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
- 52
- 53
- 54
SUMMARY: Harry, Ron and Hermione work to uncover Hufflepuff's cup. They encounter more than they'd bargained for at Malfoy Manor.

DISCLAIMER: Opening quotation from Czeslaw Milosz, Nobel Laureate, the poem 1945.

WARNINGS: magical battle, adult language, violence, blood & gore, potential/unclear minor character deaths, Harry being seventeen-and-forthwith-a-complete-and-utter-idiot

CONSCIENCE:

BERETTA –

1945

“Gray silence settled over every tribe and people.

After the bells of baroque churches, after a hand on a saber,

After disputes over free will, and arguments of diets.

I blinked, ridiculous and rebellious,

Alone with my Jesus Mary against irrefutable power,

A descendant of ardent prayers, of gilded sculptures and miracles.”

1945

Czeslaw Milosz

Harry was surprised how short a time it took to assemble a strike force, once the Ministry and the Americans found a way to work together for the common good. It felt as though one day he, Hermione and Ron were talking with Leon about getting into Malfoy Manor... and the next, they were waiting in the Wiltshire forests with wands and guns and grim faces, counting their heartbeats to pass the silence.

It was almost pitch black in the woods. Harry had closed his eyes Apparating, so that when they arrived outside Stonehenge, his vision would be somewhat adjusted to the dark. Other members of their party had stumbled as they picked their way across the countryside, sticking to the ditches and tree cover when it was available, prowling under cover of Disillusionment Spells and Notice-Me-Not Charms. Harry kept warm under his Invisibility cloak.

They stood, gathered in little clumps of friends and colleagues, in the woods surrounding Malfoy Manor. Ron had his long wand out, its winding metal catching what moonlight there was reflecting off the snow. His freckled face was about as white as the cold ground, his jaw set in a hard line. He kept throwing unreadable looks Harry's way—mixtures of resignation, camaraderie and disorientation, as though he hadn't really expected Harry to allow him on the battlefield again. But Ron had been brilliant all throughout their teenage years, fighting off the myriad of dangers Voldemort had thrown Harry's way. Even as a first year, Ron had been brilliant. He'd more than proven himself against the werewolves, Death Eaters and Inferi who'd stormed Hogwarts grounds back in October. Everything Ron needed was already there: all he had to do was believe in himself a little more, and everything would fall into place.

Immediately to Harry's left, Hermione was fiddling with the cuff of her wooly winter hat. She seemed nervous more than anything, not liking to be so near to Malfoy Manor—the old pureblood stronghold packed with Death Eaters, violent-minded werewolves and Merlin knew what else. Her gaze tended toward Harry's face, or a glance up at Ron. She'd been silent through most of the preparation process; uncharacteristic of her, having not once shut her mouth all through the planning stages. Harry was thankful for her silence now, however brooding it was.

He didn't have to look far to know the cause of it.

Dmitry Ionescue stood nearby, using a rag to wipe the blood from his freshly healed arm.

Hermione's eyes narrowed. It wasn't long before she turned, burying her forehead against Ron's shoulder for warmth. Harry could read her thoughts in the set of her shoulders, and the little huff of breath which escaped her mouth in a cloud, floating away between the tree trunks. She couldn't know what magic Dmitry was up to, but she knew she didn't care for it one bit.

Harry inched his way over to the Romanian fellow. Dmitry met his gaze.

“You have to use your own blood?” Harry asked under his breath. Dima checked his arm to be sure it was healed.

“It vos mine or Mishenka's,” the man replied plainly. “Mine made more zense.” He shrugged his coat back on—a heavy canvas jacket, spelled dusty white to blend with the snow in the event that his Disillusionment Charm should fail during the fight.

“What kind of magic is it? Did you learn it at Durmstrang, or from... er, your dad?”

Suddenly, Ron was at Harry's side.

“Blood Magic,” the red head explained in a whisper. Dmitry nodded. “It's frowned upon. Most of us don't even know how it's done, exactly. Some people think it's lost.” Ron raised an eyebrow. “Apparently not.”

“It's Dark Arts, then?” Harry inferred.

“Call it vot you vill,” Dmitry shrugged. “If it vorks....”

“Agreed,” Ron offered readily, making Harry blink. He reassessed his best mate in profile. “You do whatever it takes to protect your family,” Ron added.

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets to keep warm. Deep down, he absolutely agreed. But he wasn't quite ready to voice the thought aloud.

“So,” he shrugged instead, “what's this spell gonna do?”

“It's not just zhe one spell,” Dmitry said. “Vhen ve layer zhem togezher, zhe magic changes. Iz related to zomezhing called a Horcrux.”

Harry and Ron exchanged looks.

Unfazed, Dmitry continued. “By shedding blood, ve can replicate life—for a very zhort time. In zhis vay, Mishenka can appear as ten, maybe twelve horses, razher zhan zhe one. Vith my blood, he can be an Aethonan. More native zhan Granians, da?”

Harry nodded. “Good thinking.”

He'd been nervous when the Ionescue brothers volunteered themselves as bait a second time around. They'd done it once before at Ravenwood, drawing the ire of their Death Eater father... and saving countless lives through their bravery. Harry hated to ask them to do it again. But they'd stepped forward of their own free will. They'd volunteered. He couldn't deny them.

A plot had begun to take shape when Leon's team—during a preliminary search of the surrounding countryside—discovered two dragons, chained up in a cave a few kilometers away and quite irate. The illegally-kept creatures had been shrouded in powerful wards to keep them at bay, with additional spells to keep any prying wizards away. Food had been left for the angry creatures, and Ivan and Mr. Moreno had been able to track several pairs of Death Eater footprints back to the Malfoy grounds.

Their plan was to dismantle the wards, break the dragons' chains and lure them out toward the Manor. The dragons would chase Misha, who would appear to be nothing more than an unfortunate foal about to become dragon fodder. Young Mikhail would lead the dragons on a rampage across the grounds, creating enough of a distraction that Harry, a handful of Aurors, and Leon's team could sneak into the house. Or bust their way in. They had enough men. From there, it was hard to say. They'd know more once they got inside.

The Ionescues weren't the only ones to volunteer for this mission. There were Aurors, Hit Wizards, witches and wizards from the Obliviators and the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Harry reckoned the second coming of Lord Voldemort constituted a disaster—the Dark wizard had certainly ripped through Harry's life like a storm, tearing everything to shreds. There were also a surprising number of civilian volunteers; foreign refugees like the Ionescues and Chern Toleanu, people drawn into the fight, ex-patriots like Leon Harper, and even a second Field Ops Team, led by Rikka's ex husband. The American witch and her ex had stationed themselves on opposite sides of the Manor, of course. They were still squabbling over assets in a nasty, protracted divorce, but that didn't stop either of them from volunteering to do the right thing when it came to the war. Everyone there was a soldier—whether by training or by will. Everyone believed in the cause, in what they were doing.

Peering around through the dark, Harry recognized a Belgian wizard from the Order of The Phoenix, and a blonde woman he'd seen with Margie Gweir back at Ravenwood. He wanted to say something to the woman, but didn't know her name, let alone the words to offer. He caught her eyes across the snow, waving pathetically. She gave him a weak smile in return, pulling a wool hat over her head before Disillusion-ing herself for the fight.

They had a good group assembled. Harry hoped that together, they would be enough. It was hard to know what-all was actually awaiting them in Malfoy Manor. Headmistress McGonagall had had a few brief reports from Severus Snape—mostly useless, as always. Snape's communications contained no new insights, nothing which Harry didn't already know from Draco. Both Snape and Draco said the stately old home had been appropriated as barracks for various displaced Death Eaters, the catacombs below transformed into a holding area for Lord Voldemort's less important prisoners. Harry hoped to get a few good men down there to free those people before the sun rose.

His target was Helga Hufflepuff's cup, Voldemort's horcrux. But only Ron, Hermione and Draco knew that—and only the first two would be going with him in search of it. Just as Voldemort spread his soul thin to preserve his life, Harry withheld information; withheld it from those most precious to him, so that he might never be caught with all of his eggs in one basket, never offering Voldemort a firm-enough place to strike back and cripple Harry's offence. Dumbledore had said it was important to know your enemy, to understand the way he thought and the reasoning behind his actions. Harry was only learning from his foe, and protecting what was most precious to him.

