Chapter Text
Moaning Myrtle refuses to talk to him, so what other choice does Harry have than to find Draco in the infirmary and confront him? (It’s a rhetorical question. Harry knows better than to ask any of his friends for their opinion on the matter.)
The door creaks only slightly, but still, the noise gives him away in the otherwise quiet hospital wing. Draco’s bed is the only one occupied, and Harry glances at the dark corner where Madam Pomfrey’s office is located before he takes off the cloak. For a few seconds, there is no sound but their shallow breathing and the footfall of Harry’s second-favourite trainers (the ones not soaked in Draco’s blood).
Harry sinks into the chair, and Draco looks at him with the dull eyes of somebody recently slashed open, and says only, “Why?”
Harry has no explanation, no excuse, no answer. He came to demand all of those from Draco, but all he ends up saying is, “I’m sorry.”
It’s quiet for a while, and it feels strange. There’s not usually silence when they are anywhere near each other. Harry fiddles with his invisibility cloak, focuses on how his fingers flicker in and out of sight. Outside, trees rustle as a gust of wind blows through them. Clouds veil the moon, and for a few seconds, Harry can’t see anything anymore.
“Where did I go wrong?” Draco whispers into the darkness.
Harry doesn’t know where to begin. He could list a million wrongdoings, starting with the day they first met and ending with Draco aiming an unforgivable curse at him not three hours ago. He isn’t sure if he should name them now that Draco has asked.
Draco takes another shallow breath. Harry is pretty certain that the following pained whimper isn’t just his imagination, but before he can open his mouth to apologise a second time, Draco says, “What am I supposed to do now?”
Harry is about to ask what exactly he means, but the next gust of wind hits the window façade with an obnoxious creak, and the words die in his throat, unheard.
Moonlight falls on Draco’s left arm, bared between them.
“Please.”
∞∞∞
The wind blows, the sun rises, and Draco Malfoy is no longer a Death Eater.
∞∞∞
Harry knows that his chances of getting out of detention in time to catch the end of the match against Ravenclaw are practically non-existent, but that still doesn’t keep him from checking the clock every other minute. When Snape finally lets him go, it is after one. The Marauder’s Map confirms what the non-existent noise outside has told him already — the match is over, and the Gryffindor common room is packed.
Harry points his wand at the map to erase it and falters. Just next to the point where his wand touches the parchment, up on the seventh floor, there is an inert dot labelled ‘Vincent Crabbe’.
Getting into the Room of Requirement is easy now that Harry knows what to ask for, but finding Draco is more of a challenge. He dimly remembers having passed the vanishing cabinet when he was hiding the Prince’s book, but when he locates it again after a good ten minutes of searching, Draco is nowhere to be seen.
Still hidden underneath the cloak, Harry creeps along the valley of trinkets and rubbish, taking turns at random. Exactly what it is he’s looking for, Harry isn’t sure. He has already confirmed that Draco isn’t secretly continuing his work on the vanishing cabinet. (Also, Draco would have to be rather mental to reveal his plan to Dumbledore and nonetheless proceed with it.)
Harry is just … well, curious. And also going in circles, it seems. If the human-sized statue of a Teenage Mutant Hero Turtle at this junction isn’t the same as the one he passed only a few minutes ago, he’ll eat one of its swords. Now, if only he could remember where he was coming from the first time he saw it. Great.
He draws his wand, places it on his flat palm and says, “Point me.” His wand does nothing at all, not even when he nudges it with his other hand or tries the spell two more times. All in all, it takes him an embarrassingly long time to realise that his wand has been pointing north from the very start. What comes quickly afterwards is the realisation that he has no idea in which direction the door is. The enchantment of the room has outfitted it with massive windows on all four sides, so that is no help either.
Maybe if he calls for Dobby …
Someone hiccups, and Harry flinches so hard that he nearly drops his wand. Drawing the invisibility cloak tighter around his body, he slinks into the direction of the noise. He finds Draco sitting in an armchair that’s in suspiciously pristine condition. Draco, on the other hand, is a mess. His face is pale, his eyes are red, and his expression is miserable.
“Get it together,” he hisses, presumably to himself. “It’s going to be fine … We’ll make it … Everything’s going to be fine.”
For a moment, Harry considers approaching him. He really doesn’t fancy another broken nose, though.
∞∞∞
When he finally reaches the Fat Lady, Quidditch is the last thing on Harry’s mind. But then her portrait swings open, and he is being dragged into the common room by a horde of boisterous Gryffindors, and suddenly it is all he can think about, at least for a moment, at least until Ginny runs towards him with that look on her face —
She kisses him, and he doesn’t think about Draco for the rest of the day.
∞∞∞
Harry really isn’t keen on walking in on Draco crying a third time. So before he goes up to the Room of Requirement two weeks later, he checks the map to ensure Draco is at dinner.
Locating the Prince’s book is easy, thanks to that ugly bust that Harry dressed in a wig and tiara. He doesn’t dare take it out of the room, though, so he finds a nearby couch, cleans it roughly and takes his quill and parchment from his bag.
Slughorn’s essay on the intricacies of brewing Amortentia practically writes itself now that Harry has access to all of the Prince’s additional insights again, and he is on his third scroll before he even knows it.
Hurried footsteps round a corner, and Harry upends his ink bottle as he shoots to his feet.
“Merlin!” Draco yelps as he notices Harry with his wand drawn, and he flinches so hard that he careens into the tower of trinkets to his left, which immediately topples.
Harry shoots forward and drags Draco out of the way just an instant before an enormous stash of books crashes to the ground, followed by a plethora of unidentifiable but noisy rubbish as well as what sounds like a sturdy grandfather clock. They stand stock-still for a moment, watching the nearest trinket tower wobble with bated breath to see if it will follow.
