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
- 38
- 39
- 40
SUMMARY: A skirmish on the Hogwarts grounds.

DISCLAIMER: Falling Down music and lyrics by Tom Waits, released by Island Records, 1988.

WARNINGS: This is probably one of the most physically violent, blood-strewn and all-out-gorey chapters yet for Beretta. Be armed with the knowledge that blood, guts and a healthy amount of death lie here-in.

CONSCIENCE:

BERETTA –

FALLING DOWN

She’s not gonna choose you for standing so tall.

Go on and take a swig of that poison and like it;

And don’t ask for silverware, don’t ask for nothing.

Go on and put your ear to the ground.

You know you'll be hearing that sound. Falling down.

“Falling Down”

Tom Waits

“I'm not so sure 'bout this...” Michael Corner muttered, adjusting his grip on his wand.

“Harry said five minutes,” Neville spoke up, strangely confident despite the paleness of his round face.

“It's barely been six. I'm sure he'll be here any second.” Neville's squinted blue eyes swept the Entrance Hall but there was no sign of movement, no sign of Harry or the other defenders. Even the picture frames were empty, their occupants passing messages through the castle by way of the fortress' hidden passageways of paint. They'd seen no movement save ghosts during their sprint through the many halls and stairwells—not even Peeves was around to accost them. For that, Ron and the Gryffindors were thankful.

They'd found Michael in the Entrance Hall along with Wayne Hopkins, Ernie McMillan and Justin Finch-Fletchley. It made a certain amount of sense that Susan and Hannah had stayed behind to monitor Hufflepuff—and Ravenclaw had as few returning students as Slytherin, so Michael coming down solo was that much more of a statement about his loyalties to Harry and the old D.A., as he could easily claim he was needed upstairs to see to his house. Ron gave him a small, proud nod, backing Neville's statement as silent seconds ticked by. There was nothing but the rain splattering against the castle's ancient windows, nothing but the flickering candles, the sharp illumination of lightning and answering rumble of thunder.

Someone pounded on the entrance doors from the outside. Then there was shouting, big fists rattling the door with their fervor. Seamus jumped about a foot in the air, fumbling his wand. It clattered across the stone floor as he gave chase. Dean started. Michael let out a nervous moan thinly disguised as an exhale. It was Ron himself, wand raised, who made for the door. Neville followed in his wake, casting a quick Lumos and preparing to jut his wand over Ron's shoulder the second the taller boy pulled the door open.

Rain splattered in as soon as the door was cracked, smacking Ron in the face and soaking the floor. He had to use his full strength to drag the huge wooden door open just a hands-breath. Squinting, he peered out into the night past the tip of Neville's raised wand. “Harry?”

“Veasley?” slurred a heavily accented baritone. The timbre of the foreigner's voice matched the storm, quaky and deep.

“Yeah. Where's Harry?”

“Out here!” Face shrouded from view beneath a heavy, rain-soaked hood, the tall fellow rolled his eyes. Ron watched the whites of them glow in the enchanted light of Neville's wand. Both he and Neville had to look up to meet the newcomer's face; this guy had to be well over six feet tall but he was reed thin, carrying a short wand of oak in one hand and two long, curse-tipped daggers in the other. His voice was sharp when he spoke, condescending, syllables melding effortlessly together like the puddles pooling at their feet. “Harry said you vould be outside. Come. He's vaiting.”

Neville signaled at Ron's back and the boys made their way out into the gale. The wind hit like a George Weasley Special to the gut, knocking Ron sideways and causing him to stumble, crashing side-long into Dean. Cloaks and muttered oaths were lifted up in the winds, swirling around them as they squelched across the muddy grounds. The tall man—Malfoy had called him 'Chern'—was leading them to the north side of the castle, away from the lake. They skirted the edge of the school, mimicking the foreigner's bent posture and staying low to the ground, unobtrusive. It was hard to imagine there was a battle going on at the other side of the castle. Perhaps the wind was blowing the wrong way, blowing the sound away. The grounds could be like that in a storm.

They rounded the greenhouses to a sound like a firecracker echoing out from high above—issuing from Professor Flitwick and and the other foreigner in the Astronomy Tower... up there with Harry's map and cloak, coordinating the castle's defenses from a bird's eye view.

“Zhere,” Chereshko pointed off toward the vegetable gardens. When Ron squinted, both hands holding his cloak's hood as it flapped wildly around his face, he could make out human shapes skirting between the pumpkins, sliding in the mud as they ducked and covered, dampened sparks of ineffective spells swept up in the storm.

A ball of white-blue fire descended from the sky, the size of a Bludger and streaking just as fast. The bodies on the ground didn't stand a chance.

Unearthly screams went up as the kitchen's potato patch was lit in jewel-like shades of sapphire and azure—screams that couldn't be entirely human.

“In-ff-feri?” Justin Finch-Fletchley stuttered at Ron's shoulder.

