InsaneJournal

1.

Harry was angry. No - beyond angry. He burned with a cold, hard fury at the stupidity and weakness of the boy in front of him. There was so much potential there - raw power, skill, intelligence - Lucius’s brat could be such a useful asset. Harry was going to make him into an asset if he had to rip him apart to do so.

The boy felt the power build-up before the word was even spoken. His head shot up, and Harry was looking down his wand into pale eyes made bright by defiance and a pure, hard hatred. Long fingers tightened around the wand. “Crucio.”

The boy went down instantly, but refused to scream. Blood inevitably flowed as he bit into his lip, strong white teeth clamping down on soft pink flesh. His eyes slammed shut, eyelashes lacing together, tears the glue to fasten them shut forever. Harry wanted to hurt him, and the agony was clearly written in his contorted face and helplessly jerking body. But he didn’t let loose even a whimper. Such pride. Futile and stupid, but entertaining… Harry found himself laughing - high-pitched and cold…

“Harry!”

The dark room and the pale boy were torn away as Harry blinked awake in warm candle-light, shaken by rough but friendly hands. “God, Harry - what the -” Ron’s face came into focus, screwed up with worry. Harry realised he was still laughing - but it came as a relief to hear his own voice, not Voldemort’s. And a relief to find his own emotions flooding back through him, trembling sweaty horror driving away the last of the cold pleasure. He pulled away from Ron, dry retching over the side of the bed.

He had had a year’s peace - months free of this unwanted and uncomfortable connection with his greatest enemy. Voldemort had blocked it off himself. Why was it suddenly back?

“Harry -” Ron’s voice was wary; Harry heard the unspoken question.

“Yes!” he snapped. “I was dreaming about him! About fucking being him!” Guilt flared as he saw the hurt on Ron’s face. Harry had every right to be pissed off - but no right at all to be taking it out on Ron. “Sorry,” he added quickly. “Thanks for waking me.”

“You alright?” Ron sat down on his own bed. Harry looked at the irregular walls, candlelight flickering off Cannons posters and the newspaper clippings strewn across every available surface, and let himself relax into The Burrow’s comfortable vibrations - the atmosphere of a house that had known little but love and community inside its walls. “You know, Harry, that laughing was scary. I’m used to the nightmares, but -”

“Oh, it was a nightmare alright. Voldemort was torturing Mal- someone. He had them under Cruciatus and they wouldn’t scream. We found it very amusing.” Harry noted the bitterness in his own voice and deliberately lightened his tone. He even managed a grin. “But I’m fine. I’m going to see my loving aunt and uncle tomorrow - um, today - no wonder I’m having nightmares.”

Ron beamed. “I’m looking forward to it. You might still be underage, but me and Hermione are all legal now. One wrong move by that fat git and boom.” He waved an imaginary wand and caused the candle to wobble precariously. “Just pick your jinx. Or a variety of ‘em. How about one for every year he‘s been a dickhead?”

“Oh, God - choices, choices…”

“Yeah - your life is so hard.”

Harry lay back down to sleep with those entertaining thoughts flickering through his head, but it was no good. He closed his eyes, and the first image that flashed up on the black backs of his eyelids was dishevelled blond hair, fingertips scrabbling on the floor, back arched in pain, bloodied mouth finally open in a scream -

He opened his eyes, tried to control his heartbeat, and cursed the desperate desire he had to somehow protect Malfoy, to throw himself between Voldemort and his victim.

Pity for Malfoy was one thing - Harry could allow himself compassion, even for the boy who’d spend years trying to make his life a misery. But he couldn’t let his ’saving-people-thing’, as Hermione so infuriatingly - and aptly - put it, blind him to the fact that this was no damsel in distress or friend in need.

Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater. One of Voldemort’s own. No one had forced him into taking the Dark Mark.

Malfoy chose his own path. I can’t save him - even if I wanted to.

Which I don’t…

****

Dudley Dursley was happy. Everything in his world was exactly as it should be - perfect. The day was bright and hot, school had finished - forever if he had anything to say about it - and his old gang were happy to have him back and suitably impressed by his new tattoo. Everything was good. True, his father did keep making noises about him getting a job, but Dudley couldn’t really see the need. His parents would just have to increase his pocket money to go with his more expensive adult social life.

As the boys swaggered down the street, the local kids - and quite a few of the adults - got smartly out of their way. Dudley felt like a celebrity - the king of Little Whinging. Until they turned into Privet Drive.