When nothing happens, Draco wrenches his arm out of Harry’s hold and rubs it with a sour look. “You are aware you could’ve cast Protego?”
Harry rolls his eyes and wades through the sea of rubbish to gather up his book and essay from the now ink-soaked couch.
“You’re aware you could have cast Protego yourself?” he asks casually, aiming a kick at a fanged frisbee that’s snapping at his ankle.
Draco ignores this very valid objection and says, “We could have both ended up getting buried, and then who would get us out?”
“Dobby.”
“Dobby?” Draco asks, his voice unusually high. “Does he belong to you, then?”
Harry spins around on the spot. “He doesn’t belong —!” Harry pauses, leaning his head back so he doesn’t have to look at Draco’s uncomprehending face. “God,” he mutters. “He’s free, get it? He just happens to like me, so he helps me out when he can.”
Draco frowns. “Is that supposed to be a good thing? For him?”
“He is pretty happy, yeah.”
“House-elves don’t want to —”
“Why do you assume to know what makes Dobby happy? Have you ever actually asked him?”
Draco rolls his eyes and shakes his head like Harry is being absolutely ridiculous, but he doesn’t actually say anything.
“Figures,” Harry says. “Now, if you would kindly fuck off? I had the room first.”
“I can’t leave,” Draco insists. “You leave.”
“Why not?” Harry crosses his arms and pretends like he has no clue that Draco only comes here to bawl his eyes out. Why, he’s not exactly sure. “No need to work on that cabinet anymore, remember?”
“Have you considered that it would be suspicious if I just stopped coming all of a sudden?” Draco asks. “Vince and Greg are not that oblivious. Both of their fathers are ...”
“Death Eaters,” Harry supplies as Draco says, “— in on it.”
They stare each other down for a moment, Harry with his arms still crossed, Draco with his wand gripped tightly. Out of the corner of his eyes, Harry thinks he sees the nearest trinket towers slide further away from them, but he refuses to break eye contact first.
“Fine,” Draco snaps, eyes still fixed on Harry’s. “You can have this disgusting couch, and I’ll find a spot further back.”
“Fine,” Harry repeats.
“Fine.” Draco turns on the spot, steps over an upset bird cage that’s aggressively flapping its door, and quickly vanishes.
When Harry finally looks around, all the fallen trinkets have moved to form a ring around him and the empty spot where Draco stood.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic.”
∞∞∞
Between Ginny, homework, Dumbledore’s lessons, and detention, Harry finds the time to go to the Room of Requirement about once a week. He only comes for his book, of course, but so far, Draco has been there every single time. Which isn’t actually all that surprising. According to the map, Draco is there most of the time.
Harry strongly suspects that he comes up there to hide from the other Slytherins. And to cry some more, probably — which is precisely the reason why Harry has started to announce his presence by hitting the gong he’s found on a chest near the entrance. Although it is gigantic and looks like it would produce a bone-shaking sound, all that emerges as the mallet makes contact is a ridiculous bird song.
Today, Harry finds his couch occupied. Also, it’s not really his couch. One: it is not at all disgusting anymore. Two: it has gone from a worn out, patched-up two-seater to a … Harry doesn’t actually know the proper name for it. It’s got clubbed feet of gold and velvet upholstery with those squiggly lines of golden thread — in short, it looks insanely out of place.
Harry comes to stand directly in front of this monstrosity and frowns down at Draco, who’s sprawled out with his arms crossed behind his head and his eyes closed. Harry doesn’t believe his casual façade for one second, but it does bring him some joy to imagine Draco coming here early to try out different poses.
“What’s this, then?”
Draco must’ve decided that it makes him look more casual if he cracks open just one eye when really it just makes him look like a total wanker. Well, to be fair, he always looks like a wanker to Harry.
“I’ve fixed your sofa,” Draco says indifferently. “Better, isn’t it?”
Harry scrunches up his nose. “I liked it better without some posh git all over it.”
“Well, I didn’t expect you to have taste. Like … what’s with that ridiculous gong you’re so obsessed with? I’ll never be able to hear another cuckoo without being reminded of this awful room.” Draco closes his eye again as if that will automatically make him the winner of the argument.
“Really? That’s what you’re going with?” Harry considers insulting Draco’s stupid gelled hair in return and then decides that he really doesn’t have the energy. So he sighs instead and says, “You know what? I’m not even in the mood to fight right now. So just sod off, yeah? You’ve got the whole north half of the room for yourself.”
“What exactly is it that you’re even doing here, Potter?”
“None of your business.”
“Well, I see no reason to move, then.”
Harry sighs heavily, just to make clear how much of a burden Draco is. In general. “Homework, alright? This isn’t as crowded as the library or the common room. Usually.”
“Had enough of the She-Weasel already?”
Harry can’t help but scoff. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to rile me up.”
Again, Draco opens just one eye — the other one, this time — and turns one of his hands over to reveal a small box sitting on his palm. “Chocolate Frog?”
“Absolutely not.”
Draco shrugs and props himself up on his elbows rather unexpectedly. Harry takes a step back on instinct and only realises he has raised his wand when Draco’s eyes snap to it.
The git grins. “There it is.”
∞∞∞
When Harry goes up to meet Draco next, it’s on purpose.
By the time Draco enters the Room of Requirement, it looks exactly like it did when the D.A. last assembled there - plus the cuckoo gong, which doesn’t really serve any purpose other than to annoy Draco specifically. Which is to say, it is the most important item in the room.
It’s not the gong that draws Draco’s ire. His eyes fall on Ron and Hermione first, and his previously neutral expression turns into a sneer in an instant.
“What are they doing here?”
“They’re training with us,” Harry says. “Obviously.”
“You told them?” Draco asks, voice icy.
“It would be stupid not to invite them. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re going to war. We could all use the practice.”
Draco’s face twists into something ugly. “You told them about me?”