“And verevolves,” Chereshko confirmed under his breath, ducking even lower to the ground in an attempt to make his tall frame less visible. “Da. Stay down. Move qvickly. Cast fire.” And the man slipped off, slithering through the long grass as he wove his way closer to the fight, shooting silent red spells that had to be far more deadly than the average Ministry Stunner. Nothing here would have ever received Ministry approval—but this wasn't the Ministry, wasn't the well-oiled gears of Great Britain's Auror Office. These were killers dispatched to destroy killers. It was evident by the silent, swerving wandwork, the palpable veil of dark, ancient magic. It made the skin at the back of your neck crawl. This was war; flutters in the darkness, glimpses of light in too much black shadow, screams in the distance. Screams.

Wet grass beneath his knees, Ron began to crawl.

“Ron...” Seamus whispered, hands in the mud as he squatted down and then dropped to all fours, praying not to be seen for just a moment longer. He’d always procrastinted on his homework, too, but this was a little bigger. Shadows began to take shape at either side—a line of defenders crouching in the rushes at the edge of the gardens while only a few like Chereshko engaged the enemy directly. “Where's Harry?”

Another fireball crashed in from above, this one much larger than the last. The wind carried burning hair, cooked and decaying flesh, meting out a rain icy-cold against the skin. The chill crept right through Hermione's Warming Spell in his cloak and into his bones, leaving an uncomfortable, clammy tingle as droplets from the wet fabric danced down his skin.

“Potter? Look up,” whispered a woman's voice from up ahead. Her gray-streaked auburn braid peeking out from horribly muddied robes was the only indication of her presence in the all-consuming dark. For these Order members who hadn't had the advantage of Neville's berries, the night had to be black as pitch. Craning his head up toward the sky, Ron still felt blind.

A third ball of flame lit up the night, flashing as bright as a miniature blue sun and lighting up the speckled back of a winged horse in flight. Years of Hagrid’s Care of Dangerous Magical Creatures told him the animal was a Granian, probably the fastest of all flying horses and more vicious than a Hyppogryff in heat. Riding on its back was Harry—round glasses little more than two panes of white in the light of the spell gathering at his wand tip—forehead crinkling as his brows drew down in concentration, gathering yet more magic into the Norse fire spell before releasing it upon the bodies lurking in the vegetable patch.

So it was Harry hurling fireballs at the enemies in the garden. In the instant it took Harry's spell to streak across the sky, Ron wondered what the men in the Astronomy Tower were up to if they weren't acting as a fire-turret.

A particularly burly half-werewolf half-man caught Harry's magic straight between the shoulder blades, falling to the ground with a slam that shook the earth and rattled teeth. More weres, partially-transformed with the aid of magic, howled their rage. Snarls were hurled at Harry as well as spells. His mount careened out of the line of fire, drawing attention toward himself up in the sky so the enemy might show their backs to the waiting line of defenders.

“Now!” cried a man, standing up at the end of the row and bellowing to make himself heard. The wind blew back his hood, revealing a round red face and head of blond curls. “Charge!”

Men and women drew themselves up with screams and battle cries, mud making their robes heavy as they scrambled into the gardens. There were maybe twenty five of them to the thirty Inferi, dozen wizard-weres and Death Eaters. Ron watched in awe as two small groups stationed at the east and west ends of the gardens sent bright volleys of Harry's blue flame hurtling through the garden, streaking like tiny comets until they struck their mark, Inferi quickly catching fire and falling to the mud with sticky, gurgling screams. None of these spells were half as large or bright as Harry's but they were still effective against the Inferi, cutting them down like dominoes under a toddler's foot. More Inferi replaced the fallen, seeming to ooze out of the shadows and the rain, all clammy and smelling of decay through the sharpness of wet vegetables and fertilizer. Beside him, Neville muttered something about the dead flesh ruining the winter squash. Ron snorted, aiming a Stunner as he hoisted himself up from the muck, robes sopping, and jogged into the fray.

It was all so blurry, so unclear. He tried to stay low, ducking behind a conjured barrier here and there, getting off spells whenever he could. The kitchen gardens were large and some of Hagrid's oversized pumpkins had been transplanted here, their bulk regularly exploding under the strain of Burning and Slicing Hexes tossed through the night. Half the curses used he couldn't recognize and hardly anyone used verbal incantations at all unless it was for the Norse fire spell. It looked as though less than half the defenders could actually perform it. The most noticeable was Chereshko, wand in one hand and those two long knives in the other, blades protruding from between his fingers like spectral, green-glowing bestial claws. Perhaps the man was wearing brass knuckles, too, the way he punched and cut bodies out of his way. Pumpkin guts flew as readily as Inferi limbs, littering the already slippery ground. Ron soon gave up on keeping his footing, slipping and sliding from one bit of cover to the next as he rotated through his measly arsenal of spells.