“I don't like zhis.”

Nebojsa had come to stand at Dmitry's side, cracking his knuckles around the long black wand in his hands. The Serbian wizard looked only moderately healthier, a bit less like death warmed over. His face was still pinched, drawn and ill; the pink in his cheeks entirely brought on by the cold. It was the only color in his face, but at least he was standing and walking around without cussing under his breath. He walked with the aid of a large branch whittled down to a walking stick, poking at the ground for dips before he took a step. He would be sitting out this fight but hadn't been content to sit at Grimmauld Place warming his thumbs by the fire. Nebojsa served as one of the scouts; the messenger for this particular base of operations, sending his Patronus back and forth with instructions to other scouts stationed around the house. His Patronus in particular was perfect for the job—a small bird, hardly bigger than a finch, and impossible to discern from the real thing at more than a few meters. One of the other scouts had a Patronus in the marmot family. Harry had seen it zip by a few minutes ago; weaving between tree trunks and magical folk's ankles, low and quick, blending in with the snow.

“Don't like zhis at all,” the Serb repeated, lower.

“You don't like anything,” Harry teased.

Nebojsa smiled, spreading his arms. “Ja sam luđa od vašeg kurac...”

Harry tried to translate what he knew in his head. In the end he just laughed behind his hand, knowing the man was talking something about one of their todgers. Nebojsa put his forearm to Harry's shoulder, leaning his weight on the shorter fellow, his face hovering close.

“Ve know,” he told Harry in a whisper. When Harry tried to turn his head to look the man in the eye, Nebojsa pushed at his chin, forcing Harry's head forward—forcing him to look out over the snow-covered grounds of Malfoy Manor. “Ve know vhy you do zhis.” He jutted his pointed features toward the old pureblood stronghold. The house was little more than a dark mound in a sea of white, the gardens and lawns all covered in a thin layer of snow.

“You vant it back,” Nebojsa continued. “For Draco.”

Harry nodded. There was a part of him, deep down, which wanted to reclaim Draco’s ancestral home—as though by ridding it of Death Eaters, he could somehow return a part of Draco’s sanity, give him back some of his childhood, his pureblooded pride. Draco wasn’t entirely himself without it.

“There’s something else in there—something I need very badly,” Harry admitted. “But I’d be lying if I said Draco wasn’t a part of it.”

“Zhen ve’ll be zure you get it, votever it is.”

“Thanks,” Harry mumbled. “I appreciate it.”

Ron tapped him on the shoulder. “Harry. They're saying it’s about time.”

“M’kay. You and Hermione stick close, I’ll be right behind you.” With a last look from Dmitry, Nebojsa and Ron, Harry flipped the Invisibility cloak over his shoulders, disappearing from view. He followed Ron to the edge of the woods, to the very boulder they'd crouched behind while surveying the place less than three weeks ago.

It was Ron getting attacked by that Yeti which had started all this, really. Faced with evidence of lawbreaking at Malfoy Manor, Minister Scrimgeour was able to authorize a search of the property. Days later, there were volunteers chomping at the bit to have a go at Malfoy Manor. Draco's family—specifically his father—had enemies. With his escape from Azkaban, Lucius was once again in the public eye. And the man was a poster child for everything the wizarding population disliked about purebloods—wealthy, an elitist, and an ice-hearted bastard, to boot. Whatever the man might be like on the inside, Lucius Malfoy was easy enough for the public to dislike.

Harry wanted to think Lucius had some redeeming qualities. He really did. After all, Draco was half Lucius. So, for all his flaws, Lucius couldn't be entirely bad. Still, the things Harry knew about the man drowned out any more temperate voices in his head. The thought of Lucius Malfoy made his jaw tighten uncontrollably, made his teeth grind and veins stand out along his arms. He knew what the man was capable of. And a small part of him, a part which still lived in the Dursley's cupboard and thought Harry Potter was a nobody, was nothing special... that part of Harry's mind feared the man who might one day be his father-in-law.

Harry braced himself for the possibility of seeing Lucius Malfoy tonight. Or Bellatrix Lestrange, Draco's aunt. Or that bastard, Philippe Didier. Voldemort ranked a paltry fourth place on Harry's shit list. That was a first.

He cracked his knuckles beneath the cloak.

Beside him, Kitarou Hitori jumped.

Harry peeked out from under the cloak, catching the Japanese-American's attention to shoot him a quick wink.

“Invisibility Cloak, Potter? Convenient,” the man muttered, shaking his head. “I've never seen one that good. Usually there's some haze at the edges.”

“Harry's has always been seamless,” Hermione put in.

Hitori scratched his neck in thought. “Where'd you come by it?”

“It was my Dad's.”

“Unusual....”

Harry cocked his head. “How so?”

Hermione was the first to answer. “Invisibility Cloaks made of Demiguise hair tend to lose their magical properties over time, possibly through wear-and-tear. And cloaks made of enchantments lose their power when the caster of the spells passes away.” She brushed a lock of hair away from her face with a mitten-clad hand. They looked suspiciously like Mrs. Weasley mittens. “Despite its age, Harry, your cloak is pristine.”

“Wish we knew where your Dad got it from,” Ron muttered.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. While he was still visible, he looked over at Hitori—the man was close to Harry's size, which made him quite short for an adult. It was nice, though, not having to look up. It made them feel like equals: the same could be said for Draco. “Where's Ivan?”

“He's doing one last perimeter check. Then we move.”

Ivan and Hitori would be heading up Harry's Super Secret Infiltration Team, since Harry had worked with them both before and knew what to expect. This was going to be chaos, a mess—with dragons breathing fire, Dark wizards throwing curses and Merlin only knew what else. All of that stood between him and the house—and what lay in wait inside was an even greater mystery. He wanted people loyal to him and not the Ministry surrounding him when they entered Malfoy Manor. Things would be bad enough once the dark curses started to fly—he didn't need anyone disobeying orders, or worse, turning on him. He also knew the two Americans would be able to protect Ron and Hermione when he couldn't.

His two friends were going to help him look for Hufflepuff's cup once they got inside. It would be faster with three people, he'd decided. Draco was kind enough to provide them with a blueprint of the estate—grounds, secret passages, cubby holes and all. If Hufflepuff's cup was still in there, they'd find it. They might have to turn the house upside down and uproot the rose garden in the process, but their task was too important not to exhaust every possible option. They had to find the cup, along with the three other remaining horcruxes, before Voldemort and his followers could get any stronger.

Ivan burst through the treeline at a sprint. He threw out his big hands, catching himself on the nearby boulder. He was a huge man—perhaps eighteen stone—and it took a stone boulder to stop his momentum. He grabbed Hitori by the shoulder.

“Ve've got trouble.”

Across the hill, trees began to shift. Branches ruffled, shaking off a thin layer of snow. And then their trunks bent nearly to the ground; upended from the roots, pushed aside by two great lumps of shadow. Harry squinted.

“Trolls?” Hermione whispered, her back pressed flush against Ron's chest.

“Vorse,” Ivan replied. “Giants.”

Harry secured his cloak. “We've got this. Come on.” He caught Ron and Hermione's shoulders, drawing them down the hill. Ivan and Hitori followed at a few paces, keeping low.

“What do you mean, 'we've got this?'” Ron hissed between gritted teeth. He dug his boots into the snow, resisting Harry's urging.

“You can't mean... first year?” Hermione spluttered.

Beneath the cloak, Harry smirked. “Wingardium Levio-sah,” he teased. “Remember?”

Ron shook his head. “Bloody hell.”

“I'll play defence,” Harry offered. “That leaves you one each. Hitori and Ivan will back you up. Just go for it,” he gave each of their shoulders a squeeze. “I know you can do it.”

“But—” Ron began to protest.

“Too late,” Hermione moaned. The giants had caught sight of them, doubling their gait.

They were huge—half-again as tall as a Mountain Troll and twice as wide. They were male, with tangled hair and wild, bushy beards, legs like rubbish trucks and hands the size of dinner tables.