Harry frowns. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“Don’t worry,” Hermione says in a remarkably civil voice. “We won’t tell anyone.”
“Yeah,” Ron adds flippantly. “Because we’re actually Harry’s friends and not just mindless lackeys.”
“They’re trustworthy,” Harry says. “You don’t need to worry about them.”
“No,” Draco snaps, turning on his heels.
“What are you gonna tell Goyle, then?” Harry asks. “That you worked on your top-secret life-or-death mission for a minute and then decided you weren’t in the mood?”
It can’t be easy to sulk for an hour and a half straight, but Draco somehow pulls it off. Well, his mood probably isn’t helped by the fact that he isn’t fast enough to disarm Harry even once. (Harry, on the other hand, hasn’t been this elated all week.)
Draco kicks the gong on his way out, which earns him a cheerful ‘cuckoo’ and a limp that persists until breakfast the next day.
∞∞∞
“Morning,” Ron says when Harry opens his curtains late one Sunday morning. He is lounging in the window seat of their otherwise deserted dormitory, and Harry gets the feeling that he has been waiting for him to wake up.
“Did something happen?” Harry asks as he sits on the edge of his bed and summons a pair of socks.
“What?” Ron rubs the back of his neck casually. “No. Why?”
“You’re acting weird.”
“Am not.”
Harry raises an eyebrow. “Sure …”
Ron’s eyes are fixed on a spot to Harry’s right. Harry can see the wheels turning inside his head, but he isn’t sure how to help the whole process along. When nothing else is said for a whole minute, Harry slaps his knees and gets up in search of a reasonably clean shirt. “Well, I’m going to see if they’re still serving breakfast.”
“Alright, fine!” Ron blurts out as he slides off the window seat. “I’m … well, it’s nothing, really …”
By the way Ron’s ears are turning red, Harry can tell that it’s definitely something. Any chances of catching breakfast recede into the distance. Harry knows better than to probe, though, so he merely hums and pretends to be very focused on buttoning his shirt straight.
“It’s … well, I had this dream last night …”
Harry looks up sharply, and Ron quickly puts up his hands.
“Not that kind of dream.” He pauses, and his ears turn even redder. “Not like your visions, I mean. Just a dream that got me thinking.”
“Okay,” Harry says and focuses back on his shirt. “What was it about?”
“Ah, well …” Ron turns around to look out of the window, revealing a neck that is just as red as his ears. “It wasn’t really anything specific, per se. But when I woke up, I … well, I could’ve sworn my arm was … burning.”
“Your arm?”
“My forearm, yes.”
“Like … the Mark?”
“Exactly!” Ron exclaims, wheeling around to face him full-on now. “But when I checked, there was nothing there.”
Harry doesn’t make fun of Ron for actually checking whether a dream might have left him with the Dark Mark. Ron wouldn’t either. Besides, he knows perfectly well how realistic some dreams can be.
“Can I … Do you think I could … see yours?” Ron asks suddenly, interrupting Harry’s thoughts.
“My arm?” Harry asks, more than a little bit confused. Nevertheless, he extends his left arm as Ron approaches.
“Other side,” Ron says, coming to stand just in front of him.
Thoroughly puzzled now, Harry holds out his other arm and rolls up the sleeve to reveal the faint scar where Wormtail took his blood. Another year or two, and it will fade entirely if he’s lucky. Knowing his track record concerning luck, that’s a rather big if.
Ron lifts his wand and taps Harry’s wrist. “Revelio.”
Harry opens his mouth to ask what the hell Ron is looking for, when it appears out of nowhere — just a fine line of golden ink at first, starting at Harry’s wrist and winding its way up and down, making his skin tingle with every stroke. It takes only a few seconds, and then they’re looking at a rough sketch of a horse, made of a single continuous line.
“When did you know?” Ron asks, his voice husky. It dimly reminds Harry of that time when Ron accused him of putting his name in the Goblet of Fire. Jealous.
“What?” Harry mutters, his eyes glued to the animal. “That I had a hidden tattoo?”
“That Ginny is your soulmate.”
Harry’s eyes snap up to meet Ron’s. “I’m sorry, what? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Her Patronus is a horse, mate. Who else would your mark refer to?”
“What?” Harry repeats.
“Don’t tell me you’re dating somebody else who also has a horse Patronus.”
“Ron, you’re not making any sense.”
Ron grabs his wrist and shakes it, clearly growing impatient. “You’ve got this soulmark, right?”
“I don’t know! Is that what this is?”
“Yes!”
“Well, that’s the first I’ve heard about any of this! You’ll have to explain it to me.”
“Merlin’s pants, Harry!” Ron plops himself down on Harry’s bed and drags him along by his wrist so that they end up facing each other. There’s silence for a few seconds, during which Ron’s eyes search the canopy, and his long fingers flex around Harry’s wrist. Finally, he shakes his head and lets go.
“All right,” he says slowly. “So, this is a soulmark. For it to appear, two things have to be true. You have to love someone. And the person you’re in love with has to be the right person for you — someone who’ll make you happy for the rest of your life. Usually, your soulmark and your soulmate’s Patronus take the same form.”
“Why?”
“You’re asking me?” Ron scoffs. “Supposedly, your Patronus is a reflection of your essence as a person or something, right?”
“What if your soulmate can’t produce a corporal Patronus?”
“Doesn’t matter; it’s not really supposed to be an identifying factor, seeing as you get your mark the moment you fall in love with your soulmate. Also, your arm gets all hot when it happens, so you know instantly. Didn’t you notice your arm burning?”
Harry shrugs. “I don’t know. Weird things happen to me all the time.” Sunlight falls on his knife scar as he turns his arm this way and that. “Sometimes this stupid scar gets all itchy. It might have burned, but I figured it was healing. I’m not keeping track.”
