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
- 33
- 34
- 35
SUMMARY: Point A, have you met Point B?

CONSCIENCE:

BERETTA –

JOB

Why is light given to a man whose way is hidden and whom God hath hedged in?

For the thing which I greatly feared has come upon me. That which I was afraid of is come unto me.

I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet; yet trouble came.

The Book of Job, 3:23-26

There wasn't much they could do in the middle of nowhere. Everyone seemed to know it.

The atmosphere was restless come dawn. As soon as the sun rose over the snowy mountains, there was a flutter of planning and activity. Members of the Order of The Phoenix moved between shivering huddles and rekindled campfires, passing word that there would be a strategy meeting at Hogwarts that afternoon. Those with no safe place to go were advised to remain here in the woods and travel by Portkey to Hogsmeade when the time came. Those lucky enough to have a place to call home were free to disperse but encouraged to attend the meeting via Apparating to the old wizarding town. The Floo Network had fallen into the Dark Lord's hands, so the only safe ways to travel were by Portkey, Apparition or muggle means. And, as they were at least a day's walk from any type of civilization, magical means were highly recommended. The Ministry was trying to establish a place for staff members and their families to retreat to. Professor McGonagall would set up another meeting for those wishing to join the Order, probably run by Kingsley Shackelbolt. Harry suspected his presence would be desired at such a meeting. It only added to the cold weight in his chest despite his warm conditions.

Harry was huddled under several thick blankets, he and Nebojsa playing the part of meat and cheese in an Ionescue sandwich. They lay wrapped in camp blankets on a bed of leaves and dirt but at least they were warm. And safe. And alive. Harry sighed, watching answering puffs of breath rise into the air from either side. They were awake but, until there was somewhere to go, it made sense to stay put and conserve energy. Plus, the body heat was awfully nice.

Yuri bent down beside them, his beard trimmed short to compensate for the clumps singed off the night before. He shook Nebojsa by the shoulder to get his attention, telling him something in a slur of foreign whispers before hurrying off to confer with the rest of their little group. Pretty soon the burly men were all nodding and stretching, getting up from their bedrolls and casting Cleaning Charms at their sleepy mouths. Dmitry wrapped an arm around Nebojsa's waist, mumbling a question in his boyfriend's ear. When the Serb nodded, Dima made a proclamation loud enough for his friends to hear. Everyone voiced their agreement in mutters, nods and grunts. Dima extended his warm arm in a reach for Harry, touching his hip to get his attention.

“Ve go vith Gospodin i Gospoja Gregorovich to get supplies for zhis afternoon,” he explained. Nebojsa licked a broad stripe across his palm before reaching up and flattened a section of his boyfriend's auburn hair. It stuck wildly from his head in all odd directions. Dima ignored his boyfriend's ministrations; his large, owlish eyes fixed on Harry. The man looked pretty darn handsome with his hair all messed up, bits of leaves and broken twigs stuck to the shoulders and back of his Henley shirt. Nebojsa's nimble fingers quickly brushed the debris away. “Vill ve see you zhere?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, forcing his brain to finish waking up. “I was thinking of heading out early. I'd like to see... you know,” he shrugged, being careful not to mention Hogwarts or Draco. You couldn't be sure who was listening, though he was sure the Durmstrang boys had set ample wards around their campsite. “Where will you guys go? I mean—after.”

“Gospodin Gregorovich vill need help vith some of his ozher duties, of course,” Nebojsa smiled. “And ve know how to make ourselves useful, don't ve?” he aimed the last of that statement at Misha, still lying down on Harry's other side.

“Da,” the baby of the family rolled his eyes before getting up from their makeshift bed, using his wand to spell the wrinkles out of his layered muggle clothes. He wore pajama bottoms under his denims—Harry spotted the plaid material and drawstring waist when the boy stretched, yawning. Waking up in the middle of the woods didn't appear to phase him in the slightest. Scratching at the black shadow of stubble building on his neck, he drew out his wand and cast a quick Heating Charm over his face and hands.

Harry was suddenly struck with an idea. He sat up, looking at all the strong, whiskered faces around him. “If you guys need a place to go, you're welcome to crash at my house,” he offered. “I don't know how much I'll be there but... I mean, it's safe. I have a house elf and plenty of spare bedrooms. You guys can't expect to fight when you're sleeping outside every night.” He flicked a leaf off the wooly blanket still covering himself and the happy couple.

“Ve vouldn't vant to inconvenience—” Chereshko began. Harry cut the tall man off with a wave of his hand.

