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
- 46
- 47
- 48
SUMMARY: Harry has been hiding in America. When he returns to England, the war comes crashing down around him.

WARNINGS: recollections of violence, mention of acts of war/genocide, minor character death, aftereffects of war, injuries, some blood, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, religion, Harry being clueless!Harry

DISCLAIMER: “One More Time With Feeling” from Regina Spektor's 2009 album Far, released by Sire Records.

CONSCIENCE:

BERETTA –

ONE MORE TIME WITH FEELING

You thought by now you'd be so much better than you are.

You thought by now they'd see that you had come so far.

And the pride inside their eyes would synchronize into a love you'll never know,

So much more than you can show.

Hold on,

One more time with feeling.

Try it again, breathing's just a rhythm.

Say it in your mind until you know that the words are right:

This is why we fight.

This is why we fight.

"One More Time With Feeling"

Regina Spektor

The Ministry of Magic truly was hiding itself in a barn. The countryside of Northern Ireland surrounded the dilapidated structure, windows shattered and great gaping holes in the rotten beams making up its walls. Drizzle made the whole scene hazy, even in his mind.

Once ushered inside, it hadn't taken Harry long to say his peace. But he'd gotten a fair look around. Though the space had been charmed—the interior at least twenty times larger than its humble outsides suggested—no one had the time or inclination to change the appearance much. The ceiling was all wood beams high above, where hay would have been stored back when muggles used the place. The floor was nothing more than humble packed dirt, turned to mud with the traffic of feet and the constant rain. Thankfully the inside of the building was leak-free—undoubtedly the work of magic, what with so many holes in the true structure. Having heard the rumors, Leon supplied Harry with a pair of heavy workman's boots; his footfalls were heavy in his ears, walking through the hushed rows of make-shift tables and chairs, led with somber pomp to the Minister of Magic's roost.

Scrimgeour sat in what had once been a chicken coop. His assistants used the abandoned animal cubbies as shelves, housing paperwork, magical instruments and a variety of official-looking seals. Scrimgeour was harried and troubled, his hair whitening rapidly, the strands almost bleaching themselves before Harry's eyes. The man tried to speak to him of support and public morale, arguing Harry ought to take a leaf from young Draco Malfoy's book and at least appear to be on friendly terms with his government. Harry stopped the Minister right there.

He advised the man, in no uncertain terms, that he disagreed with the current policy and could not ethically offer his public support until there were significant changes, both in law and regime. Scrimgeour's aids paled while their boss's face reddened.

Harry went on to suggest that, should the Minister wish to proffer an olive branch, he might consider allying himself to Harry's cause... rather than dragging him away from his own work for nothing more than scowls and pandering. The Ministry of the Americas might be a good place to start, he offered, with their Field Operation Teams trained for situations like the ones England—and most of Europe—faced with Voldemort at large. Ferrard Lachlan was also put on the table as a contact, with his philanthropic efforts and willingness to give back to the magical community at large.

“Show me this government can care for the people more than for itself,” Harry chastised, ruffling his hair. “Prove to me that you mean what you say. Then, perhaps, we'll talk.”

More than the expression of disgust on Scrimgeour's spluttering face, Harry recalled the rafters in that place; the way sound echoed and bounced around, words flung here and there, falling on deaf ears, landing in big piles of manure. Though the stuff had been cleared away long ago, its stench remained, replaced with even heavier piles, carted out still-steaming from the Ministry halls.

It was all shit. He wondered why he wasted his time.

Tonks stopped him on his way out, offering a smile and a pat on the shoulder.

“Good for you,” she added under her breath. “I think we'd all like to tell him where he can shove it,” and she angled her head back toward the Minister, now barking angry orders at his aids. Tonks winked at him through her fall of violet curls. “You're an inspiration, Harry.”

He snorted, waving off the compliment.

“Oh,” she added, waggling a finger. “You've got something in your hair, by the way.”

Harry patted the back of his head, a finger coming back sticky. Tonks shrugged, casting a Cleaning Charm at his hand and then his unruly locks.

“Good as new,” she grinned casually, unaware that Harry had just faced the Minister of Magic—lectured him, really—with an ex-Death Eater's come in his hair. Bloody priceless.

~ * ~

It was only a few glances. Here and there, coming and going. But eventually Leon caught on.

“Sixty-eight Triumph,” the old man said from behind Harry, startling him from his consideration of the disassembled vintage bike Leon kept in a corner of his garage. “Helluva motorbike.”

Harry gestured to the partly dismantled machine amid all the clutter. “Think you'll get her running again?”

“Runnin'?” Leon started. And then he laughed. “I can get anything ter run, m'boy.”

Harry nodded, an idea popping into his head. He turned. “Think you could show me the basics?” he asked. “I have a fifty-nine Bonneville back home, was hoping to fit it up. Is there much difference between the years?”

Within half an hour, they were up to their elbows in grease, engine parts splayed all over the tarp as Leon walked Harry through the basics of a magically-adapted engine. Harry resorted to using a quill and Recording Spell to make sure he didn't forget anything vital.

Fiddling to clean the intake valve of what he now knew was a catalytic converter, Harry cast about for non motorcycle-related topics of conversation.

“Um. So I was wondering, er... how you knew my father.”

Leon's salt and pepper mustache twitched. That was the old man's only visible reaction. He remained hunched over the carburetor he was rebuilding.