Nothing is said for a few seconds. Ron’s eyes are fixed on the mark, and he opens and closes his mouth several times before finally asking, “You seriously didn’t know about soulmarks?”
Harry can feel his eyebrows draw together. “You think the Dursleys told me?”
“No,” Ron says, sucking on his lower lip. “But this is our sixth year. Didn’t I tell you once that my parents are soulmates?”
“I thought that was a metaphor!”
“Nah, mate. It’s real.” Ron looks from Harry’s face to the mark and then out the window. His voice sounds bitter when he mutters, “Can’t believe you got yours and didn’t even notice.”
Determined not to respond to this remark, Harry lifts his wrist to take another look. Up close, he realises the mark is not just a line but a very fine chain made up of tiny golden links. He isn’t sure whether he actually likes it or not. Aesthetically.
“So … this thing means we’re soulmates? Ginny and me?”
“Oh no,” Ron says. “Your soulmark only tells you who your soulmate is. It doesn’t mean you’re hers as well. She could have someone else entirely — theoretically, of course!” Ron adds after a quick look at Harry’s face. “They match most of the time, so long as you both love each other. And you know she’s had a pash on you since you first met.”
Harry twists his elbow so he can inspect his mark upside down, see if there’s something he’s missed. It seems to be straightforward, though. Clearly a horse.
“But what if I’m not the right person for her?”
Ron gives him an incredulous look. “Sure, yeah. You’ve only faced off You-Know-Who about five times. You’re obviously inadequate.”
Harry scoffs. “Why would that matter when it comes to me and her?”
“Don’t you want her to be your soulmate?” Ron asks, on the defence in an instant.
“Yes!” Harry says instantly. “No!” He pauses to contemplate, but Ron looks more than just slightly irritated now, and that makes it hard to think. “I don’t know. I want her to be with me because she likes me, not because this thing chains her to me.”
“What does it matter?” Ron asks, jumping to his feet. “If your marks match, that’s a guarantee that you’ll be together and happy until the end!”
“How do you know?” Harry shoots back, and now he’s on his feet as well. “What if this is just another bloody prophecy? What if it only comes true because people believe in it?”
Ron crosses his arms so tightly he might actually crack his ribcage. “Well, I’ve never heard of a couple with compatible marks separating, so I’d say the magic is pretty accurate.”
“Okay, let’s say I am her soulmate,” Harry says. “What if I die? Does that mean she’ll never meet anyone else who’s right for her? That’s terrible!”
“I don’t know, mate,” Ron says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think I’ve got a distant cousin whose wife died, and he got another mark when he fell in love with his second wife? I don’t really like to think about that kind of stuff.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Harry demands. “That there could be a hundred girls who are right for me, but whoever I fall in love with first gets to be my soulmate?”
Ron throws his arms up in agitation and nearly slaps his own face in the process. “Why are you so narked about this? I thought you wanted to be with Ginny!”
“I do! But not because I’m prophesied to be!”
“Some people never meet their soulmate,” Ron snaps. “Just take the win.”
“But —” Harry says, a million different thoughts crashing through his head. None of them is likely to fix this rift building between him and Ron, who has clearly been raised to believe in the concept. They’ll never be seeing eye to eye on this.
“Maybe you’re right,” Harry allows after a second of silence. “I guess I’m just penned up with everything that’s been going on. I’m happy about this! ‘Course I am. She’s brilliant!”
Ron nods stiffly but doesn’t say anything.
Harry can only think of one thing that will appease him. “Hey, let’s go for a spin, yeah? We could take turns on the Firebolt.”
Instantly, Ron’s cloudy expression brightens. “Brilliant idea!” he shouts, already bent over his trunk in search of his gear. “But you’re explaining to Hermione why we’ve deviated from her bloody homework schedule.”
“Yeah,” Harry mutters as he strokes the chain with one finger, and instantly the mare rears up and launches into a gallop along Harry's arm. He wonders whether a soulmark is supposed to flee from its owner's touch. “Leave it to me.”
∞∞∞
For three days after Ron’s fateful dream, Harry ponders whether he should have a talk with Ginny about the whole soulmate business. By the time their schedules finally align for a half-hour stroll around the lake at lunchtime, he has decided firmly against the idea.
For one, he is unsure how to go about the whole business. A crush is one thing, but basically asking her if she’s in love with him already, after only six weeks of dating? Harry thinks that would be a bit presumptuous.
Besides … it doesn’t matter, does it? If Ginny wants to be with him, then that’s all Harry needs to know for this to work out — mark or no mark.
∞∞∞
Dumbledore finds one of the Horcruxes.
Retrieving the locket is nothing but a nightmare, and by the time they disapparate from the cliff sides, Dumbledore’s entire weight is on Harry. He collapses as soon as they reach Hogsmeade, and there is no way that Harry is going to be able to drag him all the way to the castle.
It takes Harry three tries until he manages to produce his Patronus, and he grudgingly sends it to fetch Snape. Thankfully, that is when Madam Rosmerta spots them and helps Harry haul Dumbledore into the Three Broomsticks. Once they’re inside, she immediately scurries off in search of her first aid potions kit, which seems necessary, because Dumbledore is growing weaker by the moment.
As Harry tries to manoeuvre Dumbledore’s limp body into a somewhat upright sitting position in one of the larger booths, he accidentally jostles him, causing Dumbledore to lose his hold on his wand. Harry is quick to gather it up and press it back into his good hand, but Dumbledore’s fingers won’t grip it. It seems like he doesn’t even realise he has dropped it, and Harry kneels down on the cold and unyielding stone floor in front of him, still clutching both wands desperately.
“Don’t worry, Professor,” he says — like he isn’t sick with worry himself. “Snape will be here any second, and then we’ll get you to the hospital wing.”
Dumbledore wheezes and lifts his head slightly to look at him. “Get Draco,” he mutters, clearly delirious. “Moondew. The password.”