“No. I'd be glad for the company. Stop by any time.”

When the guys agreed, Harry took them on a walk to find Remus Lupin. The disgruntled werewolf was less than pleased to be woken up so early—it wasn't that close to the full moon, so Harry suspected he was just cranky. A night spent in the woods was fine for teenagers (though Harry suspected a few of the Durmstrang guys were a little older), but it must have been hard on the older magical folk, the sick and the injured. The wheezened old Mediwizard was making rounds with the Healers, handing out a few potions and offering herbs for people to put in their tea.

Remus perked up when Harry plied him with a steaming mug of coffee pressed into his hands by Sturgis Podmore not a minute before. Caffeinated, Remus accompanied Harry and his friends into the woods to speak the name of Grimmauld Place, allowing them entrance past the Fidelus Charm. After, the wrinkled werewolf thanked the Ionescues for their assistance at Ravenwood. Apparently the whole camp knew it was the two strapping Romanian brothers who had transformed into giant winged horses in aid of Harry Potter, seeing them all to safety at great personal peril. Each time someone thanked them, one of the brothers would point out that it was a group effort and not a one of all those camping here would have survived without a kind stranger to lean on. Women fell in love with the foreign crew left and right—between their friendship with Harry Potter, being heroes in their own right, their faces and forms devastatingly handsome and those thick, drop-dead sexy accents...well, even a mostly-straight bloke like Harry found it understandable. Eventually Dmitry grabbed Nebojsa and kissed him, long and steamy, right on the lips and with ample tongue in front of an ogling crowd. While the gesture certainly got the message across—that neither of them were on the market—Harry got the feeling it was also about honesty. Dima and Nebojsa wouldn't hide what they had. After all, they'd given up absolutely everything to be together. The mountainside buzzed with gossip after their passionate display, making Harry suspect Draco had exaggerated the commonality of homosexuality amongst magical people. Then again, this wasn't really a pureblood crowd. The Durmstrangers were probably the purest wizard blood for miles. The boys escorted Harry off into the woods beyond the camp's protective shields so he could Apparate safely to Hogsmeade.

He warned them about Kreacher—mostly to ignore the batty elf and not tell it anything. Harry summoned the thing, just to be sure, telling the house elf each man's name and that he was to be allowed to move freely in or out of Grimmauld Place. Harry was taken back to learn Chereshko's surname: Toleanu. It could be a common-enough name but, given his attractiveness, magical aptitude and friendship with the Ionescue family, it was entirely possible that Chern had been the third man with Draco and Vuk on the Durmstrang ship back in fourth year. Chern had been with Draco—slept with Draco. Was he the one strapped to the mast or had Draco fucked.... Harry forced himself to swallow against the dryness building at the back of his throat, felt his eyes go wide as he blinked against the fuzzy edges invading his vision. That was three years ago, right? And Draco was with him now. Chern hadn't made any ovations toward his dragon—aside from the two bowls of kush, but that was just Draco, right? If he smiled at you that way, you'd promise him your first born to keep that glow on his cheeks. Harry couldn't blame anyone for wanting to touch his blonde when the man went all gorgeous like that. Poor Chereshko. He'd kept his hands to himself, though, and that put him irrevocably on Harry's good side. Anyone with that kind of self-control was nothing short of a saint—an Orthodox saint, in Chern's case. Harry summoned a smile. These guys weren't the enemy.

When Kreacher departed with a mutter and a snap, Misha saw fit to inform Harry that his elf was on its last legs and he should consider putting it down and acquiring a new one. Harry rolled his eyes. One of these days. He hoped he and Draco could get a new house elf together—the blond probably knew all about these things. Harry heaved a sigh, shaking hands and kissing whiskery cheeks all around before Apparating away. Even with plans to meet again in a few hours' time, they weren't taking anything for granted.

Hogwarts was its usual riot of color, the October air crisp and cool in his lungs as he stood on the terrace outside the Head Boy's chambers. It didn't hurt his mood that the bed he'd slept in all afternoon wreaked of Draco. He could smell his boyfriend on his skin even now, feel the press of his lips from that very morning. After his initial, dismal meeting with Professor McGonagall, he'd needed to rest again. She said it was the fatigue of the battle catching up with him and that a few hours of dodgy sleep in the woods had only exacerbated his condition. She offered to make excuses to the Order on his behalf if he wanted to have a proper rest. In his mind, Harry called it for what it was—molly-coddling of The Boy Who Lived. He accepted her offering of a Dreamless Sleep Potion just the same, afraid of what he might see when he closed his eyes.

