. The boy was going just slow enough not to make Harry lose his chips all over again but the descent was still dizzying. Harry buried his face in Misha's silvery white mane and prayed for it to be over soon.

Hooves met the dirt with a heavy thud and Harry dismounted, throwing a leg over Misha's rump and dropping the distance to the ground. Two pairs of hands were there to catch and steady him, strong faces smiling at him as they removed the saddle and tack with practiced skill. Dima touched down a moment later, forced to take a more circular path of descent owing to his larger wingspan and significant weight difference. Nebojsa slid from Dima's back, red syrup potion in hand. Harry slipped around to Misha's front, giving the white patch along his nose one last fond stroke. Dušan and Vitya backed away with the saddle and reigns in hand, signaling that it was time to put a stop to the functioning of Misha's poor abused liver. With a quick confirming nod from Nebojsa and an understanding nudge to the shoulder from Misha's nose, Harry uncorked the potion and dumped it into the Granian's waiting mouth.

You didn't see the effects of the potion right away. At first, Misha just stood there, his tail flicking lazily from side to side as he looked at Harry with glassy black eyes. Then those eyes went blank and he tumbled to the ground, landing hard on his side. Vitya scrambled out of the way, hoisting the saddle over his brawny shoulder. Apparently it was a good one and they planned to keep it. Misha's body started to make that squelching, gloppy noise like too-thick porridge stirred with a spoon. His form shifted, mutated, the air around him bending as his body returned to its normal state. He was lying on his side with his thick fingers splayed over his face, not quite unconscious, eyelids fluttering madly as he fought his grip on reality. He took two handfuls of grass and attempted to push himself up onto his knees. That was what knocked him out, his muscular torso falling back to the earth with enough force to crack his back. Dušan dropped to his knees and helped Harry right the young man onto his hands and knees, using a series of foreign spells Harry didn't recognize to hold his fourteen stone and fix him in place.

“Here goes...” Harry muttered. He could already hear Nebojsa casting the spell in rapid succession and the unmistakable sound of Dima, fully conscious, groaning as he puked his ruddy guts out. “Epicus.”

Misha's body did the work for him, expelling only liquid alcohol. It was too bad magic couldn't remove what had already metabolized into their bloodstreams. That would be a sure way to prevent their dying each time they had to change back rapidly like this. Harry cast the spell again, and again, and again. It was easier with Misha unconscious. Harry could hear Dima's quiet pleading a few meters away, begging his love to stop hurting him, to leave him here to die.

“Ne,” Nebojsa responded forcefully. “Niet. Epicus.”

Chern had an eye on his watch—licking his thumb, wiping blood from the face to see the second hand more clearly. He called out when it had been thirty seconds since the red potion was ingested... one minute, a minute thirty seconds, two minutes and still Misha was releasing more liquid with each casting of the spell. The Mediwitches were looking more and more nervous, one wringing her hands and the other with her wand out, ready to act should they hit the three minute mark. Harry wasn't sure what the witches thought they could do. Nothing the Durmstrang run-aways couldn't. After three minutes, damage to the liver would be irreversible.

Harry Vanished the mess and cast the spell again. Two minutes and thirty seconds. He caught the sound of wet bucket-fulls pouring from Dima while only a thin trickle escaped Misha's lips. His unconscious body coughed horribly, shaking in the magical restraints holding him up on his hands and knees. Harry cast the spell again, relieved when nothing came back but a dry, wracking cough. Vitya did the Vanishing Spell while Harry fiddled with the cork on the powder blue potion. He got it open and Vitya released his holding spell. Misha dropped like a corpse—because he practically was one. Harry managed to roll him over and cradle the boy's head in his lap, pouring the potion down his gob and massaging his tanned throat until it all went down.

He cast an Enervate and Misha gasped, grabbing Harry's hand so hard he should've had broken fingers. Misha rolled to his side and coughed violently, flecks of blood coming up to splatter bright red against the grass. Harry stroked the boy's back as Nebojsa had done to him, whispering, “It's okay. You're fine. You did great, Mishenka. Just try to breath.” Harry's hand fumbled around in the grass, looking for the last neon ampule that would give the fellow some of his energy back. It was hard to see Mikhail this way: Harry was very much aware that he was just a boy of fifteen with no one in the world except his big brother and their band of friends.

“Three minutes!” Chern was screaming above them. “Now or never!”

Dima was sick one last time. Then Nebojsa, whispering what could only be a prayer, poured the blue potion down his partner's throat.