Ron was muttering under his breath. “I can do this, I can absolutely do this....”

Ivan caught up with them, his boots leaving huge indentations in the snow. “Vands at zhe ready,” he cautioned. He and Hitori shared a nod... and then they put on a burst of speed, drawing the giants' attention so Ron and Hermione might have a better chance. Invisible, Harry ran right down the middle.

A huge limb swung down, missing Harry by inches. He dove, rolling through the snow, shooting his first spell from the hip before springing to his feet. His Stunner was off, flying past the giant's face but the streak of red light passed close enough to his eyes that he was disoriented, his next swing falling short of Hermione, Ron and Hitori.

“Split up!” Harry shouted, shooting more non-verbal spells into the air. “And keep moving, all of you!”

Ivan was already twenty meters off, drawing attention by shooting sparks into the air as Harry had done. The second giant swiveled at the light exploding around him, nearly losing his footing in the snow. Hitori shot off a spell, conjured netting appearing above the giant's head and falling around his face and shoulders. He turned his attention to pulling the sticky fibers off his face, ignoring the wizards on the ground.

“Hermione!” yelled Harry, still distracting the first giant. “Now! Get him!”

Ron was faster. His Levitation Spell lifted one of the nearby uprooted trees, cracking the giant upside the head with it. The giant bellowed, back-pedaling, losing his footing in the snow.

Hermione wasn't far behind Ron, lifting two additional trees with a flick of her wand and sending them hurtling towards the falling giant. The tree trunks passed by either side of the giant's head, tangling in the netting. Their inertia was enough to topple the giant, the tree limbs acting like stakes, securing him to the ground by the netting wrapped around his head.

Harry sidestepped—danced and dove to evade the first giant, now enraged at the abuse his companion was suffering.

“A little help here?” Harry called. More witches and wizards were coming down from the forests. He wanted to have both giants immobilized before anyone else arrived. This commotion would be visible from the Manor, and Death Eaters would already be on their way. They had precious little time.

Ron and Hermione came at a sprint, Ivan and Hitori on their heels. Harry had moved away from the others, rolling arse over tea kettle down the hill. He spit snow out of his mouth before vaulting over an ornamental hedge, into the Malfoy gardens. He ducked behind a statue just long enough to catch his breath.

He came out swinging, shooting Stunning Spells up by the giant's head—drawing its gaze away from the flood of people ready to attack it from behind. He jumped when a spell blasted an arm off the statue he'd been hiding behind. Plaster filled the air like snow, white sparks chasing one another around his vision from the strength of the blast. He ducked and rolled, making himself as small a target as possible. Harry rolled himself right into a nearby hedge, curling up in a ball and wrapping the cloak tight around his shoulders and knees. He held his breath.

Footsteps raced by—Death Eaters. He could hear their voices, high and worried, asking one another if the grounds had been breached, if they should contact the Dark Lord himself at the Ministry premises. Harry clamped his hand over his mouth, willing himself to make no sound, to truly not exist. The Death Eaters were engaged in combat a moment later. He heard curses shouted, recognized Ivan's yell of fury, and Ron's bellowed Hurling Hex, sending several Death Eaters up into the air. Their bodies hit the ground seconds later. Bones cracked. Hopefully a few of them wouldn't be getting up again.

Harry checked that the coast was clear before ducking out from his shrubbery. He approached the line of Death Eaters from behind, taking pot shots at their backs as he searched for a break in the ranks where he might slip back through to Ron and Hermione.

One good Reductor Curse from Hermione was all he needed. He took off at a run, hurdling the body of a Death Eater as the cloaked figure fell. He reached Hermione just as Ron did.

“I think we should go now,” Harry advised, “before any more of the guards show up. They were talking about reinforcements....”

“Fair enough,” Ron agreed.

Hermione gave a grim nod, pushing her hair out of her face. “Okay. Let's go, boys.”

Ron signaled Ivan and Hitori. They Disillusioned one another and took off, hunched and not making a sound, creeping through the gardens and then the gate, into Malfoy Manor.

Draco's map suggested they use a side entrance located near the kitchens. They cut their way through the gardens, pressing against walls or diving off the path whenever a group of Death Eaters swept by. From the looks of it, there weren't as many at the Manor as they'd feared. Harry held his breath as they snuck in through the seldom-used kitchen door. There wasn't so much as a house elf in sight, the kitchen hearth dead with ash. Ron took up Hermione's hand as they passed into the main hall, wands held out before them.

Harry and Ivan took the lead, Ron and Hermione in the center and Hitori bringing up the rear.

Malfoy Manor was a beautiful place. No amount of seeing the house in Draco's mind could compare to the grandeur of it, the sense of tradition and history. Ancestors snoozed in their portraits along the walls. Every door handle was crystal set in gold. Carved wooden cornices adorned every doorway, and end tables bearing ancient vases seemed to grow out of the walls themselves, the flowers in said vases long dead, wilted and dried up.

They paused before entering the main stairway—a grand receiving room three stories tall, with marble floors and a sweeping velvet-carpeted staircase. Harry, his friends and the Americans hid in a washroom, waiting for a group of Death Eaters to pass. Then, when the coast was clear, they crept through the grand hall and up the stairs to Lucius Malfoy's study.

Ivan kept an eye on the corridor as they tore the room apart, searching.

“Remember,” Hermione cautioned, “it could very well have been charmed to look like something else. You-Know-Who wouldn't be above hiding it in plain sight.”

“Or it might not be here at all,” Ron grumbled under his breath.

Harry straightened, wiping sweat from his brow. It was hot under the cloak. “We have to keep looking.”

Hitori stepped forward. “Might be faster if I helped....”

“No,” answered Ron, Hermione and Harry in unison. The redhead and brunette returned immediately to their tasks, leaving Harry to explain. He didn’t mince words.

“The more you know, the more danger you're in. So mind out.”

Grim, Hitori gave a nod of understanding. He turned his back to them, standing with Ivan in observation of the halls outside.

Minutes bled by. Harry emptied the contents of Lucius Malfoy's desk. Hermione pulled every last book and Dark artifact from the shelves. Ron ransacked the liquor cabinet, as well as anything within a several meter radius. The cabinet had been the last place Draco had seen Hufflepuff's cup, after all. Hermione went over to help Ron search. Boiling under the cloak, Harry opened a door leading out to a small balcony.

He smelled blood on the wind. There were bodies lying out in the snow—a few of them dead, others still dying, patches of blood in the whiteness of snow. Duels raged in the ornamental gardens. More Aurors streamed from the woods... yet more Death Eaters would appear, Apparating in or using Portkeys, it would seem, as the house was all but empty.

Harry sighed. Perhaps this had been a fool's errand. Perhaps Voldemort had already moved Hufflepuff's cup to a more secure location. The Dark Lord didn't seem to care too much for Malfoy Manor—there had been no reports of Voldemort returning to the location since Draco's torture, and few if any of his important commanders were stationed there. But the Death Eaters who fought for the place were no less fierce for the lack of their master's presence.

Harry watched as a blonde Death Eater witch blasted her way through three Aurors, dropping them to the ground in agony, before rounding on the next wave of attackers. In the distance, Dmitry was leading a charge down the hill, at least thirty men behind him, every wand raised. Dima had a blade to hand, glowing green in the dark. He slit throats as he ran, shouldering bodies out of his way, breaking noses with his elbows and landing blows with precision equal to his spells. Even the Aurors gave him a wide berth.

Harry hoped these people weren't about to die for nothing. There had to be something at Malfoy Manor—something worth fighting for, worth dying for. He turned, preparing to head back inside.

“Harry?” Hermione called. “You alright?”

Harry opened his mouth to reply. But just then, sound escaped him.

From the other side of the mansion, a shadow appeared, spreading across the snow-covered gardens. It blocked out what little moonlight there was, turning the air black as it flew high in the sky. Below, everyone craned their necks, peering skyward.

The sky lit up in orange—fire.

Misha had arrived. No less than a dozen Aethonans graced the night sky, wings beating against a backdrop of clouds and stars. And hot on his heels were dragons. Harry counted six, all with jaws snapping, breathing fire.