“I think that Madam Pomfrey —”
Dumbledore’s hand lifts slowly before falling down on Harry’s forearm with all the weight of a half-giant’s. “No. Draco.”
“But —”
“It is time.”
“Time for what, Professor?”
Dumbledore shakes his head minutely and makes an effort to lift his chin a bit higher. “Take him to Minerva,” he says, and Harry can tell how much care he puts into making every word as clear as possible. “Don’t let anyone see you. She needs to send someone for Narcissa. Take them both to Grimmauld Place.”
Madam Rosmerta is still upstairs, but Harry lowers his voice nonetheless. “Grimmauld — I don’t understand. I thought — You said Draco was safe here. That he doesn’t suspect him yet —”
“We’ve just stolen from him, Harry. I am weakened. We can’t take the risk. I want you to take the locket and go.”
“The locket?” Harry hisses, startled. “But why? Isn’t it safer with you?”
“Just a precaution, Harry.” Dumbledore coughs and presses the Horcrux into Harry’s hand. Even against Harry’s icy skin, Dumbledore’s fingertips are freezing. “Keep an eye on it while I am unwell. Go now.”
“But, Sir —”
“Now.”
“I should stay with —”
Dumbledore’s voice hardens. “You swore to obey me, Harry — go!”
With one last look at Dumbledore’s face — strained but determined — Harry stuffs the Horcrux into his pocket and tears off towards the castle.
∞∞∞
Harry casts a Muffliato around Draco’s bed and lowers himself onto the foot end. He draws the curtains shut around them before slipping off the cloak. Draco is fast asleep, snoring into his pillow.
“Malfoy. Draco. Wake up.”
“Merlin, not this again,” Draco mumbles. He drags the corner of his blanket up to shield his face.
“No, it’s me,” Harry whispers sternly, tugging on the blanket. The urge to string Draco up in the air by his ankle is strong, but Draco’s screams might just stretch the limits of his Muffliato.
“Not tonight, Potter,” Draco says firmly, his eyes still closed. “Come back another night.”
Maybe Harry will have to resort to dragging him out of bed with a spell after all. “It’s time,” he hisses. “Dumbledore wants me to take you and your mother to a safe house.”
“What?” Draco mumbles.
“You’re leaving tonight,” Harry says, ripping the blanket off his body. “Come on.”
Draco jolts up instantly. “What happened?” he hisses, wide-eyed. “And why are you so wet?”
Harry leans back to escape Draco’s inquiring hands. “Midnight swim. Come on, we’re in a hurry. Pack a bag. Just what you can’t live without, understand? Don’t wake them up.”
“Is this a joke?” Draco asks, clearly hoping that Harry will say yes.
“No. Come on, hurry.”
It takes Draco only thirty seconds and two spells to send all his stuff flying into his trunk and shrink it down to fit into the pocket of his dressing gown. (So much for packing just the bare necessities.) He sinks back onto the bed and closes the gap he’s made in between the curtains before asking, “Now what?”
“McGonagall’s office,” Harry whispers, pointing it out on the map he’s unfolded on the bed. “We’ll have to steer clear of Peeves in the Great Hall, and Mrs Norris seems to be patrolling the grand staircase.”
“Where did you get that map?” Draco asks. His breath hitches as he leans forward to take a closer look. “Is that blood on your hand?”
Instead of answering his questions, Harry indicates a path. “We should be alright to take the staircase up to the entrance hall if we’re quiet. Then we’ll take this secret passage here, which will lead us to this spot just outside her office.”
“Some of these dots are moving,” Draco says, tapping one of the girls’ dormitories. “Does that mean some of them are still up?”
“Yeah. Don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry?” Draco hisses. “What if someone comes up to the common room and sees us?”
“Don’t worry,” Harry repeats. “We’ll take my invisibility cloak.”
Draco looks very unimpressed. “Are you seriously telling me that this is Dumbledore’s plan? The two of us under one mingy cloak?” He makes a point of pulling the map closer and scrutinising it for several long seconds. Finally, he asks, sounding rather annoyed, “Where is he anyway?”
Harry wonders whether it wouldn’t be easier if he just knocked Draco out and dragged him all the way to McGonagall’s office. “It’s my plan, and it’s gonna work, alright? The three of us have managed to squeeze under the cloak countless times. And Ron’s a bit taller than you, I’d say. Now let’s go.”
“You’re dripping,” Draco says pointedly. “You’ll leave a trail from my bed straight to her office. Is that what you’re planning to do?”
“Lord, give me strength,” Harry mutters, tipping his head back so he doesn’t have to look at Draco’s irritating face anymore. The worst thing is that Draco has a point, and that Harry’s thoughts are too jumbled for him to remember how to do the stupid drying spell. “Fine,” he presses out through clenched teeth. “Do you think you could —”
The blast of warm air hits Harry before he can finish the sentence, and he is loath to admit even to himself that it feels nothing short of amazing. His shoulders drop instantly, and that’s when he realises that he’s been tied up in knots in the first place.
“Thanks,” he mutters. He can’t exactly bring himself to look at Draco while he says it, so he busies himself with folding the map instead. When it’s safe inside his pocket, he adds, “Come here, then.”
But Draco’s eyes are wide, and he stays rooted to his spot on the other end of the bed. He looks terrified, and Harry can’t blame him. If he were the one defecting from Voldemort’s service, he wouldn’t be calm either.
They don’t have time for this, though. He needs to hand Draco over to McGonagall and then go back and make sure Dumbledore’s alright. It’s unlikely that Dumbledore has told anyone but him that they are hunting Horcruxes, but who knows what he could let slip to Snape in the state he’s in? If Dumbledore is wrong about him … If Voldemort finds out that they know …
Harry groans and scoots over until their legs are pressed together. Draco is incredibly tense against him, clearly fighting the urge to bolt. Harry throws the cloak over their heads and then tries to sort it out so all of their limbs are covered, which quickly turns out to be impossible while they’re still sitting.