“Nobody told yeh?” Another twitch, like the Irishman was chewing his lips. “I was 'is boss. Aurors Office, after I took a transfer from the Hit Wizards.”

“Could you tell me about my Dad?” Harry asked slowly. “I've only ever heard about him from his friends or people who despised him.”

Leon chuckled over his work. “Yer father knew how ter rile folks up, tha's fer damn sure.”

“Yeah?” The side of Harry's mouth quirked up.

Leon used the back of his weathered, age-spotted hand to wipe a bit of grease from his jaw. Then he glanced over at Harry.

“When yer dad came outta trainin', they had him in the Investigation Department. Big mistake, there. My first mornin' on the job, James was in Barty Crouch's office—head o' department, mind you—makin' a stink over this formal reprimand what-had been handed down. Investigation Officials dinna have arrest privileges back then, ya see,” Leon explained. “Yer dad had chased a wizard wanted fer murder charges—chased 'em through the muggle underground. Seven stops, if I'm not mistaken. But he made the arrest, an' the man stood trial fer 'is crimes. I knew right then: James was the sort'a man I wanted on my team. I couldn't strike the reprimand from his record, a' course, but I got 'im promoted to Auror Squad within the week. Some fellas,” Leon chewed his lip in thought. “Some have the fire in 'em—they need ter catch every bad wizard out there, make the world a safer place. Tha' was James. Impulsive... maybe sommat reckless, but driven. Good wizard, he was. Good man.”

Harry considered that—his Dad, just out of Hogwarts and eager to prove himself, chasing down a dangerous Dark wizard wanted for murder. That made James Potter sound like a father to be proud of.

“Some people have called my father arrogant. Would you say that was accurate?”

“Headstrong,” Leon offered. “Stubborn. But rarely unpleasant. Had a penchant fer risk-takin' what landed 'im in St. Mungos a few times a month, but never too wild. Always kept himself inside the law. I remember he settled down quite a bit once you were on the way, lad.”

Harry wasn't sure why, but his face heated. He focused his attention on the fuzzy pipe cleaner in his hand, working it around the nooks and crannies of the converter's metal housing. When Harry didn't speak, Leon continued his reminiscing.

“I met ya once,” the old man smiled broadly, “when you were just a wee'n. Yer mother brought ya by. James would always be flashin' pictures round the office—thought the world a' yeh both. An yer mother I liked. Smart lass. Classy. Worked in Charms, I believe.”

“She was an Unspeakable,” Harry offered. “I don't know much about what she did.”

“None a' us do, lad,” Leon reassured him. “Tha's the point.”

“So...” Harry fished around his head for the right words. “Did they seem... happy?”

Leon's mustache twitched again. “Honestly?” He set down the carburetor, looking away pensively. “I thought they were full young when they had you. Not long outta school, jus' startin' their careers—o' course yer dad had tha' cottage willed to 'im by some relative, an' they seemed ter get along like two fish in water. So who's to say, eh?”

Harry nodded his understanding. “Because, you and Mrs. Harper, you waited, right?”

“Well,” the Irishman cleared his throat. “Supposedly my cher couldn't have wee ones, on account a' her...” and Leon waved his old man fingers near his forehead like his wife had telepathy... or antlers. “Dee was... our little miracle, not long fer this world.”

“I'm really sorry,” Harry swallowed thickly. He was still polishing a now spotless catalytic converter, not knowing what else to do with his hands.

“'S alright,” Leon offered agreeably. “These things happen. You jus' keep tellin' yerself there's a reason behind it all. Young people dyin' all around, these days. We were blessed, 's wha' we were. Yer folks, too, I think. Havin' someone ter love... it gives yeh hope.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “I know what you mean.”

Suddenly, Leon took the motorcycle part from his hands, examining it. “Tha's gotta be clean by now, eejit,” he teased, inspecting Harry's work. The old man nodded his approval.

“Here's a thought; how's about I make a Portkey tomorrow, yeh pop back 'ter England fer that fifty-nine a' yers an' we'll have a look. See what-all shape she's in. Sound good?”

Harry couldn't help the grin cutting across his face as he accepted the old man's offer.

Distantly, he wondered if this was what having a grandfather was like—someone to dote on you, feed you sweets and call you “sonny.” Then again, Mr. Harper taught him to use a rifle, worked him to the bone and snuck him ales when Charlene wasn't looking. Less-than-ideal grandfatherly behavior. But maybe that was just Leon.

At any rate, they'd be family someday soon. After he and Draco got hitched, like the tapestry said. Leon and Lucius Malfoy were third cousins, which made Gideon and Draco fourth cousins. So Leon wouldn't exactly be Harry's grandfather, but something like his third cousin by marriage, once removed... or... the cross-Atlantic lines scrambled his brains. Family wasn't limited to blood: family was the people you kept near you, the people willing to stick it out with you through hell or high water.

Ron and Hermione were his family. The Weasleys and the Order. His family was growing every day, new and wonderful people stepping into his life. And as much as he fought with the oldest members of his family, that was normal. Just because they disagreed didn't lessen the love between them.

These people were Harry's family. He had a responsibility to protect them. He'd gotten it from his Dad apparently, as much as his Mum. They would both do anything to keep him safe. Harry knew that feeling. He had it for Draco, for Ron and Hermione—even Ginny. They hadn't worked as a couple but that was no reason to punish her. He cared for her, same as always. And they would be family, too. Just... not in the way either of them had expected.