In the distance, he could make out a dark knot of people winding their way toward Hogsmeade village. He'd hoped to catch Dima and Misha at the meeting and suggest that, when they were well enough, they meet with the Thestral heard in the Forbidden Forest and see if anything unusual was going on there. He couldn't afford to underestimate either their father or Voldemort—if it was possible to sneak into Hogwarts through the dangerous forest, the Dark Lord would find a way to do it. Harry wanted as much as anyone to see Hogwarts secure.

He ducked back into Draco's room, thinking to grab the Firebolt and fly out to catch the men on their way out; however, as soon as Harry entered the rouge chamber he was faced with the familiar clanking suit of armor that was Sir Cadogan.

“Halt there, good sir!”

“Oh,” Harry started. He almost groaned, “it's you,” but somehow restrained himself with a fake, toothy smile. “What is it?”

“A rough collection of scurvy wags at the door, Sir Potter, who claim an acquaintance with thee. Shall I give chase t—” Already, the fool painting was brandishing his sword.

“Please let them in,” Harry corrected, checking his appearance. He'd donned a pair of Draco's most casual trousers with his own blue shirt he'd discovered in the trunk. Apparently Draco was hoarding his clothes, now. Harry confirmed that his fly was up and his shirt buttoned correctly. The trousers were tight enough that he didn't need a belt—Draco's tastes, to be sure, but they fit and Harry didn't feel like running around in a school uniform if he didn't have to. He stoked the fire, adding another log before sweeping up the errant ashes with a Vacuuming Spell. He heard the men's heavy footsteps on the other side of the stone wall and went to the door to greet them.

There was a mass of dark and foreboding staring back at him, all drawn cloaks and shadowed faces raking over his form. Only the lingering scent of wood smoke, whisky and clove cigarettes identified his eastern comrades. Nebojsa cut an imposing figure at the fore, clad in traditional black wizarding robes, high-collared to hide his tattoo and an old-fashioned hood draped to obscure his long nose and that sharp raptor's gaze. Harry only identified the man by the thin-set line of his mouth. The rest of the men were a sea of brown and tan wool, packs slung over their massive shoulders and hoods up to save them from recognition, even here at Hogwarts. They obviously didn't believe the castle had been properly vetted for Dark sympathizers and were keeping their guard up. Harry threw the door open, ushering them in without a word.

Once divested of their outer robes and bags it was all strong handshakes and hearty kisses once more, Nebojsa and Chereshko catching him on both cheeks. Harry suspected it had something to do with the regions they were from. Some of the boys always went for his right cheek, others his left, leaving Harry to do an awkward little dance of anticipation on the balls of his feet, waiting for each taller man to strike at him with stubble and dry, pursed lips. He didn't know enough about each individual's background to detect the pattern. Dmitry was last. Wrapping both meaty arms around Harry's shoulders in a fond and ardent hug, he held Harry's head to his chest until a steady heartbeat thrummed in The Chosen One's ears. Dima kissed the top of his head before inquiring about his health and Draco's, steering his short friend to a squashy leather armchair closest to the fire. Dima seated himself at the piano bench, every other available seat save the bed being taken. Everyone wanted to sit by the heat source—or by Harry. Yuri and Dušan were absent, probably with the new “boss,” Gregorovitch, but the rest of the men occupied his furniture in a pleasant and sociable crush of bodies.

“Can I offer you a drink?” Harry asked, gesturing to the liquor supply by the window. After sitting through an Order meeting, they deserved a stiff one. Nebojsa's piercing gaze stopped Misha before he'd lifted his rear from the ottoman—the last thing that boy needed was more alcohol after the night he'd had.

Dima started up a tune on the piano. It took Harry a second to recognize the melody as “Fool On The Hill” from the Beatles song-book Draco had lying out. Dmitry wasn't quite as good as Draco but his playing was pleasant and soft; slow, as the tune was unfamiliar to his fingers. Harry could identify where the brunet was playing more than the ad libitum listed on the page—Dima was half way between a liberal interpretation and making stuff up. Still, it sounded nice. Harry was loathe to speak over the music. He turned to Vadik seated at his right, shooting the hard-faced fellow a quick “What'd I miss?” under his breath.

“A bunch of frightened people vith no idea vot to do,” Vadik answered honestly, his voice a frustrated growl.