Harry couldn't imagine having to do something like that to Draco—or worse, asking Draco to do it to him. He didn't want to think about it. Nebojsa had to cast the Reviving Spell twice before Dmitry began to breath. A cheer went up from the Mediwitches hovering over him. Nebojsa allowed the women cast a few spells but kept his boyfriend firmly in his arms, barrel-chested body tucked in his lap and planting kisses along a sweaty forehead. Harry caught srce moje along with many other endearments and probably a few curses at how stupid Dima was for agreeing to something like this in the first place. Harry understood, though. He, too, would do anything to protect the people he loved. It usually didn't involve turning into a horse, drinking two gallons of grain alcohol only to puke it all up when returned to human form, but he would do such a thing in the blink of an eye if it kept Draco safe. He was prepared to do far worse.

“Better?” Harry asked the head in his lap, stroking Misha's clean-shaven cheek. “Think you can walk?”

Misha said something in Russian that made his friends laugh and reach for his hands, dragging him to his feet and taking his weight. A hand appeared beside Harry's face, stubby fingers waggling, dirt and grime worked into the creases and under nails. Harry looked up to see Yura's kind face, his healthy black beard singed in places, shirt collar charred black at one side.

“Yuri! Where've you been?” Harry asked, accepting his hand and the brawny lift to his feet. “I was worried.”

Yura clapped him on the back. “I vos vorking zhe vards vith dédülya Gregorovich.” He pointed, guiding Harry's eyes to an elderly couple standing by the trap door leading down to the cellar. They looked very worn and worried. The man had a long white beard which he twiddled with one hand, waving his wand with the other as he cast constant spells to monitor the safety of the area. He had to be the wandmaker Pavel Gregorovich, famed maker of Viktor Krum's wand. Harry suspected the old gentleman was the creator of many of the Durmstrang boys' wands, as well. It was good to know the Order was now protecting a person like him. He could prove an immeasurable asset in the war. And he was very lucky to have his wife with him, her own wand to hand and a shrewd expression on her thin face that reminded Harry of Professor McGonagall with the way she tied her hair back and pressed her lips to a thin, colorless line, tongue darting out as she concentrated on the magic of the wards.

“Do you know him well?” Harry asked, indicating the wandmaker. Harry and Yuri watched Misha limp his way to the cellar door. It wasn't long before he collapsed and Vitya took the boy on his back, carrying the younger chap the rest of the way.

Yuri's hand tightened on Harry's shoulder, his gaze fixed somewhere far away in time rather than space.

“I vos about to marry his granddaughter vhen zhe Dark Lord returned. She's been missing... vosn't in zhe main prison vhere ve found Nebojsa. No one has heard from her i zhe family vos too afraid to look.”

“I'm so sorry,” Harry offered. What else was there to say?

“Yuri Batushansky lives. If I breathe, I will find her.”

Any question of whether theirs was an arranged marriage burned away at that statement. It was clear that Yura had run from the Death Eaters with one purpose in mind—finding his fiancée.

Dmitry gave a groan as he was lifted from the ground. All conversation ceased as the remaining men ran to his side, elbowing out the Mediwitches to apply their own brand of healing spells. Dima quickly fell into magic-induced stupor, his friends lifting him by legs and shoulders and shuffling toward the cellar. Pavel Gregorovich was waving his arm, shouting encouragements in Russian as his wife cast spells to reinforce whatever protection they'd erected around the back yard. A few banged-up Aurors came spilling out the villa's back door, firing spells into the house before slamming and sealing the door.

“That's everyone! Move! Move!” one of them, a woman, screamed. “They're right on top of us!”

Harry could see a snowy wind whistling through the cracks in the old door, signaling that there were Dementors on the other side. The woman made it away from the door but one of her companions wasn't so lucky, succumbing to the dread of the creatures' power and falling to his knees, weeping. Harry shot off a new Patronus Charm. It wasn't as strong as his usual but still corporeal, if faint. His stag charged right through the door, driving the Dementor back. The woman pulled her sobbing friend by the arm, all but dragging him to the trap door at the side of the house leading down to the cellar. She pushed him down the stairs before disappearing herself.

“Yuri, can you cast some Dark Arts on the door?” Harry asked, jogging to the cellar door and waiting his turn to clamber down. Yura gave him a really weird look, his wild, bushy eyebrows creeping up his round, bearded face. “Anything strong enough for Eptir Eldr to burn through. Maybe we can collapse the doorway and buy some time.”