~ * ~

There was something desperately wrong. He knew it the moment his sneakers hit the slightly dusty floorboards of Grimmauld Place. He'd Apparated into the formal parlor, met by gloom, natant particles of dust and ash kicked up by his sudden arrival, a murky view of the Black Family tree and sheet-covered furniture which couldn't be arsed to perk up and greet him proper.

There was something wrong. He could hear whispers—like when he used to dream of the Hall of Prophecy except these hushed voices weren't confined to his subconscious. The sound was real, echoing, coming from what sounded like the kitchen. Before he could take five steps toward the door, it opened, revealing a deadly-aimed wand tip and the very anxious face of Mikhail Ionescue.

“Harry,” the lad spoke, air whooshing out from his barrel chest as he heaved a sigh of relief. Like his brother, he put a meaty hand over his breast, as though to still his fluttery, quick-beating heart. The gesture reminded Harry of the first time he'd met the Ionescue brothers and their band of merry men; that night at the pub seemed eons away, now. It was before the war.

Something about Mikhail's face was off. His bright eyes were sunken, no eager smile curling his features. Strained, purplish veins showed at his neck, jumping as blood hurried through them, worry and fear dilating his eyes and draining the color from his complexion. He was scared shitless.

“Mishenka,” Harry replied gently. He'd gotten the impression it was more of a baby name, something the guy's grandmother and big brothers would have called him back when he was in nappies but in that moment it felt right. Harry watched the boy's jaw warble dangerously, clenching and unclenching as he struggled to find words.

“You...” he licked his pale lips and began again. “You have to come vith me. Down... ve—” He turned quite suddenly, detecting the sound of movement in the hall still too faint for Harry to pick up. A moment later, Chereshko appeared in the doorway behind Misha. “Harry's here now,” the boy advised. His normally smooth, Patrician tenor was shaky.

“I see zhat,” Chereshko laid a hand on Misha's shoulder, guiding him out of the doorway so the older man could enter the dimly lit room. He stowed his wand, meeting Harry's gaze with an unreadable one. “Yoo've heard, zhen.”

Something in Harry's gut did an unpleasant somersault. He swallowed. “Heard what?”

Chern closed his eyes, pulling breath through his prominent nose. It took the tall wizard a second to respond. “Valaam. Zhey destroyed zhe city. Hundreds vere killed—”

“Nebojsa, he...” Misha interrupted from the doorway, a choked sound escaping with his stilted words.

“Vill be fine,” Chereshko reassured, squeezing the boy's forearm. “Please, come sit,” he offered Harry. Chern's fire was gone—the man was on autopilot, eyes dead, limbs tired, his expression sunken and sallow. “Yoo've only just arrived. Tea?”

“Please,” Harry nodded. He didn't feel particularly parched but sitting down for this type of news seemed like a good idea. He followed the two men out into the hall, recognizing the deep, rolling burr of Yuri Batushansky as they neared the kitchen. The burly Moldovan sat at the kitchen table, muttering spells. With each incantation, another mystical device before him would whirr, emitting clicks and ticks and little puffs of smoke. Harry spotted a Sneakoscope among the otherwise foreign objects littering the table.

Yura looked up when Harry entered, bearded face devoid of his usual warm smile. The fellow's beard and curly black hair were a tangled mess, eyes and nose tinged with red. He looked like he hadn't slept all night. And perhaps had been crying. Harry sat down on the bench beside him, laying a hand to the huge man's shoulder. That hand looked like a child's, wiry and small compared to the bulk of muscle beneath it.

“What happened?” Harry managed. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. But it was probably the right thing to ask. “Where's Dmitry—and Nebojsa?”

Chereshko remained silent, busying himself at the stove with the preparation of tea.

Misha reached across the table, waggling his thick fingers until Harry took his hand. The boy's fingers had been scrubbed raw with hot water and soap; still, he wrapped Harry's hand in his, bracing.

“Death Eaters attacked the city at dawn,” the young man said slowly, measuring his words in an attempt to adhere to the facts. “Nebojsa vos in the muggle monastery for vespers—in the cathedral at the very center of town. Chern, Dima, Vadik and I vere still asleep. Yura vos out vith the patrol and Dušan vent to relieve him. They came vithout varning—no Dementors or Inferi, just waves of men climbing the banks—through the voods, over the valls and into the city like ghosts. They came in the fog vhich hangs over the lake. Ve voke to the sound of the church bell struck by stray spells. By the time ve got through the fighting in the streets, half the cathedral had collapsed. The spires, blue domes—crashing....”

Mikhail visibly shook himself; blinking profusely, as though the grit of masonry dust hadn't left him, as though smoke still stung his eyes. Harry pictured a great Russian cathedral, all done in white plaster with gold cornices and great round powdery blue domes that reached to the heavens... crumbling to the cobbled street where Death Eaters chased screaming muggles, wizard guards wiping the sleep from their eyes, dying all around as they fought back. It was exactly the sight he was trying to keep from Draco, from Ron and Hermione—and probably the last thing Dima wanted his tortured lover and baby brother to wake up to.

“I vent into zhe cathedral behind Vadik and my brozher. Vadik vent first. He vos burned by magic—the pain knocked him unconscious vithin a minute but he survived. Vhen ve found Nebojsa...” the boy gulped, squeezing Harry's hand tighter. It took several calming breaths before he could get the swirling images out of his head. His eyes remained unfocused, as though if he stared at nothing he could recall facts and events without seeing the wreckage in his mind. “A beam from the ceiling had fallen. It vent through his back, near the spine. He vos dying. Ve had to vanish a kidney to save him.”