Harry was flying high above it all, not unlike when he was Gryffindor's Quidditch captain; scoping out the pitch, shouting orders and communicating information between the warders in the Astronomy Tower and the Aurors on the ground. He threw down fireballs whenever he could, their booming and crackling cutting through the rain and the din. Howls of pain and rage always followed. Between the noise, the distance and the wind, it was useless trying to communicate on the ground. If only there were more witches and wizards in the air, more who could perform the spell—people were getting injured, perhaps even dying all around... it was just too dark to tell for sure. He didn't want to see it.

A familiar sound caught Ron's attention—it was Neville's voice not too far off. “Please!” the Gryffindor shouted. “No! No! Just let me go!”

Ron slithered on his belly, peering around the rock he was sharing with a frightened-looking, vaguely shaking Wayne Hopkins. Some ten meters away, a were-witch had Neville restrained, elongated teeth centimeters from the flesh of his once-plump neck. Neville was thrashing as much as he could but the witch's attention was elsewhere; her glowing amber eyes were focused on a statuesque figure standing between her and Ron's vantage point. Cloaked back to him, the figure had a wand raised.

“You don't want to do that, Melinda,” warned the figure—an elderly woman by the sound of her voice. By squinting and wriggling in the muck a bit more, Ron was able to make out the gray-flecked auburn plait of the woman who had addressed him earlier. She had her wand leveled at the werewolf woman holding Neville by the throat and poised to bite. “I know you don't want this.”

“The hell I don't!” hissed Melinda, stretching Neville's neck until it looked as though it would break. He kicked and struggled but it didn't do him any good. In her partially transformed state, she was too strong for the less-than-athletic teen to overpower.

“Let the boy go,” the old woman insisted in an even tone, “and I may spare your life.”

Melinda snarled. And at that moment, the life left her eyes in a haze of damp green light. The color plumed out from her back as her arm, once taut around Neville's middle, went decidedly limp. Someone had hit her with a Killing Curse to the back, the unforgivable words lost to the din of fighting, the snapping of flames and the cries of the injured and, presumably, dying. Neville nearly fainted, falling to the muck with a look as though he were seconds from vomiting. Landing on the toppled pieces of Inferi corpses probably didn't help. Ron tried to crawl to his fellow Gryffindor without being seen.

The old woman's wand twisted and flipped, finding her mark in the darkness by following the illegal curse's light to its origin. A whipping wind blew back the hood of her cloak, exposing a stony face contorted in anger.

“Hector!” she screamed.

Hector's answer was to throw another Killing Curse, this one at the old bird. The woman dived, her long plait severed by the eerie green light as it shot by, upending mud, mushy vegetables and corpse chunks as it hit the ground.

“This wasn't the plan!” she screamed from her hands and knees, fingers curling in rage. “You promised me!”

“You were too blind to see!” Hector snarled. He was nothing but a large form lurking in the darkness, his outline visible only when Harry's Bludger-like fireballs rained down behind him, back-lighting a black cloak and head of wild white hair that stuck away from his head like a mad muggle. Ron recognized him as Hector Remous, one of the Hogwarts Governors. The old woman had to be his wife, Hortense, another member of the board. They kept right on screaming at one another across the empty space, Melinda the were-witch's lifeless body between them.

Ron snatched Neville by the ankles and pulled him away through the mud. His classmate slid easily so Ron didn't stop until they were behind a grove of berry bushes, waist deep in what he kept telling himself was plain old mud. There was no blood mixed in there—Inferi, human, werewolf or otherwise. Just mud.

He took Neville roughly by the shoulders, looking him square in the face. “You alright, mate?”

“Thought I was a goner, there,” the young man croaked. Apparently he'd been choked: his voice was a scratchy, hoarse mess. Neville's blue eyes wouldn't focus; twice, they nearly rolled to the back of his head in shock. “A little different than the Ministry last year, huh?”

All Ron could do was nod.

“We'll pull through, though.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed. Pushing hair out of his eyes only splashed muck across his already dirty face. He quickly gave up, content to leave it alone rather than use a simple spell and risk their hiding spot's detection.

“We've got Harry,” Neville said, some of the firmness back in his voice. His eyes were focusing as he began to take stock of himself. One last tremor of fear ran through his frame before his shoulders straightened and he was more or less himself again.

“Damn right.”

Another very animal scream rent the night. The ground itself, mud and all, seemed to vibrate as the sound grew steadily louder. Ron thought his eardrums might very well pop as the pitch rose in intensity to a screech. Then he felt big, heavy hooves hit the ground and everything made sense.

Peering out through a screen of prickly leaves, Harry's speckled mount could be seen in the middle of the uprooted potato patch, white-tipped wings glowing like an angel in the darkness. The reason for the illumination was of course the multitude of hexes and curses aimed the creature's way as soon as it landed, wings splayed up in a sort of cocoon to protect its rider from harm. Ron didn't bother to wonder where the hell Harry had found a trained Granian—he only crossed his fingers that the beast's intrinsic magic would be enough to stave off the Unforgiveables being sent its way.