“Alright,” Harry says, grabbing Draco’s upper arm. “I’ll count to three, and then we’ll get up. Our feet are gonna be visible, so we’ll have to make sure nobody looks our way. So, no talking.”
Draco simply nods, his lips pressed together tightly. They get up smoothly, and the cloak immediately rises up to their shins.
“Of course,” Draco hisses, and Harry digs an elbow into his side to shut him up. Still, Draco mutters, “This is idiotic.”
Before Harry can shush him, Draco tears his arm from Harry’s grip and puts it around Harry’s back, rooting him to the spot. Draco’s hand settles on Harry’s far shoulder, pushing him a step forward, and then Draco is close behind him, taking hold of the other shoulder as well. Harry’s heart is beating an irregular, confused rhythm, but the cloak is now down to the top of his still-damp second-favourite trainers (the ones now sprinkled with his own blood).
“Go!” Draco whispers, and Harry can practically feel his lips moving against the top of his head. Well, maybe he is exaggerating just a bit, but they really are awfully close. He can definitely feel Draco breathing, and it makes the hair at his neck stand on end.
One of Draco’s dorm mates turns around forcefully, and Draco’s fingers dig into Harry’s shoulders as they wait with bated breath for the bed frame to cease creaking. When silence falls again, Draco pushes Harry forward, and they make their way up to the common room, which is thankfully deserted. The way out of the dungeons and into the entrance hall is uneventful as well — not counting the resentment building in Harry at being pushed around by Draco fucking Malfoy — but then they enter the unlit secret passage leading to the first floor, and Harry can’t see a thing.
“Lumos,” he whispers and once again Draco’s nails dig into his shoulders, wrenching him to a stop as he leans over Harry’s shoulder to have a closer look.
“Whose wand are you holding? Is that … Potter, is that Dumbledore’s?”
Harry’s heart sinks. In his outstretched hand, there are two lit wands.
Draco inhales sharply. “Merlin, no. He’s dead, isn’t he? I’m going to die.”
“No!” Harry insists firmly. “No. Shit. Alright, listen. I’ve got to return this. McGonagall’s office is right around the corner, so just go ahead without me, alright? Tell her that Dumbledore wants her to send someone for your mother, and to take the two of you to Sirius’ place. And tell her to send Pomfrey to the Three Broomsticks, yeah?”
“What — Potter, wait!”
Harry breaks free of Draco’s grip, rounds him and reaches the bottom of the stairs before Draco even manages to turn around. He shouldn’t leave Draco to fend for himself, he knows, only this is more important right now.
But the Dark Mark appears above the pub just as Harry makes it back to the village, and Draco is right after all.
Harry’s fight with Snape lasts maybe a minute or two, and then the fucking traitor is gone, taking all of Harry’s tentative hopes for the future with him.
∞∞∞
Harry knows it’s his fault that Dumbledore is dead. He’s the one who sent his Patronus to Snape. The one who took Dumbledore’s wand with him. The one who left him defenceless. Nobody wants to say it, but Harry knows they think it too.
Even when Harry confesses his guilt to Professor McGonagall, she just takes the wand off his hands with a stony expression, and reassures him that it wouldn’t have made a difference, not if Dumbledore was as weakened as Harry tells her. Not against Snape, whom Dumbledore trusted with his life.
If Harry had just been a little bit faster, just a minute earlier! Maybe then he would have managed to save Dumbledore. Maybe then it wouldn’t be Dumbledore’s corpse holding his wand right now.
He breaks up with Ginny right there at the funeral.
“I never gave up on you,” she tells him, after reassuring him that she understands his reasons. “But I can’t say I haven’t been expecting this.”
“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” Harry says carefully, “— what kind of person I’ll be when this is all over … I don’t want you to cling to the idea of this, Ginny. If we make it through, and we’re still right for each other, we’ll know, won’t we? But not because of this.” Harry raises his right wrist slightly and wiggles it before taking hold of her hand. “Because of this.”
Up until then, Ginny's face was solemn, but she manages a crooked smile now. “Wow,” she mutters, punching his shoulder lightly. “That was incredibly soppy.”
“Sorry,” Harry mutters. “I guess what I’m trying to say is … I just can’t live my life by another prophecy.”
“You know, we never talked about this,” Ginny says, raising her own wrist.
“Sorry,” Harry repeats. “I know it’s important to most people.”
Ginny frowns. “Most people?”
“Well, Ron seems pretty obsessed with the whole idea,” Harry says, and instantly he knows how Ginny will react.
She makes a face and says, in a tone that suggests he has gone mental, “Please tell me you’re not looking to Ron as the paragon of healthy dating.”
Harry feels the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. “You might have a point there.”
“I do,” Ginny says, and then her arms are around him. “Don’t worry about me. You don’t owe me anything. Go do what you have to. I’ll be alright.”
There is nothing else to be said, so they embrace for a moment, silent. Then Harry presses his lips against the top of her head and leaves to get accosted by Scrimgeour.
∞∞∞
Just two weeks after Draco and Narcissa’s extraction, Lucius Malfoy dies in Azkaban.
Harry isn’t sure if anyone thinks to go to Grimmauld Place and tell them. He himself hasn’t been there since the Christmas before Sirius’ death, and he has no desire to ever go back either.
But then the Ministry falls, and the Burrow isn’t safe anymore, and with nowhere else to go, Harry finds himself standing in the gloomy hallway after all, getting insulted by Mrs Black’s portrait.
∞∞∞
They quickly fall into a kind of rhythm. Draco and his mother take their meals in the dining room. Harry, Ron and Hermione keep to the kitchen. On the rare occasions that they run into each other in the hallway, they grimace and keep moving. It’s a great arrangement, Harry thinks.