“Misha is very talented vith medical spells,” Chern mumbled, staring daggers at the kettle to make it boil. The tall fellow was a skeletal shadow, hovering in the corner by the stove.

Mikhail shrugged at the praise offered. “Not so much talent. I learned the spells.” Yura made a rumbling, half-growling sound from beside Harry—not unlike a Swedish Short Snout with dragon tamers treading too close to her eggs. If the dull thunk was any indication, Yura must've attempted to kick Misha under the table and gotten the bench instead. Sheepish, the boy looked to Harry and elaborated, “It vos vot my fazher vanted, for me to become a Healer. I became accomplished to please him.”

How like Draco Mikhail was—willing to do anything for his father's affection and approval. Harry wondered if Vuk had been like Misha; it would be one more thing he and Draco might have shared. And Vukasin, like Draco, tried to get out when he realized how wrong his tiny pureblood world really was.

In the quiet, bubbles rattled the tea kettle, steam escaping. Harry promised himself he wouldn't let what happened to Vuk Ionescue happen to his brothers—or to Draco.

“So Nebojsa's gonna be alright?” Harry inquired.

“Damaged,” Yuri nodded, “but he'll live.”

Misha's gaze drifted toward the ceiling. He bit his lower lip: it was almost a smile. “Dima's having kittens.” By the look on his face, both Dima and Nebojsa had to be above stairs. Harry imagined the brown-haired Ionescue brother scratching at his beard and pulling at his hair, fretting over his boyfriend—his heart—demanding to know what he could do to ease the pain. Nebojsa would roll his eyes and tell Dima to be quiet and sit down before he gave himself an ulcer. The thought of them snipping at each other like that brought a smile to Harry's face.

“I'm sure,” Harry nodded. “Is Vadik okay?”

“Skin Re-Growing Potion. He's in bandages now but give him a few days.” Misha accepted a cup of tea from Chereshko, releasing Harry's hand with a final fond squeeze to wrap his fingers around the hot porcelain. A steaming mug was deposited before Harry alongside a jar of what looked like home-made cherry syrup. Harry spooned a bit of the sticky mixture into his mug, letting the sweetened steam drift up and warm his face, fogging the bottoms of his glasses.

“I'll bring Vadik his tea,” Chern said shortly, lifting a serving tray from the buffet.

Yuri raised a hand, halting him. “Vait,” he managed, voice thick.

Chern stayed with his back to the table, not moving a muscle.

Misha's black brows pinched together, making wrinkles across his smooth forehead. He drummed his fingers against the side of his mug, each fingernail making the tiniest of clinks to fill the silence that had fallen.

“Look again,” Misha said at last, fixing Yura with a hard and unreadable gaze.

“Zhere's no ozher vay,” Yuri shook his shaggy head. He looked miserable. “Looking again von't change zhe truth, dorogoi.”

Misha jumped to his feet, banging his fist on the table so hard that two of Yuri's copper instruments teetered, toppling over. A plume of purple smoke went up, and what looked like muggle asprin tablets rolled across the table, spilling onto the floor. Misha snapped something in Russian—if Harry had to guess, the way the young man leaned across the table, hissing in Yuri's face, suggested Mikhail thought he was being treated like a child. With his dark hair, booming voice and tight fists, he looked like Sirius. It was a pose the man had often struck, bellowing at Snape or Dumbledore in this very kitchen. Maybe loss and war just did that to people; grief and heartache and a life half lived, endlessly on the run.

Yuri's pebble-black eyes shot between Misha and Harry. He replied in English, his words slow, heavy, planned so that Harry could understand. Yuri didn’t want Harry to be left out of this.

“It's not as zough yoo have to do it.”

Misha's jaw clenched but he didn't say another word. With a huff, the boy stormed from the kitchen. If it weren't for the portrait of Mrs. Black demanding a hush over the hall, Mishenka probably would have stomped his feet the whole way. As it was, Harry watched him pace the entry, tugging at his lengthening black hair as he mumbled to himself, casting wary eyes between the staircase and the closed dining room door.

“...Do what?” Harry murmured into his cup.

“Dušan,” Yuri answered simply. “He replaced me at zhe guard house.”

Harry watched as Yura drew two solemn, tell-tale fingers across his throat.

Dušan Iliev, eighteen years old. He'd dueled the Death Eaters. And they cut off his head after they killed him. Harry couldn't breathe.

“Ve have to put it back on,” Yura said, more to himself. It was a conviction. “Ve can't lay him to rest like zhat.”

“His cousin?” Harry asked. “His family you'all were staying with?”

“Dead.”

Yura stood. Chereshko was silent, his back still turned and white-knuckled, gripping the counter-top as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.

“Zhere vere five hundred muggles, twice as many vitches i wizards concealed on zhe magical side of Valaam. Less zhan two hundred zurvived.” A simple and silent swish of Yura’s hand wandlessly cleaned the mess Misha had made of his devices. They packed themselves up in a leather satchel beneath the table. “Death Eaters zlaughtered zhe Merpeople, hunted zhe centaurs, burned zhe forests. No one could put out zhe fires. Ve had no vhere else to go.”