There must have been others patrolling the grounds to prevent more enemies from coming in because their numbers weren't increasing. If anything, the number of Inferi had been more than halved and the werewolves were running lean. Ron chanced a peek at Hortense and Horace—both dead in the mud, probably by the other's hand. He shivered, wanting to wipe the grime off his face but knowing his hands would only make it worse.

Harry must have come down as a distraction, buying time for those on the ground by putting himself in the line of fire. That was just the sort of thing he would do, running into harm's way because he thought it would buy his allies even a moment of advantage.

“Go!” an Auror-looking wizard bellowed at Harry. “Go! Back up!” He was the same red-faced, curly-haired man who had given the initial order to attack. Now he waved frantic arms at Harry and the Granian, trying to shoo them off. His attention-getting movement earned him a hex to the back. The man's face exploded in blood-filled welts and boils and he sunk to the ground, howling in agony.

Not much of Harry himself could be seen behind the shield of mighty white wings—only his strong fingers gripping, wound through the animal's snowy mane, the cuffs of his black robe sleeves and what might've been the bend of an elbow. His hands tightened, signaling his mount to pull back and return to the skies.

It was already too late. A wizard appeared out of nowhere, blunt pocket knife in hand. The Death Eater struck quickly and landed true, slicing a deep gash across the Granian's breast. The creature reared back on its hind legs, wings shooting out and flapping madly for balance. Harry was thrown from the animal's back, small body sailing through the air, momentarily weightless, limbs spread almost in welcome before slamming to the ground several meters away.

He landed oddly on his leg--though still conscious, as his arms were already moving to hoist himself to his feet. But it was obvious he was injured by the way he favored one leg, dragging the other behind him. Before he was even aware, Ron was on his feet and running to his friend.

A mud-blackened arm caught him 'round the throat, dropping him to the ground as swiftly as a fork falling from the dinner table. The next thing he recalled was staring up at the night sky, the raindrops like falling stars coming down on him. Every drop landing on his chest physically hurt, the wind knocked from his lungs and breath a distant memory.

His vision filled with the sight of a grimy woman, teeth barred like Melinda but these were much longer and already tinged with blood. There were traces of hair on her face—not beard-like hair but an animal's fur. Her grin was feral, carnal. She licked her fangs like a cat looking at a freshly caught fish.

Wand. Wand. Where was his wand? And why wouldn't his arms respond? Were his fingers even there at the ends of his hands? Because even with the Warming and Drying Charms, he couldn't feel them anymore. Maybe this was it—the end. He'd failed to protect Harry, failed to defend Hogwarts and all those innocent students, failed to come back in one piece for Hermione and Ginny and Mum. He was a failure. As the were-woman leaned closer, breath metallic and spittle dripping onto his face, Ron closed his eyes. He wished for the end.

A fine, tepid mist feathered across his lips. It was the first warm thing he'd felt in hours, days, ever. He opened his eyes to find not his murderer's face but the gaunt, marble features of Chereshko Toleanu, two bloody knives held together in a meaty fist. That foreign face was set in a not-quite frown, black brows drawn down over unreadable eyes. The woman who had attacked Ron lay off to his left, gasping her last wet, gurgling breath.

Chereshko offered his hand. “Try not to die, Veasley. I zhink Harry likes you.”

“You think?” Ron quipped from his back. Somehow, he managed what felt like a smile. Rivers of mud redirected around the lines of his expression, delivering muck and hot blood over his lips until he spat. Chereshko quickly spelled Ron's mouth clean before hoisting him to his feet with one big hand clamped over his freckled wrist.

Ron was a tall chap. It was a rare day when someone dwarfed him or Bill, the tallest of the Weasley boys. But this fellow, Chereshko, was really something else—had to be at least six and a half feet tall, perhaps more without the sinkage of muddy soil. Ron felt his neck crick as he peered up at the bloke's rough-hewn face. The foreigner looked him over critically.

“Your vand is broken,” he observed in a casual drawl reminiscent of Malfoy except for the strong accent. Ron glanced down to see that, crumpled between two broken fingers, lay the remains of his Ollivander wand. Fibers of silvery unicorn hair seemed to melt over his fingers in the rain, becoming nigh invisible as they attempted to meld themselves to his skin. “Here,” Chern offered. “Take zhis.”

The bloke pushed one of his knives into Ron's uninjured hand. The blade still faintly glowed, imbued with Dark Magic. There must have been a trace of wand core material—unicorn, phoenix, dragon, something—in the handle or worked into the blade itself because the weapon reacted to his touch like a wand, coming alive beneath his fingers. He could feel the blade connect through his arm, becoming like an extension of his bones, as much a part of him as a hand or a foot. He knew instantly that he could control it just as he could control a wand. Maybe better.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, still looking at the blade. It had to be some kind of Dark Magic to feel like this, to be so effective against Inferi and werewolves.