Misha swooped low—Harry could make out the largest of the winged horses out front, leading the pack. That had to be the Romanian boy. He planned his first dive, a burst of dragon's fire catching several Death Eaters unawares. Almost immediately, the fire began to spread through the gardens. Witches and wizards screamed orders. Smoke bloomed from dry branches, crackling, snow melting in the sudden heat. Organized fronts disbanded in seconds, scattering.

As the dragons made their first pass, Harry did a double take. He squinted.

“Oi, Ron!” He yelled back through the open doorway. “Come look at these. I can't make out if it's a Norwegian Ridgeback or a Hung—”

A burst of flame came too close, catching the wings of a horse at the back of the group. A moment later, Harry had both hands clamped over his ears as whinnying screams filled the night.

The magic protecting Misha burned up. One by one, Aethonans vanished like so many puffs of smoke, until there was only one left—Mikhail, one wing aflame, careening at breakneck speed toward the Manor. With a crash Harry felt through the stone floor, Misha tumbled onto a balcony two floors up and several doors over. The dragons continued to circle overhead, blowing steady streams of fire at any witch or wizard to aim a spell skyward.

Harry broke for the corridor.

Ron tore after him, Ivan on his heels.

“Harry! The fuck are you goin', mate?”

“Misha’s hurt!” Harry shouted. He was jogging backwards, tripping over carpets but unwilling to slow his pace. “Stay here,” he ordered his friend. “Protect Hermione. And for fuck's sake, keep looking!”

Ivan started running too, following the sound of Harry’s voice. Hitori held Ron back by his lanky shoulders, shepherding him back into the study. Ivan caught up quickly, and together they found the nearest flight of stairs.

“Vot are you going to do vhen ve find him?” Ivan asked, only a step behind.

“I have no fucking clue, alright?!” Harry snapped. He took the next corner so fast, his shoulder smacked against the wall. He kept running as fast as he could. “But I can’t let him....” Die alone, Harry finished in his head. Like my Mum. Like my Dad. “He’s too young and too good to die like this.”

“Ve all die, Potter,” Ivan huffed. “Zome of us zooner zhan ve deserve. Accept zhat.” The big man trailed him down a windowless corridor.

Harry recognized his surroundings without ever having visited the place before. It was an eery feeling. But he knew each hall, each twist and turn and scratch in the old woodwork—knew them from Draco’s mind. The blonde had left memories in Harry like planted seeds, guiding him around his childhood home, giving him the grand tour. He flashed on a memory of a young Draco no more than knee high running down this very corridor, nearly tripping over a carpet as he chased a house elf, brandishing a stick at the frightened creature and cackling with that burbling, chipmunk-laugh of his.

Harry reached the middle of the hall and stopped outside a grand door, dreading what he might find within.

Without thinking, he threw the door open, charging inside. He didn’t need the light from Ivan’s wand to make out the smoking bits of human out on the nearby balcony. He raced by an ornate dresser and writing desk, shouldering open the balcony doors and dropping to his knees. His wand clattered away, forgotten.

“Misha! Fucking hell, can you hear me?” his voice cracked, hands hovering, helpless. “It’s Harry. Harry. I’m here to help you. What can I do?”

The boy was half man, half beast, one feathery, five foot wing jutting from chestnut bristles at his back, twitching cream-colored ears peeking out through the mess of his black hair. The left side of his body was blackened—smoldering from shoulder to below the waist of his trousers, robes and parts of his shirt burned away. Blood ran from the wounds, from his mouth and the corner of his eye like one thick, red tear.

Frantic, Harry twisted back, looking for Ivan.

“Should we carry him inside?”

The big man just shrugged. His ginger-blonde beard shuffled. “Iz ‘ee dead?”

Harry heard his heart in his ears; it felt about to explode from his chest. This was his fault. If it weren’t for him, Dima and Misha would still be on the run. They’d be in Brazil or Panama by now, shirtless and tan, sipping ales on the beach... lifetimes away from this madness. Harry reached for the boy, ghosting the backs of fingers down his cheek.

“What should I do?” he croaked. “I don’t... I can’t....”

Ivan crouched down beside Harry. “Zhere iz a Ministry Healer, Purlish, down zhere.” He pointed with a thick, hairy-knuckled finger, down and off a ways, past the gardens to the gate beyond. The air was slowly filling with smoke as the dragons passed overhead, lighting up the night with fire and screams.

Harry nodded frantically. “Can you get him?” Harry croaked. “Please?”

Ivan looked from Harry to Misha, placing a hand before the boy’s open mouth—feeling for his breath, Harry realized with a jolt. All logic had fallen out the back of his head the moment he saw all that blood. Some hardened commander he was.

When Ivan’s gaze returned, his eyes were hard. His hand landed on Harry’s shoulder. “I don’t zhink he vill make it.”

“No.”

The word was a knee-jerk reaction. He knew it was stupid. He knew, but he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t want anyone else to die for him, to die because of him. He wanted all this to be over, for everyone to be with their families and the people they loved. But it seemed like the world was dying all around him. A part of him feared he might be next. He felt that wild, frightened-child impulse trying to claw its way out of the cage he kept it in, buried deep in his chest, right behind his heart. He slammed the door shut, locking it away.

“Get Purlish,” he told Ivan. “Now. That’s an order.”

“Can’t, govniuk,” Ivan said firmly. “I vos assigned to protect yoo. No vone else.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “So you’ll let an innocent man die?!”

Ivan shrugged. “‘Ee iz already dead.” Another twitch of ginger-blond whiskers. A flicker around the eyes. “Vell, nearly.”

Harry screwed up his courage—it came from somewhere between his small intestines and scrotum, and it welled up inside his chest like bile and vomit, rabid for escape.

“Fuck you! I won’t let that happen.”

An outstretched hand Summoned his wand in a blink. He didn’t have time to think before the spell was off.

Imperio.

Dmitry burst through the door, blood spattered across his face. The door itself split with a heavy crack, a shoulder-shaped dent in the ancient lacquered wood, a hinge ripped from the frame and the door tilting, swinging freely, smacking against the wall with plaster-loosening force. Yuri came a moment later, an axe-like weapon at his side dripping Death Eater blood all over the fancy Persian rug.

“Vhere iz he!?” Dima bellowed. The floorboards shook.

Ivan had just laid Mikhail out on the bed, Harry hovering close by, devoting every ounce of his concentration to his Unforgiveable. It was the only thing keeping Misha alive. The connection wavered, threatening to extinguish at any moment.

Harry put a knee to the bed, leaning in even as blood soaked through the layers of blankets, staining down to the fine sheets beneath. He placed a hand to Misha’s bare chest, willing his magic to hold. He could only hope it would be enough, that Mikhail could hold out.

“Don’t you bloody die on me,” Harry insisted, with all the weight of Dark Magic behind him. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Dima shoved Ivan out of the way—a feat of strength made possible, Harry thought, by his Animagus nature. The man reached, as Harry had, for his brother’s face, touching the boy’s closed eyes.

“‘Ee’s alive,” Ivan grunted. “Barely. And yoo’re velcome.”

Dmitry pulled ampules of potion from his pockets, crawling up on the grand-styled bed in order to pour them down his baby brother’s throat, one right after the other. His hands shook, ripping at stoppers and tossing the ampules away the moment he’d finished with them. They crashed against the hardwood floor. He muttered under his breath—the same words, over and over again. Harry had heard them before, from Nebojsa. Dima was praying.

With each second, Harry felt Misha struggle for life—felt his lungs aching to function, the haze of pain dancing through his mind, leaving him helpless. He was still weak... too weak to live without the magic of Harry’s influence, the power of that order to stay alive. But in time, he would be right again. Harry repeated the thought over and over in his head as Dima muttered and worked. Ivan glanced out the window at the battle below. And Yura paced, leaving little trails of blood and melted snow along the rugs.

With a jolt, Harry began to process his surroundings: the blue and green bed linens, rich wallpaper peppered with bookshelves and framed, moving Quidditch posters... the tidy row of black leather dress shoes beneath the armoire, and a Hogwarts trunk atop it. This was Draco’s room. These were Draco’s things—his bed, his school trunk, his book of philosophy and half-empty bottle of bourbon still on the nightstand, as though he’d never left.