“That bad?” Harry plied with a smile. He settled back against the chair, sinking pleasantly into the supple leather. The scent of wood, tobacco and man was slowly taking over the room but there was still that bite of Draco, that hint of tartness and pomp which seemed to hang in the air around the blonde. You could tell this was his room.

“Over an hour vasted on arguing vhezher or not to ally vith zhe Ministry,” Vadik shrugged, “vhen zhe Ministry doesn't exist, to speak of. Zhere are larger issues.” The man's already squinty eyes narrowed further. They were a light color, maybe a watery green or blue. Heavy brows and a goatee dominated his face, masking the sweet and academic person beneath.

“The Order has a bit of a rocky history with the Ministry,” Harry generalized with a wink. “I won't bore you with the details. But I understand some of their reservations. Did they decide anything? Were there reports?”

Nebojsa summarized, Vadim and Vitya adding details as they went. Misha was silent, moving to sit on the floor with his back resting against Nebojsa's long legs. The boy stared absently into the flames, chin resting on his knees. His brother was quiet, too, playing songs from Draco's music book.

The Ministry's London premises was completely destroyed, as were most of the government structures in France, Belgium, Germany, Austria and Italy. Things were looking bad throughout the Mediterranean, where the battle was still ongoing. Allied forces were warned not to risk entering, even to provide aid. It had to be bad over there. Owls were being knocked out of the sky—Hogwarts was sealed off from the air to prevent attacks through the magical post until the violence blew over. Most places of business like the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley lay in smoking ruins. The Daily Prophet was down, employees advised to barricade themselves in their homes until further notice. The Ministry had no way to maintain law and order. The goblins of Gringotts had gone and armed themselves with wands scrounged from the dead of Diagon Alley. There was no Department of Magical Law Enforcement or Office for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures to stop them. There were rumors of a rogue army of Veela running around Switzerland giving the Death Eaters a hell of a time. Harry couldn't help thinking that was awfully smart, considering the Death Eaters were overwhelmingly male. He wished the Veelas luck... and would be staying clear of Switzerland until further notice.

There was also no authority to issue death certificates. A written record was being compiled and families informed when possible but central order was in shambles, all traditional lines of communication down. The Minister of Magic was currently operating out of an abandoned barn in Northern Ireland. You knew someone was bearing a message from Scrimgeour when they arrived wreaking of cow and manure. Quite fitting, actually.

Vadik, Vitya and Chereshko had been part of the team pulling bodies from Ravenwood. The gate was still burning with blue flames as of lunch time. Harry couldn't bear to ask if the Potions Master Ionescue had been among the dead. The trouble with identifying bodies lay in the old tradition of beheading one's enemies—specifically their corpses after a duel—to signify dominance and put shame upon the deceased's family. A few of the bodies had been castrated. Supposedly they did it to anyone suspected of having sex with muggles. Harry secretly thought they did it because they were sick in the head and intermarriage was just an excuse.

“Don't they themselves have sex with muggles, though?” Harry questioned, remembering something Draco had said about necessity.

“Of course,” Chereshko piped up. “Ve all do. Doesn't stop zhem from pointing zheir fingers at us for considering it normal. Just Obliviate zhe muggle after, da? No harm done.”

“Zhe Death Eaters aren't reasonable,” Vadik added. “Zhey are insane. It makes zhem more frightening vhen zhey are impossible to predict.”

Harry nodded his agreement and was about to respond with something about Voldemort being the craziest of them all when there was a knock at the door.

“Malfoy?!” called Hermione Granger, voice terse. Harry could hear her hands on her hips as she continued. “Shouldn't you be in class?”

Dima's fingers dropped from the ivories, drawing his Birch switch of a wand and aiming it at the door with deadly concentration. His honeyed gaze was fierce, trained and focused on bloody murder. Misha was scrambling to his feet without a sound, patting his pockets. He landed on a small knife and drew it in a fluid, deadly motion, the butterfly blade snicking into place with a sweet little tick. Nebojsa's hand drew an onyx black wand from his breast pocket. Vadik and Vitya were crouching to take cover behind the beige sofa, huge hands balled into fists and wands at the ready. Chern drew a pencil-thin blade from his boot, nearly a foot long and tipped with something that glowed green like the haze of a Dark Mark in the sky.

Harry motioned with his hands that they should calm themselves and sit. It was nice to know he wasn't the only paranoid one. “She's a friend,” he offered, placing a placating hand to Dima's shoulder on his way to the door.