Chern spun around, sinking his other knife into the belly of an attacking wizard. With a swift upward twist and a muttered incantation, the foreigner slit the wizard from navel to nipple. There was a sizzle of magic and the smell of cauterization, the attacking wizard cooked from the inside out as the magical blade ripped through him. Guts spilled out over Chereshko's hand as he yanked his knife free, spinning away and back into action seamlessly.

The foreigner muttered under his breath in his native tongue as he went, some sort of oath—a bit of blaspheming to pass the time or perhaps distract his conscious mind from the terrible deeds his hands carried out. The phrase was sing-song, like a child's rhyme but pronounced with a hint of annoyance, as though he were bored. He appeared focused, using the unpredictable terrain and his unusual size to his advantage by slipping and sliding up to each opponent, utilizing the momentum gained to strike home with blade, curses and fists. It was a very good thing Chern Toleanu was on the Order's side.

With his new knife in one hand, his other hand broken and cradled to his chest, Ron set out to find Harry. The Granian was presumably back in the air but well out of sight. There wasn't a single star visible for massive wings to block out. Since those wings couldn't be seen in the light of volleying spells, Ron hoped the creature had gotten away alright. It had been helping Harry, after all.

He ducked behind the remnants of a giant pumpkin, ignoring the almost savory scent of its fried innards in favor of catching his breath and looking around. Wayne Hopkins and Michael Corner worked together to set fire to an Inferi. Neville was leading several witches in a turret-style defense of the berry bushes with decent results, spelling all the hard little potatoes nearby to act as flaming projectiles against approaching Inferi. Dean, Seamus and the other Hufflepuffs weren't within his limited range of sight so Ron set out in the direction he'd last seen Harry. The numbers were evening out but the skirmishes were no less intense. Duelers had more room to move. The less-skilled of the attackers had been whittled away leaving only the best, those who wouldn't go down without a serious fight.

At last he spotted Harry off a little ways past the vegetable gardens, standing in the rushes that came up nearly to his waist. Harry limped, favoring his left leg heavily. There were two enemy wizards closing in on him—one from the north-east and the other from the south—while Harry dispatched another Inferi with a textbook fire spell. The shock of orange flame engulfed the corpse, lighting a brush fire as it careened and fell. Flames spread quickly, running out through the grass despite the rain. The way Harry was facing, he couldn't have seen the man closing in from the north-east. Ron put on a burst of speed, hoping he could make it to Harry before the enemy wizard did.

Getting closer proved that the man was a werewolf—his sinewy muscle and particularly scraggly body hair telling a story of lean months spent in the woods under You Know Who's regime. The man looked rabid and wild, big eyes set on Harry not so much as The Boy Who Lived, enemy of his Dark Master, but as the were-wizard's next victim, his next meal. Ron ran faster than he'd ever run before. He was almost there.

He slid through the mud like Chereshko, letting momentum and the slick gunk on his boots carry him through the thigh-high wall of burning rushes. He lept on the werewolf without thinking, clobbering the skinny fellow from behind, burying the length his knife in the man's neck. He threw his weight into the deadly gesture, mud making the handle slick in his fist. Vessels and tendons ripped as the knife thrust home. The force of the tackle toppled them, blade pushing forward as Ron made to break his fall. It tore through the wizard's windpipe, cutting his throat open like the muggle Pez dispenser Ginny had as a kid.

Blood splattered, joining the mud and gunk as they fell face-first, the splash and plunk of gore somehow louder in his ears than the rain, than the distant tumult and incoherent shouts. The world was so very far away. He heard with perfect clarity the sickening sputters and pops of air bubbles escaping the dead man's throat, felt the heat of blood wash over his hands as they met with wet earth, his blade sticking into still-smoldering grass. The smoke reached his face, then the stench. He gagged.

Sticky blood coated his hands. He released the knife, needing his good hand to prop himself up on his knees over the fallen corpse. It didn't bother him so much that he was sitting atop a dead man—a man he'd killed. That he was still alive was what counted. He and Harry were alive.

Ron looked up to see Harry, hard-jawed and brows drawn, staring at him.

“Did you...?” The Boy Who Lived mouthed.

He didn't know quite how to respond to that. Rather than acknowledge that yes, he had just murdered a man, muggle-style, Ron forced himself to his feet. He used his foot to loosen the gifted dagger from the ground, eventually pulling it out with his good hand. When he straightened, Harry was at his side, wand out and covering his back while he recovered.

“Where'd you get that, mate?” Harry asked, jerking his chin toward the knife as he sent several Stunners into the garden in rapid succession. Two heavy thumps indicated his spells had hit their mark.

“Tall guy,” Ron shrugged. “Loaned me one when my wand broke.”

Harry took a moment away from defending their position to squint, taking in for the first time Ron's mangled fingers, the bits of wood and unicorn hair that had once been his wand wound around them. There were long willow splinters in his palm.

“You had my back,” Harry said. He sounded a little stunned. “Thank you.”

“'Course,” Ron shrugged. “I... well, it's your sodding boyfriend I don't like—no offense, mate,” he added quickly, flinching. “I figured you and I were okay.”