The scent hit him. Draco lingered in this place: apples and Quidditch leather and autumn wafting off the bedding, mixed with dirt and sweat and blood. His eyes stung. He looked to the carpet.

A wet sound escaped Misha’s throat. Harry couldn’t make out whether it was the potions in his throat or blood coming up from the boy’s cooked internal organs, signaling the end to his very short, very brave life.

Don’t die, Harry thought wildly. You can’t die.

Dmitry mumbled. “Gospod s’ toboyu, blagoslovena....”

He couldn’t take it—Draco’s room, Mikhail’s gasping, deathbed breaths, Dima’s praying. He was ill-equipped to deal with any of it. He needed out.

“Healer Purlish is here,” Harry advised in a rush. “From Ravenwood. I’ll—”

Ivan opened his mouth to protest. Dmitry was quicker.

“Get him!”

Harry ran out of the room, Ivan on his heels.

One hallway looked like every other hallway now. Even when he glanced out the windows as they flashed by, the view and the night sky beyond were obscured by billowing smoke from the fires below. The ornamental gardens were burning. Panic clogged his vision as much as the smoke. He couldn’t tell north from south, forced to pick turns at random. Within seconds, they were right back where they started, back outside Draco’s bedroom door. Even his old Point Me spell was no use.

Maybe it was magic fooling them, keeping them in one spot. He wouldn’t put it past purebloods like the Malfoys to booby-trap their houses; after all, visitors at Malfoy Manor were often only a few degrees away from potential invaders. Maybe a Malfoy ancestor had enchanted the house so it couldn’t be scouted by their enemies, posing as guests in order to learn the layout before launching a secret attack. That type of cunning and utter lack of loyalty was likely a key factor in how the Malfoy family had survived so many wars with their hides and Gringotts vaults unscathed.

Harry barely resisted the urge to punch a hole in the nearest stretch of wallpaper.

“Vich vay?” Ivan spluttered.

Harry panted. He couldn’t catch his breath. “I dunno.” He came to a halt, brushing a frazzled hand through his hair. “Split up?”

“Ve should stick togezer,” cautioned Ivan.

The big man jumped when there was a loud crack, a tiny house elf appearing between them. In a blink, Ivan had a wand pointed in the creature’s face.

Harry immediately identified the house elf as female. She was as small as Winky, quite thin, and wore a lacy white dress which could have easily belonged to a doll before having been appropriated as elf-wear. She even had a little headband with a rose made of silk stuck to one side, accenting her one floppy ear.

There were tears on the elf’s face. She looked scared out of her mind, her yellow-orange eyes gone wide. She launched herself at Harry, reaching for his hand. Warily, he pointed his wand at her.

“You belong to the Malfoy family?”

She nodded nervously.

Harry pointed back to Draco’s room. “There’s a boy in there, in Draco’s room, who’s a friend of his. He’s hurt. He might die,” Harry swallowed hard, willing his voice steady. He felt his throat tighten. “We need to get a Healer up here, right now—and there’s one outside, by the gate. Will you take one of us?” he gestured between himself and Ivan. It didn't much matter who went, so long as they could get help for Misha.

“A friend of Young Master Malfoy?” she repeated. Her frame was small, too low to the ground; Harry couldn’t read her body language, as if he had the time.

“Yes. Please, will you help us? Can you get past the Anti-Apparition Jinx, and get just one of us down there? Or can you get the Healer up here somehow?”

“Kit will be helping Harry Potter,” she said guardedly, hugging herself tight, “only if Harry Potter swears he will protect the Mistress.”

“I don’t—” Ivan began. Harry cut him off.

“You mean Mrs. Malfoy? She’s here?!”

The elf, Kit, nodded. She pointed down the hall, as Harry had pointed back at Draco’s bedroom except in the opposite direction. Her whole body trembled. “The Mistress,” she pleaded.

Harry made his decision before Ivan could so much as open his mouth.

“Yes! I’ll do it, yes!” The words tumbled from him in a rush. His gut told him there was no time to argue, to think—and his magic told him that which he didn’t wish to hear... that Misha was dying. The boy didn’t have long.

Harry glanced back at the door to Draco’s room, imagining the panic Dmitry had to be feeling; his brother, the last of his family dying in his arms, and him powerless to stop it. He didn’t even have Nebojsa to comfort him.

But Harry could do something. He would do anything. “Please, just get the Healer. Draco’s friend is dying.”

Kit tugged on his pant leg. “Please. Mistress first.”

Harry turned to Ivan. “I’ll go. Can you hold the hall?”

“Blya,” the man spat. He flattened his back against the wall, scanning up and down the dark corridor with watchful eyes. “Leon zaid you vere headstrong. Who iz zhis voman, anyvay?”

Kit was already pulling him away—with magic, as there was no other way a house elf weighing a single stone could drag a seventeen-year-old boy down a hallway with such ease. Harry put a hand to the top of Kit’s head to keep his balance. He called back to Ivan, “She’s my mother-in-law. Just stay put!”

He heard Ivan grumbling before Kit pulled him through a solid wall.

They emerged in a hallway which was clearly located on one of the lower floors—smoke completely obscured the windows, orange flames flickering through the grey like lightning bolts inside a cloud. The smell of smoke and things burning grew stronger as Kit drew Harry down the hall. The corners of his vision swirled with smoke as Kit pulled him along by the hand. He used the collar of his shirt to cover his nose and mouth, keeping up at a jog.

Kit waved her hands over a set of double doors, concentrating on her house elf magic. It took several seconds before Harry heard a click.

“Mistress is inside,” Kit told him—told his kneecaps, she was so small. “Only Harry Potter can protect her.”

Harry put a hand to the door knob. It wouldn’t open.

Kit laid a hand on top of his, over the ornate handle. She informed his knees, “Mistress is not Mistress anymore. They took her.”

Harry frowned. “Took her where?”

He didn’t understand what Kit was getting at. It was times like these he wished the magical world wasn’t quite so whimsical—that fantastic creatures would speak in plain English instead of nonsense rhymes, and that there were no such things as prophecies for wizards to misinterpret and wind up killing each other over. His life would be so much easier if everyone would stop speaking in riddles and foreign tongues.

“Harry Potter must protect Mistress,” Kit insisted, frantic, voice rising in pitch.

“I’ll protect her with my life,” Harry swore. “Just get the damn Healer. Don’t let an innocent boy die.”

Kit disappeared with a crack. At the same time, the knob twisted itself beneath Harry’s hand, allowing him into the darkened room.

The first thing he saw was the flames—they licked at the window frames, held back by the house’s magic or perhaps by the house elves still loyal to the structure, by Kit's strange house elf magic and her devotion to Narcissa Malfoy. He could see flames past white organza curtains. Shadows passed by, witches and wizards fighting their way across the grounds as they burned. He could hear shouts, muffled under dragon roars and the crackling snap of flames.

Harry glanced around. The room was some sort of parlor, with dainty pieces of furniture and walls of pastel blue, butterflies and birds painted near the high white moulding and enchanted to flutter about, some drifting onto the ceiling with the beating of their painted wings. A piano stood in one corner, with neat rows of sheet music stored nearby. Before each of the ten-foot-high windows stood a pedestal, and atop of each Harry could make out the shadowy outline of an instrument. Only a few were familiar shapes—a violin, a small harp, and several lutes with ornate necks made of carved jade. Light glinted off their polished wood curves and bellies. The instruments became more exotic and rare as his gaze traveled the room. His eyes passed over silhouettes, searching for the proud outline of Draco’s mother.

“Mrs. Malfoy?” he called. “I’m, er… It’s Harry Potter. Kit sent me. She said you might need some, uh, some help?” He ventured a little further into the room, peeking behind the door. “Are you okay?” Wand at the ready, he took a few steps forward, using a sofa for cover. “Narcissa? Are you here?”

A shadow flew out from the darkened corner, scratching and clawing at him. On instinct, Harry jumped away, flicking his wand. “Expelliarmus!”