Hermione shouted his name before launching into his arms, fluffy brown hair getting in his mouth as she swung from his neck, pressing close. Her schoolbag whipped around, thudding against the door frame.

“Oh God, Harry!” she wailed. “Malfoy said you were here but, when you weren't at the meeting, I....” she sniffed.

“I'm fine, Hermione,” Harry said, patting her awkwardly on the back before prying her loose. “Just really tired.”

“You were at Ravenwood, weren't you?” she accused, scowling. Then she noticed the strong figures crowding Harry's room. Scanning their faces, she didn't look pleased. “With them,” she added. It wasn't a frosty tone for Hermione Granger but Harry was sure it sounded less than kind to his guests.

“I guess you met at the meeting?” Harry said quickly, gesturing between Hermione and the guys while shutting the door with his foot.

“Not formally, no,” was her answer. She gave a little sigh, shooting Harry an unreadable look. It was obvious that, for whatever over-thought reason, she didn't trust them.

“Well then,” Harry took her by the elbow and brought her forward. Dima's face was like stone, Nebojsa's steely blue eyes flicking between his men, sending secret signals that could only mean one thing—keep cool, boys. “Hermione Granger, Head Girl, these gentlemen came to the Order from Durmstrang. This is Dmitry Ionescue,” Hermione shook his meaty hand begrudgingly. Not even Dima's handsome smile could break the mood she was in. “His brother, Mikhail,” Harry continued right down the row. Hermione returned each of their nods, eyes flitting over their bearded faces. “Vadim Sargsian, Viktor Novikov—but everyone calls him Vitya—Chereshko Toleanu and Nebojsa Radić.”

Hermione bit her lip when Nebojsa's icy gaze met hers. Maybe she didn't approve of his piercings? Because his tattoos were covered, as was Dima's. Harry liked the way the piercings looked; with Nebojsa's long, gaunt face, the black and silver metal really made you notice his eyes.

“Nice to... meet you,” she muttered, inching a bit closer to Harry.

“Why don't you sit with us?” Harry offered. “The guys were just filling me in on the meeting—unless you have class?”

“No, I'm free this period.” She took a wobbly step toward the sofa, looking like a newly-born fawn just learning its legs. Something about the Durmstrangers made her desperately uncomfortable. The guys seemed to sense it, too. They remained on their feet, hands empty at their sides.

“Ve should be going,” Dmitry spoke up. “Just because Yuri looks like an ox doesn't give us zhe right to make him carry zhe supplies on his own.” Misha snorted while retrieving his cloak from the sofa. Hermione placed both hands on the back of Harry's armchair, watching the men gather their belongings. Dima closed the lid over the piano's keys after his brother threw him his tan cloak. In a matter of seconds, the men were covered and approaching the door. Harry took up his leather jacket.

“At least let me see you out,” he protested.

“Of course,” Chereshko smiled, getting the door.

“I'll walk with you,” Hermione piped up. She ducked into the hall to drop her books in her room. The second she was out of sight, Nebojsa's hands settled on Harry's shoulders.

“Promise me you'll eat something, da?” he said, looking down into Harry's eyes. “You're too skinny.”

“Okay.”

Only the corner of Nebojsa's mouth turned up but the expression changed his entire face, softening him perceptibly. He looked a bit like Draco, all angles and soft skin. Eyes closed, he laid a kiss to Harry's forehead, smoothing his unruly hair just as he'd done to Dima. He pulled away before Hermione returned. With Dima and Nebojsa flanking him, Harry started down the sloping hall which lead to the main corridor.

“So where are you guys off to?”

“Zhe Stonevall Stormers are offering asylum to any displaced Quidditch player,” Dima explained, “so Vadik goes to Canada. He played for Ukraine before zhe war. Zhey say it's much safer outside Europe. Gregorovitch is trying to leave as well. Dušan makes arrangements for zhe rest of us. He has a cousin back in Valaam.”

“Where is that?” Harry asked, zipping his jacket against the chill of the castle.

“It's a wizarding settlement hidden within a monastery,” Hermione piped up. “Valaam is an island in Lake Ladoga, near the Russian-Finnish border.”

“It's also vhere many refugees are gathering,” Dima said. “Valaam's vards are veakening. Zhey need help.”

“And zhe Order needs more volunteers,” Nebojsa added with a backwards glance at Hermione. Harry didn't like the tension there at all.

“Well, if things get bad,” Harry shrugged. “You know where to find me.”