“Fine,” Yura shrugged, holding Mrs. Gregorovich's frail, bony hand and assisting her down the stairs with the clear and gentle care of a grandson. His lower half in the underground stairwell, he popped his head back up through the hatch. Harry, Yura and Chereshko were left as the rear guards, everyone else having made it down into the cellar. Yura directed his wand toward the house's back door as Chern shoved Harry down the hatch, preparing to slam the trap doors shut behind them. The bearded Moldovan muttered a spell under his breath that set the entire doorway glowing a sickly green. Chereshko let out a throaty laugh and jangled the chains on the cellar doors, as if to say excellent work but let's hurry it up. We've got a Portkey to catch.

Harry closed his eyes and focused, worried the last of his strength wouldn't be enough. Then he felt a hand on each of his shoulders—the men preparing the cast the same spell at either side. Between the three of them, it would be more than enough. Harry let that confidence build along with the power, letting it swirl around inside his head until he was dizzy. With a hiss of Parseltongue, he loosed the magic. It struck the door with a clap like a lightning bolt, the roar of burning Dark Magic coming an instant later. Yuri sacked Harry round the middle, hauling him down the stairs as Chern slammed the door above their heads before they were pelted by falling debris. The center point of the U-shaped house was collapsing. The middle would go and hopefully the wings, too, crushing any Death Eaters who had entered the place before its mighty demolition.

Chern recited a sing-song sort of spell that caused the chains to weave around the door handle before fusing together, forming a solid chunk of metal any Death Eater would have a time blasting through. Yuri carried Harry slung over his shoulder like a child. Harry couldn't care less. He was bone weary, having fought and panicked and puked until there was nothing left inside. He was numb, bouncing against the flexing muscles of Yura's shoulder as they raced down the low stone corridor. The place smelled of dryness and dust, like the wine cellar back at Grimmauld Place.

Harry's eyes were sliding closed by the time Yura set him right on his feet. They were in a large chamber with Williamson and a dozen other bloodied and bruised Aurors, all the members of the Durmstrang gang plus Mr. and Mrs. Gregorovitch and the Mediwitches still fawning over Dima stretched out on the floor and coughing up irregular gobs of blood. The women weren't keen to be pushed away by a growling Nebojsa but had little choice when the steel-eyed Serb turned a wand on them with a hiss of Parseltongue for good measure. Dmitry and his boyfriend were given a Portkey to themselves. Random objects were passed around, mostly wine bottles and bits of scuff found around the house. Harry was paired up with Mishenka, Vitya and Vadik. They set their Portkey, an old bookend in the shape of family crest, on Misha's chest and each man put a hand to it, making sure Misha had a firm grip by placing their hands over his own. They were bombarded by regular cascades of dust falling from the ceiling as the house came crashing down above them. The otherworldly screeches of Inferi and Dementors could be heard through the layer of stone between them. The ceiling shook.

Williamson was counting down on his digital wristwatch.

“Ten seconds, everyone,” he wheezed.

“Pray zhe ceiling holds,” Dmitry muttered between wracking wet coughs. Almost everyone laughed at that.

“Five, four, three, tw—”

Perhaps a mechanism in the Auror's watch had been damaged in the battle. Perhaps the thing just ran a few seconds fast to keep the bossy wizard on his toes. Or maybe the Porkey's creator made a cock up during hurried mass-production; either way, Williamson's dusty wine bottle took him two seconds too soon. Everyone took a collective breath, nervous glances all around, wondering if they were stranded or about to be transported, too.

And then the Portkeys kicked in, dragging them all by that familiar jerking of the navel, off to God-Knows-Where—also called, as Harry would learn in a few minutes, Ráisduottarháldi, a thoroughly unpronounceable and (not at all surprising) sparsely populated area in one of the national forests of northern Norway. All Harry processed upon arrival was the freezing temperature, imposing mountains, and large fire before him with half a dozen witches and wizards huddled about, circulating Warming Charms and conjured biscuits.

He didn't notice the Minister of Magic among them, or Shacklebolt, Charlie, Remus and Tonks, but they were there just the same. He hardly took note of the network of campfires burning in clumps all along the mountainside, erected under a bubble of Repello Muggletum that stretched well over three kilometers.

All he saw was a warm biscuit and a particularly fluffy pile of leaves with his name all over them. He collapsed beside the fire, sucking on a conjured chocolate biscuit until his eyelids drooped and his mouth fell open. Drooling, he began to snore. Nebojsa conjured him a blanket and Misha stole his soggy biscuit.

He was awakened by prodding a few hours later when a Healer wanted to give him potions to heal cuts and bruises he wasn't aware he had. Harry swallowed the potion anyway and then sat up, wrapping the heavy blanket around his shoulders and peering around, picking a leaf out of his glasses.