“We're good,” Harry agreed. “But we can't really talk right now, yeah? I might need you to do that again,” and he gestured toward Ron's knife before patting his injured leg. “You've got my back, I've got yours?”

Ron smiled ruefully. “Just like old times.”

But it wasn't like old times. He knew that now. He probably wasn't fooling Harry, either. They'd always done everything together, shared the burden, the three of them against the world. And it had worked rather brilliantly. Now there was an undeniable, irreparable shift. He wasn't Harry's lieutenant anymore—that Chern-guy was, genned up on all of Harry's plans and in on all the action. It was like he and Hermione had been written out of Harry's life, his needs, the six years they spent as friends erased because of... well, he wasn't really sure about that. It had happened before Harry shagged Malfoy, though; that much was certain. Harry had been pulling away for a long time, shirking his duties and drawing into himself. Even now, fighting back-to-back, Ron could have been any soldier in the fight against You Know Who. They guarded one another not because they were best mates but because they were soldiers in the same fight. It wasn't the same. After a few minutes of fighting, Harry slipped away—called off by the Auror with curly blond hair, half his face still covered in blood.

The Hogwarts boys began to find him. Ron was their leader now; Harry merely a figure-head. Ron was the one they sought when trouble came, the one they looked to when the score was down. He'd pulled Neville out of the Governor's battle, not Harry. He'd seen the blotchy, tear-and-snot-streaked face of Wayne Hopkins as he cried his sodding eyes out behind that boulder, not Harry. He'd comforted first years and patrolled the castle at all unsavory hours of the night. Not Harry. The Boy Who Lived had abandoned his duties, his promises, leaving Ron in charge, uninformed and utterly equipped.

He was supposed to be out there with Harry—wherever there was—learning how to really fight the Death Eaters instead of just getting by. He was supposed to help destroy the Horcruxes. That was what Dumbledore had wanted and, deep down, Ron still hoped Harry wanted it, too.

So he fought on. Not because he wanted to stick his knife in unsuspecting backs but because it was all he could do to save his friendship. He trailed Harry, the Hogwarts boys catching on as The Chosen One and his shadow guard passed by. It was fitting, actually, that they trailed Harry through the night—they were all left in the dark, just the way Harry wanted.

He, Dean and Seamus formed a triangle, facing out and guarding Harry's back from several meters back. Hopkins and Michael Corner flanked Harry's right, Finch-Fletchley and McMillan hovering a few meters out to the left. Neville brought up the rear. Their spells didn't hit as hard as Harry's but they got the job done. It was clear that the minimal Healing and Pain-Management Charms Harry had performed on himself were insufficient. He was all but dragging that bum leg, gritting his teeth because, in his mind, he had no other choice. Harry was a stubborn son of a bitch. Not once had he ever chickened out on a fight: he hadn't backed down in first year when Malfoy challenged him to that stupid duel and he wasn't about to start. The man could be eternally frustrating that way—reliable as hell, but vexing just the same.

“Wot the hell is tha'?” Seamus stage-whispered, eyes on the castle.

“Looks like frost,” Ron murmured back. He cradled his bad hand to his chest, knife poised to strike. Harry was skirting the fight, seemingly making rounds, checking on some status only his trained eye could see. They weren't getting attacked as much—probably because they weren't casting any spells. In the pitch black, they would be near-impossible to spot.

Neville jogged up to join the other Gryffindors. “Can't be,” he shook his head, quite convinced. “It's too early for frost. And not cold enough.”

Dean rolled his eyes. As one of the few seventh years in N.E.W.T. Herbology, Neville probably had the fall’s first frost on file.

“Then what would you call it?” Ron pointed off towards the castle, struggling to keep his voice down. “I mean... its magical, that much I'm certain.” There was a haze gathering at the base of the building, swirling and ebbing with the wind. It seemed to be rising out of the ground like a cold steam, snaking up the walls in thick, opaque tendrils. The way it moved reminded him of frost spreading across a window-pane but on a much larger scale. The effect on the castle was frightening. Soon the massive structure would be engulfed in the stuff.

“You don't think... Dementors?” Seamus posed.

“Nah,” Ron shrugged. He wasn’t quite sure in his mind but he didn't want the chaps to panic.

The mist expanded rapidly, creeping over the craggy stone surface, blocking the windows and then closing up over the roof. It swirled and shifted, then flashes of light came from inside and the surface solidified, resembling ice. Spidery cracks appeared everywhere at once, pumping magic through the sheet of murky ice like blood and oxygen beneath human skin. The structure resembled a barrier to keep the enemy at bay, thrumming with the magic of Hogwarts in its veins.

“Professor Flitwick's up in the Astronomy Tower,” Ron offered. “And he's got some help. Bet you four sickles it's his work.”

“Since when do you have two sickles to rub together?” Dean muttered under his breath. Seamus chuckled softly while Neville blushed beneath the dirt and grime on his face.