Harry stood, too. “Stay as long as you need to. You're welcome as long as it's safe here.”

“Mulţumesc.” Yura seemed to speak for them all—the silent Chereshko and brooding Mishenka, laid-up Vadik, broken Nebojsa and heart-sick Dima. Even Dušan's headless corpse, hidden away somewhere out of sight.

“Um... where is he?” Harry stuck his hands in his back pockets, head down and watching his trainers shuffle beneath him, not knowing what to do with himself. “I'd like to pay my respects.”

Yura's gaze went over Harry's head. The man looked more than his age. Yura couldn't have been more than twenty five but in that moment, the shadows of his face and the weariness of his eyes made him ancient.

“Zhe dining room. But not yet, prietene,” the man cautioned. “He vouldn't vant to be zeen like zhat—too proud.”

Harry nodded, fingers wiggling anxiously in his pockets. There was nothing he could do but stand there and watch, a passive audience to the drama of his friends' lives and deaths. There was nothing he could do and he felt it keenly.

Glancing at the table, Yuri cast a quick Stasis Charm on the mugs of tea. Their trails of steam froze in mid-air; still and waiting, like the tall, unmoving man in the corner.

“But...” Harry protested: what, he wasn't sure.

Silent, Yura left the kitchen with a conjured needle and thread. He left to sew Dušan's head back on. Harry followed.

Harry waited with Misha on the half flight of steps leading from the main hall to the kitchen, sitting elbow-to-elbow on the top step and staring at nothing, swirls of dust kicked up in the fading light of the entry at their backs. Neither turned to be blinded by the last of the sunlight streaming through the slender windows. Even the portrait of Sirius' late mother was caught up in the hush fallen over the house.

Chereshko rattled around the kitchen a few minutes before emerging with a laden tea tray. The tall man went to sit with Vadik in Draco's music room, the big man propped up with many pillows on the sofa, white bandages catching the last of the daylight. Chern separated the chess board from its pedestal and brought it over to his quiet companion's lap. Harry watched the slow progress of their game through the doorway, observed the hushed conversation passing between them, his head drooping to Mikhail's sturdy shoulder as the stale, leaden minutes went by. They waited for Yura to emerge from the barren dining room, up to his wrists in blood with silent tears streaming down his pockmarked and darkly-bearded face. He dropped to his knees right there in the hall, shaking, weeping, horrified.

Mishenka's teeth began to chatter.

There was an oath from the second floor landing—something vituperated of cocks and loose women, Gods and buggery and shit, shit, fucking God shit. The language was Russian but Harry understood the vehemence, the anger, every pulse of it. He knew the sound of shoves, of a heavy, rage-laden foot colliding with the banister in a maligned, misaligned kick. Harry scrambled to his feet and up the stairs, passing a very harried-looking Kreacher all-but-sprinting from the man looming at the top of the stairs. Dmitry stood with both fists clenched tight in his hair; sandy-colored waves bursting from between his thick fingers, cheeks and eyes a mass of red. A second later the fellow's wand was out and he was firing silent hexes at the floorboards, literally cursing them, strung out on the last dregs of adrenaline and fear.

Harry made the landing and caught him round the middle in a rugby tackle, knocking them both into the wall before they hit the ground with a thud that squeaked and squawked the floorboards something fierce. Harry was lucky enough to land on top, the Romanian having at least six stone on him. Dima's wand was at his throat in a heartbeat. Birch wood dug at his skin where Draco liked to bite.

“You'll wake him!” Dima warned. If there were tears in his eyes, they didn't appear in his voice. He was all ardor, hissing rage. For a moment, Harry considered the brunet might actually be speaking Parseltongue.

Harry shushed him. One heave of those knotted shoulders told him—Dima was unraveling.

Harry joked beneath his breath. “I’ll wake him? And your cursing the floorboards won't?”

Dmitry blinked at him a moment, seeming to come back to himself. Something shifted in the dark centers of his eyes, his sanity returning. He put his head to Harry's chest to hide the fat gobs of tears bursting at his lashes.

“It's okay,” Harry told him, petting aimlessly at the husky torso and shoulders below him. “He'll be okay.”

Dima gasped, ropey muscles of his neck jumping wildly as he fought for air through the sobs. “I nearly lost him,” he spoke through a sharp inhale, beating his forehead against Harry's chest.

Harry shushed him again. They were right outside the linen closet in which he and Draco had sat the morning of his seventeenth birthday, Draco massaging his shoulders and just being there, being a friend in the only capacity Harry was willing to accept back then. He closed his eyes, recalling how good Draco had made him feel that day, when so many dark thoughts were swirling through his head. He let the feeling, the memory, take over his mind as though he were casting a Patronus Charm. When he felt so full of hope and comfort he might burst, he put a hand to Dmitry's shoulder, pushing him to the ground, forcing the man to look him in the eye. Those amber eyes were flooded, wavering beyond the smudges of Harry's glasses.

“The worst is over,” Harry told him softly. “I know it was close. And I know you were frightened. But he's alright. And he needs you.”

Dmitry sniffed, his head thunking to the wooden floor. They'd conveniently missed the padding of the runner carpet by several feet.

“You're right,” the wizard whispered back. “I'm... zorry I kicked your house elf.”

Harry shrugged. “Kreacher? Probably deserved it. No worries.”