Dima dropped a meaty hand to Harry's shoulder and they continued on in silence. He could hear Vadim and Vitya whispering back and forth a few paces back, probably discussing Vadim's break from the group. Harry had no idea the man was a professional Quidditch player. But hadn't that been his first thought upon seeing these guys gathered round a bar—that they looked like the reserve squad of Bulgarian National? Harry wanted to think he was above stereotyping after the summer he'd had. These guys weren't just burly foreigners, the same as Draco wasn't just a stuck-up pureblood and he himself was more than The Boy Who Lived. He'd given these men the chance to be people—which was the only thing he asked of others for himself. Unfortunately, the world was going to have its judgments. Even smart people like Hermione harbored resentments and predispositions. He'd get to the bottom of that later. They were one flight of stairs from the Great Hall when a woman's voice rang out, echoing against the stone.

“Mikhail! Mikhail! O Doamne, Misha!”

Misha turned and caught the wailing young woman in his arms, twirling her around as she cried, clinging to his neck and smoothing his hair over and over with her palm, as though if she ever stopped touching the boy he would cease to be real. She spoke his name in a mantra, throwing back the hood of his brown cloak to better see his face. He set her on the ground after a few agonizing minutes, her big brown eyes drinking in the crowd of men before her. She had bushy brown hair like Hermione, secured in a single elegant plait down her back. She wore Ravenclaw robes over a curvy frame. Through her red face and tears, Harry guessed her age at about fifteen.

Setting eyes on Nebojsa, she gasped. The man was recognizable, even with his hood drawn partially over his face. There was something about the way he stood—like he was a larger man. Then again, he was held in a Death Eater prison for God-only-knows how long. Maybe he had been larger before. The girls eyes seemed to say so. Her lip quivered, eyes watering as she approached the pierced and tattooed Serbian like a holy man, face splotchy and jaw shaking.

She took his outstretched hand, babbling in either Serbian, Romanian or Russian—Harry couldn't tell. It was obvious the girl was asking about relatives, schoolmates, friends. The men told her what they could but it was mostly knowing looks between them, silence, the occasional shake of the head. She kept turning to Nebojsa, asking the same question. Each time, he politely refused. Eventually the girl gave up; her grip tightened, bringing the man's bony had to the top of her head. She wanted him to pray over her.

Harry didn't need to speak the language to understand Nebojsa's whispered response. He was saying he was a killer with no right to bless someone. His suffering and faith by no means made him a saint. He was no better than anyone else. Still, the girl had him by the wrist and refused to let go, refused to take no for an answer. He spoke softly to her, then, her doe eyes flitting closed as his thumb wiped tears from her cheek. He made three crosses; the first at her forehead, the second over her lips and the third below the knot in her school tie, careful not to stain the silk with salty tears. He spoke the same phrase each time. “Bozhiji mir vama.”

“Mir svima,” she mumbled in reply, washing her face with her shaking hands. “Mulţumesc.”

And then she was off, shoes clacking on the stone as she disappeared around the corner.

“How many are zhere?” Dima asked to fill the silence.

“Fourteen,” Hermione supplied. Misha made a quick crack in Romanian, probably something about Dima wanting to ship him off to Hogwarts along with the girls. Dmitry grinned, cuffing his baby brother upside his dark head before adjusting his hood to better cover that boyish face of his. All you could see was his rogue, crooked smile, teeth showing through his thick lips as he chuckled. Misha lifted his own hood with a huff before taking to the stairs.

Hermione caught Harry's arm, winding through it with her own and sticking unnervingly close. She wouldn't let go even as the men were saying goodbye at the massive castle doors. With her right hand occupied, she had an excuse not to shake their hands. Harry kissed cheeks and clapped everyone on the back. “Be good,” Dima warned in his ear, owl eyes wide and playful as he pulled away. Harry yanked at the coarse fabric of his hood, pulling it over his eyes.

“Since you asked,” he smiled, sticking out his tongue.

The cloaked figures made their way down around the lake, becoming smaller every second. Two hung back, recognizable as Dima and Nebojsa because of the black traveling cloak. Even with their billowed sleeves, Harry could tell the men were holding hands. Hermione squinted after them, her grip tightening rigidly over Harry's forearm. She let out a startled gasp when the figures leaned, pressed—kissed.

For The Curious: Slavonic Translations

Bozhiji mir vama - “God's peace be with you”

Mir svima - “peace to everyone”

Mulţumesc – is Romanian, not Church Slavonic, and means “thank you”
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Conscience