That is until Draco bursts into one of their Ministry heist planning sessions. Harry has their notes gathered up and out of sight the moment the kitchen door slams against the wall, but Draco isn’t even trying to catch a glimpse. Instead, he’s staring at Harry, his hands balled into fists.
“You’re planning to sneak into the Ministry.”
“Are we?” Harry asks, doing his level best to keep his face neutral.
“Yes,” Draco says, his eyebrow twitching. “I heard you talking.”
Harry crosses his arms. “You’ve been spying, you mean.”
In the background, he can only just make out Ron trying to convince Hermione that Draco is in dire need of a memory charm.
Draco pretends not to hear them, but Harry notices him slipping his wand hand into his pocket as he says, “Oh, so you have never spied on me before, is that what you’re saying?”
“That was justified! You were working for —”
“I want to help!” Draco cuts in, startling all three of them. Harry exchanges glances with the other two — neither of them has been expecting this from Draco. Without Crabbe or Goyle to back him up, he’s never exactly been the fearless type.
Hermione leans forward, splaying her hands on the table. “How can you help us?”
“I know my way around the Ministry,” he argues. “And I know who all the important people are.”
“My dad works at the Ministry,” Ron says. “I’ve been there countless times. Why would you —?”
“I know which ones of them are Death Eaters.”
“Because you were a Death Eater!” Ron cries out. “We’d be mental —”
“They killed my father,” Draco presses out between clenched teeth. “We couldn’t even go to claim his body, so he was buried outside Azkaban by the dementors. I can help. Let me help.”
Ron’s chair scrapes across the floor as he jumps to his feet. “Your father was also a Death Eater! That’s why he was in Azkaban in the first place!”
Harry pushes away from the table and makes his way over in three quick strides. Although Draco looks ready to throw jinxes at the drop of a hat, he barely resists when Harry grabs his arm and pushes him out of the door, which Harry then slams shut in his face. When he turns around, Hermione is chewing on her bottom lip, looking unsettled, and Ron is still seething.
“Who does he think he is?” Ron hisses. “As if —”
“Just with this,” Harry says, looking from one to the other, and Ron’s mouth snaps shut. “Once we’re done at the Ministry, he’s out again. And we don’t tell him what we need the locket for.”
“I don’t know, Harry.”
“ I do know,” Ron says vehemently. “He’s trouble. We can’t trust him.”
Harry leans his back against the door and tries for a calm tone. “I think he could be useful. He was on the Inquisitorial Squad. He knows Umbridge.”
“That doesn’t exactly make me trust him, mate.”
“Then don’t. But I’d bet you anything that his father bribed someone in every single department at one point or another. Maybe he has some information about Level One. You’ve got to admit that we could stand to know more about that place.”
Ron and Hermione grouse and grumble, but in the end, they have no choice but to relent.
“Alright,” Harry says, opening the door to reveal Draco still standing where he left him, no doubt eavesdropping once again. Ron and Hermione really shouldn’t look so surprised. “Come on in, then.”
∞∞∞
Draco is useful. Ron refuses to acknowledge it, and Harry can’t blame him. Their chances of success depend on every bit of information they can gather, but a part of him wishes they wouldn’t have to rely on Malfoy, of all people. His accidental-hallway-meeting-face is getting a bit too smug for Harry’s taste.
Still, they’re all thrown once again, when, on the day before the heist, Draco declares, “I should come with you.”
No matter how loudly Ron protests and how many times Narcissa begs him to stay where they’re safe, Draco demands they take him with them. He doesn’t even know what exactly it is they’re trying to do, but that doesn’t seem to bother him.
It reminds Harry of Sirius, desperate to leave this wretched house. Maybe that should be incentive enough to deny Draco, but Harry just can’t, because he does have a point — the Ministry will be crawling with pureblood supremacists, and he knows exactly how they think, talk and act.
∞∞∞
Draco helps, they get the locket, and everything goes down the pan. One moment they’re on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place, and the next, Ron is quickly bleeding out on a forest floor. Only when they’ve stopped the bleeding does Harry take notice of Draco, sitting on the ground in a near catatonic state, staring at Ron’s freshly-healed wound.
Harry lets his shaky legs drop him to his knees in front of Draco, blocking his view of the bloody scenery. “Are you hurt?”
Draco’s eyes snap to Harry’s face. “What happened?”
“Yaxley,” Hermione says, her voice trembling, and then she tells them exactly how fucked they are.
Draco is on his feet in an instant. “My mother! I need to go back! How do I get there?”
“Draco —”
“No!” Draco turns on the spot in a panic, like he’s searching for a big neon sign that says, ‘Secret Safehouse This Way’. If he tries to apparate like this, he’ll surely end up splinched as well. “I’m not leaving my mother! They will kill her!”
“I know,” Harry says as he gets up and approaches him. He stumbles over the hem of Runcorn’s enormous robes, so he yanks them over his head and flings them in the general direction of Hermione and her bag, never breaking eye contact with Draco. “I’m going with you. We’ll take the cloak.”
“Harry!” Hermione has stopped dressing Ron’s wound and is now staring at the two of them with wide eyes. There’s a streak of blood on her cheek, and a strand of her bushy hair is sticking to it.
“Listen, Hermione —”
“You can’t! It’s too big a risk.”
“We’ll have to take it.” Harry pulls the invisibility cloak from the pocket of his jeans and marches over to grab Draco’s arm, who has stopped pacing and is now rapidly looking back and forth between them. “We’ll meet you here, Hermione. If we’re not back in an hour, you should move on; try to find a way to destroy the locket.”
Before Hermione can protest, before Harry can throw the cloak over their heads, a feeble patch of silvery mist descends into their midst. Hermione squeaks, Draco flinches, and Harry’s wand is up before he knows it. But then the mist forms into the vague, undefined shape of a peacock and speaks.