Dmitry sat up, leaning his weight back against his hands as he regarded Harry, a peculiar emotion in his hazel eyes. Harry couldn't quite put a finger on it. But he was aware of his being seated on the man's lap like a cheap tart and eager to be off, back steady on his own two feet. The position was... inappropriate, both of them being in relationships and all. And Dima was huge. Straddling the man as he was, Harry swore his hips would pop out of their sockets if he moved wrong. It made his pelvis ache to hold himself suspended over the Romanian's crotch—but he did it anyway, not wanting those parts of their anatomy to touch. It wouldn't be proper.

“Here,” Dmitry smiled, sliding back and then jumping to the balls of his feet with athletic grace. He offered Harry his hand.

Harry took it, squeezing hard when there was a loud noise beside them—like something colliding with the other side of the wall. A second later, it came again, louder.

“Nebojsa,” Dima said at once, yanking Harry to his feet with such ferocity that something tweaked deep in his shoulder blade. The big man didn't waste a second, ripping open the bedroom door and bolting inside, wand out. Harry followed, holly and phoenix feather to hand.

The Serb was lying in bed, breathing hard, a book grasped in his raised hand, poised to throw it at them. Two big dragonhide boots sat by the door. Nebojsa had apparently thrown the footwear to get their attention and was starting-in on the novels.

“Iubito...” Dima breathed. He lowered his wand.

Nebojsa threw the book at his boyfriend's head. “I call you—I scream for you... notzing! Zo I zhrew zings.” He snatched a washcloth, presumably used to wipe his forehead when he was unconscious, and “zhrew” that, too. Dima stood rooted to the spot, letting the rag catch him across the face. “No more Zilencing Charms on zhis room, Dimka. And vhere is my vand?” Nebojsa fixed his boyfriend with a demanding, dagger-point glare before peeking over at Harry through his long lashes. “Zdrävo, Harry. Zhank you for offering your home. Ve had no vhere else—”

Harry cut him off. “Really. It's not a problem. I'm glad you're here.”

The Serb gave the smallest smile before his gaze went back to Dmitry, repeating, “My vand?”

Dima was patting his pockets furiously, the back of his bull-neck red from blushing. “Mishenka must have eet—lost his vand dueling. Yuri hasn't replaced eet yet.”

Nebojsa shrugged, pulling the covers off his legs. His thin torso was wrapped in a white bandage from armpits to hips, compression to help his internal wounds heal. He winced as he swung his bare feet to the floor.

“You ought to keep in bed,” Dima cautioned.

Nebojsa snapped something—to Harry, it sounded like a protracted, Serbian version of “fuck off.” Dmitry raised his hands to shoulder height, palms forward and backing away. Dmitry stopped only when his back hit the corner of the room, folding his powerful arms over his chest in a pout. Redness remained all around his eyes even as his blush faded.

Harry stepped forward, attracting the Serb's fiery attention. If a familiar face wasn't calming him, perhaps a stranger's was in order.

“Might I help at all?”

Nebojsa looked terrible—like he could hardly hold himself up. There were empty potion phials on the bedside table alongside a bowl of water, several rags and a slice of half-nibbled-on toast. A bucket wasn't far off. Harry watched as the man swayed slightly on his feet, moving to counteract the spinning in his head. A greyish green pallor hung over his skin, usually as bright as Draco's. He looked like death warmed over, a walking skeleton—his muscle might have peeled away under his skin were it not for the bandages holding him in.

Leaning heavily against the bed frame, Nebojsa aimed a skinny finger at a table by the window, pointing with an arm which only shook a little before drooping to his side. “Light zhe candles for me?”

Harry stepped to the table, lighting the collection of tapered white candles with a whispered spell. Nebojsa teetered over, hand to the wall to keep his balance as he moved. When the wall became too far, he reached for Harry's shoulder, instead. Harry slid a quick arm around the man's bony waist when he began to drop.

“Kneeling,” Nebojsa muttered. Harry looked up to see an indulgent half-smile. He preferred it to the previous bilious rage. Harry aimed a Cushioning Charm at the floor before letting the man down, taking a knee himself in the process. From this angle, Harry looked again at the candles. Carved into each were symbols—Cyrillic alphabet. They had to be names of people in his life who had died. There were a few items, too; a woman's sterling necklace adorned with a single blue gem, a photograph of tree-covered mountains taken from the edge of a cliff, the photographer looking out over the magnificent scene. It was a wizarding picture. Harry could see the tiny trees moving in the breeze. And at the center of the candles was a piece of carved wood, looking like a miniature set of double doors. They even split down the center.

Nebojsa reached out, parting the wooden doors with his nimble fingers. The tiny doorway stood no more than two inches high, the inside painted a luminescent gold as backdrop to the most detailed figures Harry had ever seen. They were saints, dressed in robes of red and blue, halos around each head. Each face looked out as though eternally asking for the suffering of the world, taking it upon themselves. They were martyrs.

Harry understood. It was what people did to him. And sometimes, like with Draco, he did it to himself. He wanted to take people's troubles, their pain, to ease it in whatever way he could. Being their Chosen One gave people comfort and a sense of purpose. He reminded them of the larger picture: he gave them hope, no matter how dark things got. And there wasn't anything wrong with bringing people that kind of peace.

“You—” Dima began. He was probably going to tell his ailing boyfriend off for kneeling on a cold wooden floor.