He heard a tiny wail.

Narcissa Malfoy stood before him, her hair lit orange-gold by the light of the burning gardens, clutching her fingers against her mouth and sobbing openly. She was frail—ghoulishly thin. He might not have recognized her were it not for her silver-blonde hair, and the resemblance to Draco... especially around the eyes. Except hers were blue.

Wary, he offered her his hand.

“Mrs. Malfoy... I'm not here to hurt you,” he said quietly, sensing that her mind was not quite with her. He wondered where it could have gotten to. “I'm here to help.”

Her brows pinched—and the arch of them was like Draco, keen and regal, knowing. “Sorry...” she muttered, turning away slightly. The fingers of one hand remained pressed to her lips. Her voice shook. “I know you?”

“Yes. I'm... well, this is gonna sound a little crazy but I, er... I want to marry your son.”

Mrs. Malfoy's brows quirked again. Yet this time it was clear that her muscles remembered a sharp, agile mind which no longer resided between her ears. Though her brows moved—face pinching down to an icy scowl—there was no spark behind her eyes. No magic. No light.

“If I had a son, young man, I believe I would know about it.” She touched her stomach, as though to show him she had borne no children. He could make out every vein on the back of her hand, every finger-shaped bruise along her dainty wrist where her sleeve had ripped. He wanted to reach for her, but held his ground on instinct.

“Your son,” Harry insisted. “Draco. Draco Malfoy.”

She glanced up at the ceiling. “I'll have Kit fetch tea.”

Harry's stomach dropped to somewhere in the vicinity of his knees.

He wondered what could be done to make a mother forget her son. Her only child. Her own. Maybe Mrs. Malfoy and Draco hadn't been as close as a mother and son could be—Narcissa Malfoy wasn't the warmest person, the easiest to understand or love—but she had cared for Draco in her own way. She'd visited him in his nursery, played with and fussed over him. And she’d wanted more children. She shared with Draco her love of music, her passion for reading, history, and conversation. She wasn't a woman without feeling—she wasn't her sister, Bellatrix Lestrange. Narcissa had a heart. Harry feared what might have been done to it.

“Mrs. Malfoy...” he began.

“Please, do have a seat, young Mister...?” she trailed off, setting herself daintily upon a nearby fainting sofa. Her blue eyes blinked up at him, placid and devoid. She looked frozen near tears, fear etched into the lines around her large, beautiful eyes.

Harry couldn't stand to meet her gaze. He wandered away, giving her his back. Smoke was curling through the window mouldings, leaking in around the curtains. The room, the magic protecting them, wouldn’t hold. It was only a matter of time before they were smoked out.

“Potter, ma'am. Harry James Potter.”

“Potter. The name sounds familiar,” she admitted. Inclining her head revealed a bruise at the side of her neck—blackness and purpling in the shape of a man's hand. Harry's guts shifted angrily. “Have we met before?”

“A few years ago, briefly.”

Harry clasped his hands behind his back. His nails dug painfully into his palms. He didn't want to panic Narcissa, but he had to get her out of her. And the only way she would come with him was if he earned her trust. He would have to be fast, then. Or soon the Death Eaters would be upon them both. And by the look of Mrs. Malfoy, she might not survive another round in the catacombs.

Narcissa pulled her hair over one shoulder, combing fingers through the long blonde fall. “I wonder what could be keeping Kit.” Her gaze snapped up to Harry, as though she just recalled his being in the room. “I do pray you're not in any great hurry, Auror Potter.”

Auror Potter. So he sounded like his father? Or perhaps only looked enough like him for Narcissa to substitute the father's identity for the son's. Maybe she'd forgotten all the years since he and Draco had been born. Maybe she was just crazy.

Narcissa continued adjusting the fall of her hair. “Kit will only be a moment.”

Stopping at the piano, Harry let his fingers trail over the keys, remembering rainy afternoons at Grimmauld Place when Draco used to play for him. And then there was that one night when Draco had taught him to play, pale fingers resting atop his own, guiding him. He tried to remember the notes, the motions.

He managed the first six bars before Narcissa sniffled.

Harry turned to see fresh tears upon her pale cheeks. She stared into nothing, hands wringing in her lap.

He went to her. “Mrs. Malfoy... Narcissa, we have to go.”

She made no reply. It was as though she couldn’t even hear him, she was so lost in the confines of her own mind. Something exploded outside. Now he could hear the cries clearly, the screams of men and shrieks of dragons.

Harry took a knee at Narcissa’s feet. “Please! Take my hand.” He offered her his palm, extended in as courtly a gesture as he could manage. “Narcissa, please. You have to trust me. It's not safe here. We have to go, now.”

Though she said nothing, she placed her hand in his. Harry guided her to the door, tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow. He checked the hall, but could make out precious little for the gathering smoke. Once more, he pulled the collar of his shirt up over his mouth, tugging Narcissa along behind him.

They passed no one. Everyone was outside, fighting for their lives. Harry guessed at random. They passed a large dining hall, strung with golden chandeliers dripping with crystals, elaborate candelabra fixed to the walls at regular intervals. The flickering light of fire reflected off their shiny surfaces as much as the polished wooden dance floor. If they were near such a grand hall, maybe the kitchen was close by?

Harry took the next hall. It delivered them to the main receiving area, with its towering twin staircases and echoing marble floor. Harry didn’t spare a moment to thought, racing to cross the room. The front door was nearly within reach.

“Potter!”

Harry spun around. Narcissa slid on the stone floor. He squeezed her hand tighter, keeping her with him. There were precious-few windows. He scanned the dark, searching for the source of the voice that gave him shivers.

Harry raised his wand defencively. “Show yourself!” he called.

From the shadows behind the stairs, Lucius Malfoy emerged.

Beside Harry, Narcissa gave a whimper of emotion. Harry couldn’t make out whether the sound was desperation or fear. Harry gripped her hand, keeping her close at his side.

The lord of Malfoy Manor didn’t look well. His tailored robes hung loose around his frame, darkness clinging to the spaces beneath his eyes and cheekbones. Azkaban had not been kind to him. His wand hand was as twisted and vein-riddled as an old man’s as he raised his weapon in answer to Harry’s demand.

Lucius Malfoy held his wand in the old style, resting gently in the palm of his hand, fingers curled in what would have once been a graceful fashion. Now his hands looked gnarled, as though he’d spent hours with them wrapped around the cold iron bars of his cell, or clawing at the stone, searching for a way out. His hair fell stringy around his shoulders, eyes sunken and hollow. He advanced.

“Unhand my wife,” he ordered. “Immediately.”

“So you can throw her right back in the dungeons? For Voldemort to torture some more?” Harry took a protective step in front of Narcissa. “I don’t think so.”

Lucius was moving across the hall, each heel of his boots striking a clear sound against the stone. Harry held his ground. Lucius’ eyes were wide—as mad, almost, as his wife’s. His mouth opened as he advanced.

“Don’t you think I would have prevented that, if I could? She made her decision, and the Dark Lord neither forgives nor overlooks any of our family’s failures.”

Harry shouldered Mrs. Malfoy further behind him. He tried to keep his voice calm and even in his reply.

“I have no idea, Lucius. I don’t think I know you well enough to say what you would or would not do.” Harry gritted his teeth against the words, but they still snuck out. “I know what you did to Draco, though. With those fancy holidays and all the Quidditch tickets. And with the Didiers. So regardless of how your lovely wife ended up in her current state, I’m going to base my opinion of you off of verifiable facts.” He secured Narcissa behind him. Her shaking hands took up roost on his shoulders. “I think you’re a coward, Mr. Malfoy. I think nothing is more important to you than yourself. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear you sacrificed your wife and your son to save your own skin.”

The calm veneer of Lucius Malfoy’s face wavered, slipping to a sneer. “I think you’ve meddled quite enough in the affairs of my family, Mister Potter. And I’m afraid I cannot allow you to leave.”