Everyone certainly looked like they'd survived a war. He saw familiar faces, some he could put names to but most he knew only by their shouts of terror or the way they'd narrowly escaped a Dementor's Kiss. Margie Gweir and her pretty blonde friend both offered him a friendly wave from a few fires over. Tonks patted him on the head as she passed, plucking a few leaves out of his hair before conjuring blankets to tuck around the dozing Gregorovitchs. The Minister kept shooting Harry unreadable looks from the next fire over. Harry prayed the man would keep his political motives to himself for the night. From what Harry could glean from fire-gossip, the Ministry was completely destroyed and only pockets of employees had survived. The good news was that Hogwarts and Beaubatons were untouched, as was Hogsmeade. No one spoke about the other Order locations per-say, but Harry gathered that the folks at Shell Cottage and another safe house called Asher's End had done well for themselves and reported only injuries and no casualties.

The Minister was conferring with what remained of his team, trying to devise a strategy to run the country without any type of backing, facility or resources. Harry rolled his eyes and tuned out the bureaucracy, leaning over to check on a sleeping Misha and then conferring with Nebojsa to get himself up to speed on the important things. Forty-some of approximately one hundred twenty defenders of Ravenwood were dead or unaccounted for. Everyone from the Spanish villa had evacuated to this location as well as a sizable portion of Ministry survivors. Hiding out at the far reaches of the globe, they would be bear food long before they were discovered by Voldemort and his Death Eaters. To combat the rather pressing presence of Norwegian wildlife, a watch group was established to patrol the perimeter in shifts. If there were no disturbances during the night, they expected to move out by morning, the Ministry and “unnamed underground faction” going their separate ways like ill-paired lovers the morning after a drunken roll in the proverbial hay. Granted, both the Minister and Nebojsa put it in far more polite terms but the comparison held true, especially when spouted from Dima's haggard lips across the campfire. Still feeling the ill effects of the massive amount of alcohol lubricating his system, the poor fellow couldn't keep anything more than biscuits and water down but was excellent for conversation to pass the time.

Harry dug some fresh clothes from his bag and changed hurriedly beneath his blanket. Misha was awake soon and, feeling back to his old self, made a ready and pleasant contributor to their fireside chat.

Yura disappeared for three quarters of an hour, returning with a dozen dead rabbits which the Durmstrangers set about skinning and disemboweling, skewering the carcases on sticks and roasting them over the fire. Harry was thankful for the cooked meat the men offered him, though he could have done without the gory knowledge of where it came from.

After their campfire dinner, Vadik transfigured a leaf into a harmonica and the men launched into a Serbian song that quickly made Nebojsa red in the face. It had a lot of that “Bog te jebo” phrase Dima had used to upset his boyfriend in the past, plus a host of new phrases Harry had overheard in battle. Once the song was underway and the actual Serbian among them was pointedly ignoring it, Harry leaned in to ask a question.

“I keep hearing kuratz. What does that mean?”

Nebojsa sighed heavily. Harry watched him swallow, the cross on his neck shifting with the movement of his throat. In answer, he took both hands and gestured stiffly to his crotch. Apparently, it meant “dick.”

“And u pitchku materinu?” Harry pressed his luck. That phrase was at the end of every other sentence of this song—it seemed to be a key factor and Harry's curiosity had always been a major weakness.

“You must never say zat,” Nebojsa cautioned, putting a hand on Harry's knee. “You're a nice man. Nice men don't say zat.”

“Dima says that all the time,” Harry pointed out.

“Srce moje is not a nice man,” Nebojsa shook his head, smiling across the fire at his peaked boyfriend nibbling on a conjured biscuit.

“But what does it mean, though?”

“I don't know how to ssssay it in English,” Nebojsa admitted in Parseltongue, folding his large hands in his lap and leaning back against the rock behind him. “It is ssssomething like 'return to your mother's hole' or 'have ssssex with your mother.' Ssssssomething like that. It doesss not translate well.”

“So u pitchku materinu is 'motherfucker.' U pitchku materinu,” Harry repeated, louder. The phrase rolled quite easily off the tongue; plus, it was plain-old fun to say. Nebojsa rolled his eyes as the rest of his foreign crew let out a cheer, urging The Chosen One to say it again or to parrot other, more obscene phrases. Misha laughed, holding his stomach. Even Dima chuckled, winking at Harry across the fire.

“Maybe you're not such a nice man, Harry Potter,” Nebojsa muttered under his breath, shooting Harry a dirty look from beneath his long, dark lashes.

“That's what I keep telling people,” Harry offered with a shrug. “It's just that no one believes me.”
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Conscience