Harry shushed him, not bothering to turn round. With the hand still around Nebojsa's waist, he gave a gentle squeeze, telling the man it was okay, that Harry had his back if he wanted to do something as ludicrous as pray.

Nebojsa murmured, a hand to his neck. When his hand came away, the inky tattoo of a cross pulled away with it, peeling from his skin with a shiver of air, becoming metal in his hand. Magic. He placed it with a thick clank on the table—put it down before he dropped it, more like. The thing was solid metal, Harry could tell by looking at it.

It seemed he'd prayed like this before, prizing the cross from his neck in order to have something to look to—probably in the darkness of whatever dank cell the Death Eaters had kept him in. The cold of that place still hung about him, in his strangled limbs, glacial eyes and jangled, jutting ribs. He reminded Harry of Sirius in that moment—this house had a habit of caging caged men, brokenness drawn to brokenness, all collapsing in on itself. Sirius hadn't really had anyone; not even Remus, not really. At least Nebojsa had some semblance of a family in Dima and Misha, something, someone to carry him through.

He focused on the cross, glittering in the candle light, gray like Draco's eyes.

The relic was heavy, old and worn-looking, sharp at the bottom where the cross tapered off to a point, almost like a sword's tip. Silently, Harry wondered how many times the wizard had used it as a weapon... used his faith, literally, to save his own life.

Words left his mouth before he could think them through.

“How can you have magic and believe in a muggle god?”

A thin-lipped smile graced Nebojsa's face. It brought back a glimpse of the handsomeness he'd surely flaunted, once. Before the Death Eaters laid hands on him.

“Harry. Vhere do you zhink your magic comes from? You believe ve have zhis for no reason? Zhat zhere is no greater purpose behind your parents having zhis gift, giving you life, giving you zhat same gift, zhat you might grow up to be zhe man you are? And zhe man you may one day become?” His smile grew fond, spindly fingers running over the long metal spike of his cross as Draco's did over his piano keys. “I cannot believe zhat is chance.”

And then he sang—chanted, really. He would sing several syllables on the same note before his voice rose or dropped, scooping out sound like a footpath through knee-high snow. He had such a beautiful voice, high and sweet. But no less rich for the purity of his tone. The same qualities which made women's voices lovely applied to his. He made the air dance, the sound shivering down your spine. Harry closed his eyes, feeling it, letting it fill him, binning every stray thought collecting dust in his mind until there was nothing but calm, peace, and a secret kind of knowing, of his heart and who he was.

There was magic in this, too. He gave a squeeze to the man's waist, saying he understood.

Dmitry joined in after a time, lending his rib-rattling bass to what must have been a common prayer. His was a compliment to the melody, a tepid hand to follow the notes already shimmying down Harry's back. Ghost hands rested upon his shoulders. It was a good thing he'd already taken to his knees.

He'd never wished so much in his life that he could sing. He'd have to speak the variation of Russian they sang in, too, but that didn't matter so much. Dmitry's part wasn't much more than a few sustained vowels, swelling and ebbing like a tide with his breath. Still, Harry wished he could sing. And that Draco would sing with him.

Nebojsa faltered, coughing. It was a wet sound in his throat, bloody and hard. He clapped a fist to his mouth. But Harry still spotted flecks of dark red as they splattered in a micro-pattern against the white candles.

Dima surged forward. Nebojsa was hoisted up in seconds, piggybacked to the bed. Harry followed, feeling helpless. Set on his back, the Serb curled immediately into a shockingly small shape, just a ball of bony angles and sleep pants, hugging his knees. He coughed again, blood sneaking past his fist to dribble down his bone-pale wrist. His free hand clutched at the neck of his boyfriend's thermal shirt.

“Get Misha,” he mutter-coughed.

Dmitry tore off, barking a short, “Stay vith him,” at Harry before barreling off, cursing his way down the hall. “Pula mea, blya puțoi....”

Another great cough blew Nebojsa's hand away from his mouth, spraying the bed sheet with gore and spit. His eyes were screwed shut, jaw quivering, hacking up his insides. The rolling of his shoulders activated lean muscles, shifting all along his tattooed back, the meat of him rippling under the bandages. The man took up fists of sheets, long fingers clenching.

Harry watched the play of his muscles, oddly fascinated. Nebojsa was skinny. But fuck, he was strong. Harry tried to imagine that gaunt frame with an extra stone of muscle. Maybe two. The resulting image was a little disorienting.

Harry approached the bed very slowly, not sure what to do, not sure how long it would be before Misha and Dmitry came charging through the door, confident—always so much bravado and self-assurance with those two. Nebojsa was the brains behind their operation, though—their Hermione. Their heart. It had to be hell on the brothers, to see him suffering like this. Nebojsa was the closest thing either of them had to a mother, after all.

Harry sat on the very edge of the bed, casting a quick Evanesco to save the sheets. Wand in hand, he touched Nebojsa's bandaged side. He wished he could heal thoughtlessly, like Draco. He wished he could heal with spells and potions, like Misha and Madame Pomphrey. Anything to help rather than hurt.

Beneath his hand, the Serb began to shake, convulsing as he struggled to dull the pain. It looked like he was holding his guts in with that fist pressed tight against his mouth once more.

“I....” Harry had no idea what to say.

Long face screwed up in torment, the man reached out, taking Harry's hand and squeezing like The Boy Who Lived was his only link to the world of the living. What color the Serb had was quickly draining from his face, replaced by a frightening blue-grey palor, reminding Harry of an Inferius—bloodless, dead. He glanced back at the door, wondering what could be taking Misha so long.