The magical mist began spreading out from the castle, solidifying as it went. It flowed past the Womping Willow, the tree's wild branches slowing... finally grinding to a halt as a shimmery sheen settled over its limbs, man-high icicles hanging in places. The mist was gathering speed as it went, rolling toward the gardens. Ron wondered what would happen when it hit the lake.

One of the werewolves gave a mighty howl. It spoke clearly of defeat. The Death Eaters were calling a retreat.

The castle’s icy shield was calming the rain, slowly clearing out the storm in favor of a chilly calm. There was just a disheartening drizzle now, faint-glowing stars peeking out of the late-night sky making it easier to detect the shadowed shapes of bodies pulling back into the Forbidden Forrest. A contingent of defenders gave chase—the angry blond Auror at the head of the charge—but most remained behind, attempting to detain those still caught in duels and skirmishes. It wasn't long until the last fell. Not a one was overpowered: they fought to the last, ready to die for their lord. Ron watched through the spotty rain as a blood-streaked Chereshko took off at a sprint toward the castle. The man cut a sharp path away from the gardens, calling out as he went. The bark of his voice echoed against the greenhouse glass, sending the sound back out across the grounds.

Hiding behind the greenhouse was Harry's Granian, wings folded down along its body and the wound at its breast fully healed. Beside the beast stood a hefty man with an impressive beard, the unmistakable shimmer of Harry's Invisibility Cloak stretched over his chasm-wide shoulders. The big man must have healed the winged horse and was leading it back. Harry began to hobble his way over when he noticed Chern's path. They all met up in the middle, the large man leading the Granian straight to Harry. Ron watched as his best mate threw his arms around the beast's neck, pulling its speckled head down in an unmistakable hug and speaking in its ear. He stroked the animal’s ears for a long time, exchanging words with Chereshko and the bearded fellow.

The defenders were scouring the bodies, pulling out their dead and checking for any enemies still live-enough to glean information from. So far there was a growing pile of bodies and no knowledge to be had. Harry flew his Granian out toward the Forbidden Forest to round up the witches and wizards who had chased off the last of the Death Eaters. While he was gone, Ron kept a careful eye on the burly man with Harry's Invisibility Cloak. He found it strange that Harry hadn't taken the cloak back, knowing it had belonged to his father and carried so much sentimental value.

His suspicions paid off after a few uncomfortable moments. The fellow drew the cloak around himself and disappeared. With a wary eye, Ron traced the path of fresh footprints appearing in the mud as the invisible man squelched and slid along. The man stopped when he reached the body of a Death Eater at the edge of the gardens, difficult to see as the Death Eater Had fallen in a divot mostly concealed by rushes. Ron crouched down, pretending to nurse his injured hand in order to get a better view of what the newcomer might be doing with the corpse.

He heard the unmistakable sound of a knife entering flesh; funny that he knew that sound now. The dead Death Eater's chest opened, slowly at first. There was some muttering, cursing and at last a spell. The knife dragged through bone with the aid of magic, exposing the dead wizard's heart. The foreigner reached inside and sliced the organ free, bringing it inside his borrowed cloak and out of sight.

Taking the heart of a freshly dead man indicated one of a very few specific and ancient spells—the sort of magic nobody talked about anymore but you knew it was practiced somewhere, whispered about, handed down through generations. Ron was willing to bet the deed to the Burrow that he knew what this fellow was up to. It could only be one thing: he was feeding a blood ward, designed to keep the Death Eaters out and the family of Hogwarts safe.

Good.

- - -

Ron slumped out of Hermione's room much later that night, closing the heavy door behind himself with a dry click of the latch. He had to remind himself to breathe.

He hadn't told her. She'd pushed and prodded and even pouted but when it came right down to it—telling his girlfriend that he'd killed a man tonight, stuck a knife in another person's throat, committed out-right physical murder—that was something he couldn't go through with... having her know he was capable of such a thing. He didn't want her to treat him differently, like some kind of monster. Because that's what he was: a monster. He'd killed with his bare hands.

It was his to deal with, anyway. As much as Hermione put up a strong front, she was actually very sensitive to matters of bullying and violence. Even as a first year, she would always cringe when he and Harry got in fist fights with Malfoy and the Slytherins. She didn't approve of violence as a means to solve one's problems. It wasn't as though he could have talked that were-wizard out of slaughtering Harry, though. The man was determined to feast on The Chosen One's innards and Ron had prevented it. He comforted himself with that fact. Hermione was going to be mad at him for a while but what else was new? He had his pride to consider. Her anger he could live with; other emotions were a different story.

He looked up at the sound of shuffling feet that weren't his own. Malfoy was weaving his way up the sloped hall, probably drunk if his sloppy gait and hunched torso was anything to go by.

“Oi,” Ron said, his voice a little raspy after telling Hermione 'no' more than he had in a lifetime. “Malfoy. You on the piss?”