“Don’t come back — not safe,” Narcissa’s voice says, distant and barely audible, cutting out in between words. “I’ve fled. Stay —”
The Patronus disperses before it can finish its message, leaving them to stare at the space where it had just been in stunned silence. When Draco’s forearm grows unusually hot, all of a sudden, Harry realises he is still holding it. He lets go instantly, and Draco wrenches away at the same time.
“Was that … the Dark Mark?”
“Don’t be daft,” Draco sneers. He has taken several steps back. “That’s on the other side.”
“Then what —”
“It hasn’t got anything to do with you,” Draco says coolly. “Or You-Know-Who. So, where are we going now?”
They don’t go anywhere. Ron’s not well enough to apparate, so they’re forced to muster some charms and put up the tent from Hermione’s bag. Transporting Ron into one of the lower bunks is a challenge, and Draco, who has claimed the top bunk of the second bed and turned his back to the room, is no help either.
Harry isn’t sure why this surprises him. Maybe because he was prepared to risk his life for Draco’s mother, and Draco can’t even bring himself to carry Ron’s legs for thirty seconds.
Probably that.
∞∞∞
Harry expects Draco to come creeping up on them when they finally get around to inspecting the Horcrux they got off Umbridge, but he stubbornly stays in his bunk, pretending to be asleep. Harry knows Draco is faking it because he hunches his shoulders ever so slightly when Harry casts a Muffliato for good measure.
There is not really all that much to do, so they just leave Draco to himself while they pass the locket around and try to think of the next step. By the time Harry takes the first watch, he’s pretty sure that Draco has fallen asleep for real. That is, until Harry has his vision of Gregorovitch’s murder, and then the subsequent disagreement with Hermione, who seems to think there is some kind of handy off-switch inside Harry’s mind that he just hasn’t bothered to flip yet.
When Harry stomps into the tent on Hermione's insistence, both Ron and Draco are watching him. For a moment, Harry considers taking the bunk above Ron’s, but ultimately he’s not mad enough to go so far as to condemn Hermione to the one underneath Draco’s.
In his naiveté, Harry also believes that he doesn’t have to look at Draco’s stupidly irritating face anymore if he’s lying in the bunk beneath him, but that turns out to be wishful thinking. As soon as Harry flings himself onto the mattress, Draco’s pale face pops up from above.
“Did you really see into his mind?” he whispers, perhaps aiming to keep Ron out of the conversation.
“Yep,” Harry says, trying to peel himself out of his jacket without sitting up again. “Wouldn’t recommend it.”
Draco’s face vanishes, and Harry punches his lumpy pillow into shape before turning his back on the room. Suddenly, Draco whispers, “What did you see?”
“Murder,” Harry says bluntly. “He murdered a man.” When Draco inhales sharply, Harry adds, “What did you expect?”
“Fuck if I know,” Draco says, sounding hesitant. “For you to lie?”
“Why?” Harry asks, though, of course, he knows precisely why. He himself isn’t sure why he’s even telling Draco about his visions. Harry turns onto his stomach and adds, “Are you going to lecture me about it as well?”
Draco scoffs, and the reason is anyone’s guess. Maybe he realises he’s in no position to hand out advice on how to handle Voldemort.
Harry buries his face in the pillow and tries to calm his pounding head. His bed clothes smell like mothballs, which vaguely reminds Harry of his cupboard under the stairs at Number Four, Privet Drive. It doesn’t particularly help with his headache.
“How do you do it?” Draco whispers, and thankfully he can’t see Harry flinch. “Is it Legilimency?”
Harry snorts involuntarily. “Not on my part, no. Hermione thinks I ought to prevent it, but I can’t. Snape tried to teach me Occlumency, but … Well, who knows if he actually did try. Either way, it doesn’t make a difference now.”
“I’m pretty good at Occlumency,” Draco says after a beat of silence. What a prat.
“Brilliant,” Harry mutters. “Tell me if that ever comes in handy for you, will you?”
It isn’t until much later that Harry stops to wonder whether Draco’s remark hasn’t been meant as an offer rather than a boast. Probably not, though. It’s Malfoy, after all.
∞∞∞
All of them are irritated, but Ron is the worst of them all. To the surprise of nobody at all, he clashes with Draco almost constantly, and most of the day is filled with noisy accusations and hissed threats. Morale is at its worst when it’s Ron’s turn to wear the locket. Harry and Hermione do their best to take the burden when they are able to, but they can only go so long.
It would probably help if they could incorporate Draco into the rotation, but … well. By now, Draco has figured out that the locket is cursed, but if they’d ask him to wear it, they’d definitely have to tell him what exactly he’d be consenting to.
Even Ron agrees that they shouldn’t tell Draco the truth, but that doesn’t stop him from complaining about the unfairness of it all, loudly and constantly. Not that Ron is likely to run out of things to hate about Draco anytime soon.
Harry supposes he should be grateful that there’s someone other than Hermione and him for Ron to take his anger out on, but somehow he just … isn’t. Instead, Harry finds himself secretly relieved when they decide on the second day to split into teams of two for watch duty and foraging trips through the forest or into nearby villages — because it’s Harry’s fault that Draco is there, which means, naturally, that Harry ends up with him.
That is, of course, just another reason for Ron to threaten Draco, which spurs Harry, quite inexplicably, to snap right back at him. (Because honestly, does Ron still believe that Draco is just waiting for his chance to do Harry in?)
What surprises Harry, however, is that Draco does not seem to revel in the fact that Harry is clashing with Ron almost as often as he is. He doesn’t even chaff Harry about Ron and Hermione’s secretive, hushed conversations, although Harry is sure he must notice them too.
While the hunger and cold and helplessness bring out the worst in the rest of them, they just seem to rob Draco of the energy he needs to maintain his usual pratty self. Small mercies.