Harry dropped his wand. What was the use? He didn't know many medical spells, and nothing from his repertoire would be useful here.

“I don't... I can't...” he mumbled, panic rising. He leaned close, touching his forehead to Nebojsa's bare, cold-sweat-slicked shoulder. Comfort was all he could give. Nebojsa squeezed his hand in return.

Misha came trundling in at last, hauling a leather satchel which clinked and clanked with potion vials. Rather than shooing Harry away, the brothers merely took up beside him, Misha kneeling on the floor by his patient's head and Dmitry on the bed behind his partner, his fingers tracing steady circles through the bandages. Harry focused his attention, holding Misha's borrowed wand while the younger man checked Nebojsa's eyelids.

Misha gave Harry a job—instructing him to set fire to a spring of evergreen, the ashes of which were mixed into a potion before it was poured down the sick man's throat. Harry caught Dima's hooded eyes a few times as they all worked, trying to gauge if it had been this bad before, if the brothers knew how to handle this any better than Harry did. Dmitry's hooded gaze wasn't offering any hints. Tears welled up at the corners of his eyes.

Eventually Nebojsa's breathing evened out, the snakelike coils of his arms relaxing as he fell into a light sort of sleep. Harry and Dmitry retreated to the hall, leaving Misha to tidy the mess they'd made.

“Do you think bringing him to a formally trained Healer might help?” Harry whispered, twirling his wand between his fingers in an idle gesture he'd inherited from Draco over the summer. “Er, not that Misha's not good enough. It's only....”

“I understand,” Dima replied, cupping Harry's shoulder with one big hand. “I've zhought about zhis, of course. But zhe wizarding hospital izn't zafe for us. Srce moje looks different now... but if any of zhe ozers vere recognized... it could be very bad for us.”

Harry nodded swiftly. “Gotcha. Yeah.” It wasn't a secret that Dima and Nebojsa were best mates—few knew of their romantic connection, but surely MediWizards and Healers would know the sons of a famous Potion Master like Tihomir Ionescue. It would only be a matter of time before someone put two and two together. Harry's toes twitched in his trainers. He kept twiddling with his wand as he paced, trying to think of something.

“Maybe Madam Pomphrey, the Hogwarts nurse?”

“'Ogwarts,” Dmitry repeated. Beneath his weight, the floorboards gave a dusty squeak.”Maybe. Ve'd razher not.”

“Just think it over, okay?” Harry's brows quirked as he glanced up at the big man. For all his size, Dmitry was anything but a brute—sensitive, emotional, deeply caring. It still amazed Harry that people like Dima and Draco could be related to such nasty pieces of work—Tihomir Ionescue, Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange. Maybe the saying that there was madness in genius had some truth to it. In some people, the potential for greatness could drive them spare. Harry hoped Dmitry could keep it together; he was such a nice man, after all. Except for the attempted patricide, of course, but he'd had his reasons.

“If Nebojsa isn't looking better,” Harry offered. “Or even if he is. Don't be a stranger, alright?”

Examining the floor, Dmitry at least gave him a nod.

Yura cleared his throat from the bottom of the stairs. He said something to Dmitry in rapid Russian, his expression twisted like he'd rather snog a Blast-Ended Skrewt than say whatever it was he was saying. Dima didn't look happy, either.

Harry caught Dmitry's arm, fingers closing around the Thestral tattoo coloring his bicep. “What now?”

Dmitry shot something back down the stairwell, dismissing Yura. When he regarded Harry, his jaw was tight, deepening his already chiseled, masculine features. Compared to this image, the younger Misha looked like a pup, and Dima the full-grown beast.

“Ve have to burn Dušan tonight. Zhere is... Dark Magic in zhe body. It cannot be left... zitting around, fermenting. No good.”

Harry's lips pursed. “Have to burn him, you say?” He had an image of a viking-like send off, with a fiery canoe out on a lake, big men in armor lining the shore, chanting. Maybe he'd seen too many movies. “So someplace outside, no one wandering about.” He wracked his brains for a suitable place.

“How about the Forbidden Forest?” he suggested.

Dima gave him a funny look. “You zeem eager to get us to 'Ogwarts any vay you can.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You don't have to stay the night. Come right back here if you like—fine by me. But if Nebojsa gets worse,” Harry eyed the still-open bedroom door, knowing the Serb was Dima's weak spot but harping on it anyway, dancing a jig all over it like an overenthusiastic leprechaun. Something told him to keep these fellows close—they were a part of his family now. “If you have need... Madam Pomphrey and her Hospital Wing are right there waiting. I know her. I’ve trusted her with my life more times than I can count.”

Dima looked to be considering it. “And McGonagall? Vot vould she say, do you zhink?”

Harry shrugged one shoulder, glancing down at his watch, still set to Ohio time. “It's a funeral. I don't think she'd refuse you that. I have to catch a Portkey soon, but I could get her on the floo before I go.”

He wanted to leave this as Dmitry's decision. With Nebojsa currently out of commission, he was their gang's de facto leader. No matter Harry's personal opinions on the matter, the guys needed to choose for themselves.

“Alright,” Dmitry gave in with one last glance to his boyfriend and baby brother, currently curled up in bed together, Misha hugging Nebojsa's dark head as he slept. “Just for zhe night.”
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Conscience