The blond shushed him violently. Spittle practically flew from his thin white lips. As the Head Boy wandered into the lamp light, Ron realized the reason for his staggering gait; Malfoy carried a sleeping Harry piggy-back, the brunet slumped to one side and drooling onto Malfoy's shoulder. They both had damp hair that clung to their foreheads, skin freshly scrubbed and smelling strongly of those fancy soaps in the Prefects' Bathroom.

Ron lowered his voice to a whisper. “Harry okay?”

“Fine,” Malfoy sniffed. He adjusted his grip on Harry's thigh, hitching his snoozing boyfriend up a bit higher on his back. It was still strange to think of them as 'boyfriends.' Malfoy was poncy enough that if you looked at him just right you could definitely see it. But Harry? Too butch. Maybe it worked because Malfoy was so waspish and finicky, like a girl.

“I... er,” Ron floundered. He rubbed at the back of his neck. He kept feeling fingers there—dirty, clawing fingers.

“Spit it out, Weasel King,” the blond drawled, speaking under his breath. “Wonder Boy isn't one of those light-in-the-loafers faeries, if you catch my drift.”

Ron's brows shot up. “It's... um....”

A familiar smirk twisted Malfoy's pale face. “Don't tell me—you and Granger were having a late-night tryst and you would be most appreciative if I didn't go spreading it around?” He snorted loudly. “Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me,” the blond rolled his eyes grandly, turning towards his room. “Who would believe me... or care?”

At that moment, Harry hissed in his sleep—Parseltongue hissing. He seemed to go on for several sentences, burrowing into Malfoy's neck and, to Ron's utter horror, nibbling on the man's earlobe. The sides of Malfoy's thin mouth turned up just a bit, forming a very odd smile, indeed. It was like he was trying to hold back the joy so Ron wouldn't see.

“What'd he say?” Ron insisted quickly.

Malfoy shrugged, hitching Harry up again. One of the git’s spidery hands curled around Harry's bum, keeping him steady as Malfoy pushed the door to their room open with his free hand.

The blond spoke over his shoulder, not bothering to turn round. “He said he's happy. Can you say the same?”

With that, Malfoy went inside—shutting the door in Ron's stunned face.

Malfoy wasn't a Parselmouth. There was no way he understood what Harry had said, just as Ron hadn't. Malfoy was making stuff up. Nothing new.

Ron sighed. When he thought about it, he couldn't say he was happy; after the way Harry handled himself, breaking things off with Ginny only to throw himself at Ferret Face, how could he not be the slightest bit upset? Harry was like family—as near and dear to him as a brother. A so-called brother who had shown a decided lack of decorum in dumping his best mate's sister for a spineless, pointy-nosed, ex-Death Eater poofter git. And there was the fact that Malfoy was a bloke—the bloke who'd teased, insulted, bullied and verbally abused them all for the last six years. That wasn't the sort of thing a fellow got over in a few weeks... unless that fellow was Harry, apparently. He'd been on Malfoy's side most of the summer. It only started to show after a few weeks; perhaps shortly after Malfoy, Hermione and Krum were attacked in the underground, but Ron had noticed the shift. That was when Harry stopped being Harry—Ron's Harry, anyway. He was Malfoy's man now. And that was probably what hurt the most.

But he couldn't deny that there were parts of Harry and Malfoy's personalities that fit together rather seamlessly. They were both intensely secretive, fiercely competitive and a tad paranoid. In the past, they both depended on their friends but didn't always treat them well—though Ron and Hermione had certainly received more respect and consideration than Malfoy's goons, Crabbe and Goyle. They were both so protective of the people they loved. It blinded them, helped them justify some of the riskiest decisions of their lives. Ron couldn't help but feel that it was happening all over again, that Malfoy was just another Sirius that Harry would chase after, needing the love and family he’d been deprived of for so long, blinded to the shortcomings because he needed so much to have people in his life who would care for him. Harry was getting irascible like Malfoy, moody and temperamental. He drew away like never before—away from his old network of friends, his family, playing right into Malfoy's Dark-Marked arms.

No good could come of it.

It wasn't that he was homophobic, like Hermione accused in her more bitter moments. He didn't exactly dislike Harry for being gay or curious... or horny. That was fine. It happened. He'd never understand kissing a bloke when there were plenty of perfectly decent girls around but it was Harry's choice not to grab a bird and have at it. Malfoy looked a bit like a bird but that didn't change much. The choice of Malfoy was something he'd never wrap his head around as long as he lived. It was... well, it was Malfoy—Malfoy the poncy Slytherin git who'd made their lives a living hell, threatened their families and friends, put them in danger with his antics and stupid, stupid schemes. Maybe Harry saw some of his own flaws in Malfoy. Maybe making Malfoy into a slightly better person would somehow help him work through his own issues. It was worth a shot, anyway.

Ron harrumphed. It was all moot; looking back to that very first day of first year on the Hogwarts Express... even then, there hadn't really been a Harry without Draco Malfoy. Maybe things hadn't changed so much, after all.

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Conscience