His first spell was silent and quick as a gunshot, catching Harry off guard. It was only Draco’s weeks of drilling him at Grimmauld Place which allowed him to throw up a Light Shield in time. Narcissa screamed as the ball of light from Lucius’ spell exploded against Harry’s defences. She cowered behind Harry, fingers digging painfully tight into the meat of muscle between his shoulders and neck. She buried her face in the hood of his cloak, hiding. She was small and frail enough to use him as a shield.

“S’okay, Narcissa,” he told her quietly, blinking away the sparks dancing around his vision. “We’re okay.”

“Lucius,” she muttered. “Oh, Lucius. Oh Lucius....”

Harry fired off a round of spells, softening the floor on which Lucius Malfoy stood. The man’s knees buckled, his balance uneven. The hand without his wand flailed.

While his opponent was distracted, Harry began backing Narcissa towards the door.

“You’re taking Narcissa from me now?” Lucius cried, half incredulous and the rest feral. “First my son and now my wife?!”

Harry’s mouth was open before he had a chance to think. “Taken Draco? Assuming you ever had him in the first place!”

Lucius released a ball of flame—sent it screaming for Harry and his wife. Some loving husband, Harry thought.

“My wife! My child! My heir!” He threw a new spell to accent every other word. Spells pummeled Harry’s shields, one blast after another, wearing him down. “What's next? What else of mine must you acquire for yourself? My home, Potter? My vaults, or perhaps my life?”

Harry fired several rapid Stunners, covering himself as he and Narcissa retreated. Malfoy laughed; haughty, mad.

“But that’s right,” Malfoy simpered. “The Dark Lord says you cannot kill. A pity, then, that you cannot put poor Draco out of his misery.”

Harry froze. So that’s where Draco's talent came from—the ability to egg Harry on, to engage and enrage him like no other. It was hereditary. Harry held his breath against the storm brewing in his head. Retaliating would do him no good.

An antique vase went flying past his head, followed quickly by a chunk of marble floor. A piece of banister railing came loose in the gale Lucius was conjuring, flying towards them. Harry threw himself in front of Narcissa, taking the brunt of the debris against his side in order to shield her. She clung tighter to him, clutching his cloak so hard it choked him.

He would lose, he realized. That’s what protecting her would cost. There was no way to beat Lucius Malfoy in a fair fight—not like this, anyway. He fought the terror rising up from his guts.

Lucius was still going when Harry’s head came back.

“I’m not fool-enough to believe my son has abandoned his politics and sided with the Ministry. I know!” he bellowed, manic. “I know about the pair of you!”

Harry felt, more than heard, a sudden ringing in his ears. It was rage, he realized. Lucius Malfoy was trying to make him feel bad for fancying Draco—for snogging blokes, or being bisexual, or whatever. The same way he’d guilt-tripped, shamed and manipulated Draco for the past seven years.

Harry was not in a tolerant mood. He dropped his shield when Lucius Malfoy stopped for breath.

“And you’re ashamed!” Harry accused. His voice rattled nearby glassware. “Not because your son’s been seduced by another poncing little queer, but because he’s got the courage to go after what he wants! Unlike his father! Isn’t that right?”

The look on Lucius Malfoy’s face... like Harry had slapped him with a Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes rubber haddock, square across the mouth.

Harry sent a volley of jinxes the man’s way, hurrying in the opposite direction the moment his spells were away. Malfoy batted, his face going red. But Harry was nearly at the door.

“You’ve no right!” Malfoy screamed. His spells were becoming more erratic, shattering antiques and launching great chunks of wood and stone through the air. Narcissa covered her face with a cry. Harry’s grip tightened, pulling her along. One of Lucius’ spells sent a huge wooden bench zooming across the hall. Harry and Narcissa ducked, barely in time, as the piece of furniture smashed against the door, long broken boards blocking their escape. Harry rounded on his opponent.

A ballooned wine glass zoomed for him, crashing against the side of his head. Harry felt his skin pierced at the temple, blood trickling down the side of his face. He saw red.

“You’re going to regret that!” Beyond angry, he hoisted his wand over his head, shouting, “Eptir Eldr!”

The world exploded in white and blue. Apparently there was quite a bit of magic to be consumed in the old house. Narcissa threw herself against Harry. They crashed back into the debris surrounding the door.

A tiny hand wormed its way into Harry’s.

Narcissa smiled against Harry’s chest. “Oh there you are, Kit. Tea?”

Harry registered the nauseating, brain-pinching sweep of Apparition. The next thing he knew, he was lying on a very different and far cleaner stone floor. He smelled biscuits and Mrs. Skowers’ Industrial Formula.

The lights were too bright. He squinted, shielding his eyes with his wand hand. One lense of his glasses had broken in his fall, and it was difficult to see through the spiderweb cracks. The smoke was gone, but people were still shouting. Something went bing. It was horribly annoying, and sounded suspiciously like an elevator.

Harry tapped his wand to his glasses, muttering, “Reparo.” A second later, a slew of people descended upon him.

“...The hell am I?” Harry asked as he was helped to his feet.

“St. Mungo’s,” a woman answered.

Shards of wood and glass fell from his hair and clothes as he stood. He barely had a moment to brush himself off.

Narcissa shouted, batting at the hands of a Mediwitch trying to examine her. Harry reached out, stilling the blonde witch’s hands with his own warm ones.

They were attracting a lot of attention. Apparently Kit had brought them to the main lobby of St. Mungo’s. Witches and wizards came at a jog to know the source of the commotion. Harry and Narcissa were dirty, covered in debris and dirt, bruises and blood. When Harry breathed, he smelled smoke on Narcissa’s hair, and the bite of his own sweat. He tasted blood at the side of his mouth. He pulled Narcissa to him, wrapping an arm around her waist to give her strength.

“Harry Potter?”

“My stars, that is Harry Potter!”

Harry looked around, still getting his bearings. “Kit?”

Narcissa gave a jump against him. “My Kit!” she wailed. “Where’s Kit? Where’s Kit?”

Harry kept Mrs. Malfoy close, trying to calm her and look for the tiny elf at the same time. “Kit is the house elf who brought us here,” Harry explained to the nearest Healer. “Very small, white dress, wears a rose made of silk on her head. Please let me know if you find her.”

The Healers were pulling at his arms, trying to separate him and Narcissa. She became more and more agitated the faster they were surrounded.

“Please, Mr. Potter, come this way,” several people signaled towards a hall. “Please, this way. We need to get you to an exam room.”

Harry secured his arm around Narcissa’s shoulder. She clasped his other hand with both her own, still distrustful of the trained healers all around them. He ushered her through a set of doors and into a plain white room with two beds, an exam table and a collection of medical apparati. From the other side of the wall, he heard that damned lift go bing again. He was about ready to hex it into a thousand pieces.

Instead, he sat Narcissa down on one of the beds. Several of the more maternal, gentle-looking staff took her hands, speaking softly to her, calming her. Her eyes remained fixed on Harry as a Mediwizard began dabbing at the gash on his head, using a spell to remove a sliver-like shard of glass from his skin. Harry felt the blood rush freely down his face, but did not move.

“Mr. Potter,” the wizard warned. He was young for a medical professional, no more than twenty. Harry thought he recognized the fellow from Hogwarts—Hufflepuff? Ravenclaw, maybe. The fellow’s fingers held back Harry’s hair in order to have better access to his wound. “You’ve lost a fair amount of blood. You really ought to sit down.”

“I’ll be fine.” Harry grunted. A moment later, three pairs of hands were upon his shoulders, his backside connecting with the metal examination table. He refused to lie down as they examined him.

“Cast any Dark Magic, sir?”

Harry rolled his eyes. That was all the answer they were getting, and the sour expression on his face let them know it.

“Other wounds?”

“Numbness? Dizziness? Changes in vision?”

Harry slipped his glasses off, allowing the Mediwizard better access to his head wound. “I’m fine,” he insisted.

“You’re most certainly not!” a Healer barked, waving a wand over him. Casually, Harry pushed the wand tip away.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t point that in my face,” he told her, putting his glasses back on.

“You’ve been working with the Dark Arts—there’s residue everywhere! It’s almost as though you’ve cast an Unforgiveable!”

The Mediwizard gulped at the mere mention. Harry watched the man’s Adam’s apple bob a hand’s breadth from his face.

“Unforgiveables?” someone tisked. “You’re talking to Harry Potter. Show some respect.”

Harry scrambled for his connection to Misha—in the fight with Lucius Malfoy, he’d lost track of it, letting the magic loose somewhere in the back of his head. He dug for it now, scrambled, wracking his brains. But the cord tethering him to the Romanian boy was no longer there—had been severed. He found himself struggling for air.

He pushed the Mediwizard away.

“I have to go,” he told no one in particular, jumping off the table and reaching for his cloak. “They need me.”

“Mr. Potter!” someone begged. He couldn’t tell who.

Harry flipped the Invisibility cloak over his shoulders. “I’m fine!” he snapped, fastening the cloak with disobedient hands. Someone shot a Cleaning Spell at his face, wiping away most of the blood. He could still feel it on the side of his jaw, drying in the stubble there, tangled in his sideburns.

He glanced up. “Narcissa.” His gaze traveled to her. Their eyes met. “Keep me updated on her condition. You can reach me through Kingsley Shacklebolt.”

“In the Enforcement Office?” a stern voice inquired. “You’re an Auror now, Potter?”

Harry flinched. He didn’t have time for semantics. He glanced up at the woman. Short salt and pepper hair framed her round face. Her white robes were ill-fitting, suggesting she’d gained quite a bit of weight recently. The badge on her chest proclaimed her name to be Irene Stanek, Head of Trauma Medicine.

Harry fixed her with a hard look. “Worse, Healer Stanek. A Hit Wizard.” He turned, heading for the Public Apparition Point at the end of the hall. “Keep me informed. And somebody fix that bloody lift. Good evening.”

- - -

The Death Eaters were gone by the time Harry made it back. The moon sat high above the clouds, great towers of smoke rising from the grounds of Malfoy Manor. The wounded had been spirited off, but the dead still lay scattered across the snow, splashes of blood like oil spills in the turned-up slush. Harry waded his way through the gardens to the Manor, slipping inside unnoticed.

He passed a few familiar faces in the hall, Tonks among them. She gave him a salute in greeting.

“I take it we won, then,” Harry quipped.

“Just doing a last sweep,” Tonks confirmed. “We managed to capture a few of them for questioning.”

“Good,” Harry nodded. “Have you seen Ron or Hermione?”

“Second floor, last I heard. They’re fine,” she reassured him with a small smile. Her hair shifted from violet to a pale mauve vaguely reminiscent of a pair of robes Albus Dumbledore used to wear. “Oh, by the way—some Russian guy was looking for you. He’s up on the fourth floor. I heard someone got injured up there. Let me know if you need anything, yeah?” she added. “You look like shite.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Gee, thanks.”

Tonks clapped him on the shoulder before chasing her fellow Aurors down the hall.

Harry climbed a back staircase, thinking he would go catch Ron and Hermione. He found Lucius Malfoy’s study ransacked and empty, leaving him with no choice but to continue on to the fourth floor.

He stood a moment outside Draco’s room, just looking. The door to his bedroom sat wobbly on its hinges—crooked and sad, a big dent in the very center, fine wood splintering in places as it gave way. It was half-destroyed, like Draco. Like his perfect pureblood life. And, unlike this door, it would be a hell of a lot harder to fix Draco. If that was even possible.

Harry didn’t want to think about any of it: Draco, Misha... the war. Death and everyone he cared about being hurt before his eyes, with him powerless to stop it. It was all too close like this, too real, laid out before his eyes in wood grain patterns and sparkling golden handles waiting for his accursed touch. Whatever lay on the other side of that door was harsh and painfully, incomprehensibly bad. And Harry had no interest in it. He couldn’t fix it, couldn’t make it better.

But it was his fault. Some of it truly was. With a heavy heart, he owned that.

Harry inched closer to the closed door. He really didn’t want to go inside. He was too afraid, he decided, of what he might find.

Unfortunately, the door was thrown open just as he was turning to leave. Yuri came bounding out with an armload of bloody sheets.

“Harry!” The big man greeted him loudly. “Nachalnik!” He called back over his shoulder. “Harry iz here.”

Reluctant, Harry had no choice but to step inside. The chamber smelled painfully of Draco—it was his, right down to the autographed Quidditch posters and the empty bottles of vodka hiding on his desk under a Concealment Charm. Harry struggled not to breathe. Between blood and burned flesh and Draco, it was all too much. His eyes narrowed.

Mishenka lay in Draco’s bed, his wings and fuzzy horsehide banished. He looked smaller without the feathery protrusions on his back. Muscled arms hung weak at his sides, the blankets tucked up to his armpits. Nebojsa rubbed a wet cloth over his forehead, speaking softly to him. The boy’s eyes fluttered.

Dmitry was already on his feet—coming for Harry. He swept the smaller wizard up in a spine-cracking hug, lifting Harry clean off his feet.

“You zaved him,” Dima mumbled, wet. His tears met Harry’s neck in a hot slide, running down beneath the collar of his shirt. “You... you... mulţumesc... frate meu....” Harry wasn’t sure if Dmitry was talking about his brother, or calling Harry his new brother, adopting him for the service he’d done. He suspected Dmitry didn’t know either. He wrapped his arms around the Romanian’s thick neck and squeezed.

“S’okay,” Harry told him. “But I likely have a bruised rib, so could you put me down, maybe?”

Dmitry set him right on his feet, fussing with the fall of his cloak, picking bits of plaster and wood from the folds of his hood. The Romanian smiled weakly, his birch-colored gaze fixed on a point just below Harry’s throat. Harry patted his elbow reassuringly until Healer Purlish came to speak with him, drawing him away to a far corner of the room. Harry prayed it was good news.

Harry wandered over to the bed, greeting Nebojsa with a small, awkward wave. The Serb bowed his head in reply.

“So, uh, the Healer thinks he’s gonna be okay?” Harry asked lamely. He rubbed the balls of his boots against the carpet for lack of anything better to do, hands finding their way to his back pockets.

Nebojsa noded, somber. “Da.”

“And... er,” Harry swallowed, trying again. “Did... with the Blood Magic and, uh... the Animagus....”

Gods did he sound like a fucking idiot. Nebojsa wouldn’t even look at him. The man straightened. His bony fingers worked the rag in his hands, unfolding it and refolding, finding a cool section buried between the folds and casting a silent spell to add a splash of fresh water. Harry watched as the cloth began to drip, droplets plunking against the new, clean sheets.

Nebojsa spoke, barely above a whisper. Every syllable hissed, betraying his emotion with startling clarity.

“I know what you did,” his chin jerked, indicating Misha still lying prone on the bed. “The Imperiusssss Curssssse. You did it to sssssave him, of course, and we cannot begin to thank you for that. But you mussssst have more caution, my friend. I wassssss barely able to undo your ssspell in time.” His cold eyes slid to Healer Purlish, consulting with Dmitry on the other side of the room. “A ssssssecond longer, and Purlissssssh too would have realissssssed what you did. You would be in Azkaban, little one.” He paused, gaze falling to the top of Harry’s very messy head. The foreigner looked thoughtful, thin mouth quirked. “Not zhe best place for zhe Chozen One, da?”

Harry’s throat tightened. He couldn’t swallow, couldn’t speak. Thoughts swirled in his head like mist in a crystal ball—Divination seemed clear by comparison. He found himself aching for another one of Dmitry's hugs.

“I vill not tell srce moye if you don’t,” the Serb shrugged, non-plused. Seriousness bled from his demeanor until his shoulders slouched, giving away how exhausted he was. “‘Ee vouldn’t care.”

“I’m so sorry,” Harry managed a whisper. “It was the only thing I could think of.”

Nebojsa wrapped a long arm around his shoulders. “Vith your skill... I vould have done zhe zame.”

Harry felt like, if he opened his mouth, maggots might come out. He was rotten inside. “Yeah?”

His tall friend nodded. “Best I’ve ever zeen. Flawless. Perfect control....” He drifted into silence, sounding a little nostalgic. And possibly a little turned on.

Harry remembered something Draco had said about dark wizards being attracted to power. Maybe they were all a little darker than he liked to imagine.
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Conscience