The street was silent, with more than the usual Sunday afternoon sleepiness. Not a soul out - except for the Mosher sitting on the wall of his house. Sitting like he hadn’t a care in the world, skinny denim-clad legs stretched out in front of him, hands deep in the pockets of the oversized hoodie he wore despite the heat. What the hell was Dudley’s father playing at, allowing this? It was a Saturday, so he’d be home. Surely one of his parents had noticed the scruffy creature sitting on their garden wall?

He marched his posse up the street. The boy on his wall didn’t even have the decency to look up as they approached, instead choosing to examine his walkman as if he’d never seen one before. Obviously not a local - any local, especially a little girly thing like him, would be beating a hasty retreat by now.

But no. The Mosher only chose to acknowledge them when they were standing right in front of him, blocking out the sun. He looked up from under his black hood, blond hair falling across his pale, bony face. Not a proper decent blond like Dudley’s own straw-coloured thatch, but practically white. And his eyes were really weird - like looking into one of Dudley’s mother’s prized glass ornaments. He saw only swirling grey clouds and his own face reflected in duplicate.

Those eyes travelled over expensive tracksuit bottoms and Dudley’s much-admired imported Nikes, and a girly mouth curled into a smirk. “At last,” he said, in a cut-glass accent that was virtually designed to get Dudley’s back up. “Some entertainment.” Then came the final insult. This posh-mouthed, pretty-boy freak had his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and there, on smooth white skin, was the most spectacular tattoo Dudley had ever seen. A snake curling round a skull - no, actually coming out of its gaping mouth. Plain black, not coloured like Dudley’s, but larger, more macho…the damn thing even looked like it was alive - moving…

His hand moved automatically to his bicep, to touch his still-scabbed skull and crossed-bones. The stranger’s weird eyes followed the movement, and his smirk turned into a sneer. “Is it supposed to ooze like that, Muggle? Nasty. But, hell, at least it accounts for the smell.”

“What did you call me, freak?” Dudley had a tried-and-tested menacing glare that, combined with clenched fists, caused pants-wetting terror in all recipients. Well, almost all. There was one exception.

Two exceptions. The blond boy looked unimpressed. He got to his feet, movement slow and smooth, unaccountably reminding Dudley of one of Mrs Figg’s scrawny cats stretching in the sun. “Sorry, did you think that was an insult? I was just stating a fact. Though, if you want me to insult you, I can. After all, you’ve got all the looks and intelligence of a diseased troll - I could insult you for hours, Muggle.”

That word again. Dudley wasn’t the fastest on the uptake, but for the second time, there was a twitch in a largely unused section of his brain. He’d heard it before…and it was connected with…weird things, and yes, pants-wetting terror…

Piers Polkiss, usually the last of his gang to start a fight, but obviously frustrated by the lack of punching, moved up beside him. Polkiss was still scrawny, but he was taller than the Mosher boy, who looked at him like he was seeing some new and interesting species of slug. “Clever dick, aren’t you? Well, we don’t like your kind around here.”

Grey eyes darkened, narrowed, and flashed with something that made Dudley’s blood chill. “No.” Hate. Real hate. “I bet you don’t.” The boy’s voice was still calm, but poison dripped from every syllable. Memories were flickering through Dudley’s head, a twisted film of all the worst moments in his life - the snake, the pig’s tail, the exploding fireplace, the growing tongue, Aunt Marge floating on the ceiling, the feelings in the alley, being attacked by wine glasses… He stood there, mute and unmoving, as Gordon pushed Piers aside and grabbed a handful of black hoodie, as the boy grinned wider than any human should be able to and something appeared in his hand.

Dudley was actually hoping for an airgun or a knife, but no… “A stick?” Gordon scoffed. “What are you going to do with -”

There was a blinding flash of light. Dudley heard a bang, the sound of a car alarm going off, and someone screaming. As his vision returned, he saw Gordon crumpled beside the car he’d been blasted into, screaming like a girl as bloody tentacles burst through his skin. Beside him, Malcolm and Piers were blinking too. Piers started to whimper.

“Newsflash, animal - I don’t like your kind either.”

*

Draco tapped his wand against his lips - no fighting stance for dealing with Muggles - and beamed at his would-be tormentors. Apart from the brief diversion of ‘acquiring’ Muggle clothing that morning, Draco’s part in his Aunt’s mission had been boring look-out duty on a boring suburban street. Frankly, he’d expected his first foray into the barbarian Muggle world to be more interesting. Good of these idiots to liven his day up for him.

The second largest Muggle actually tried to rush him. Typical of these people - scared of something, so they try to destroy it. Draco was feeling generous - he just hit him with Tarantallegra and watched him dance. The Muggle didn’t seem to appreciate his mercy, however, alternating between screaming abuse and begging God to help him. Sick of the noise, Draco was about to blast him with something more nasty when he noticed the skinny one - the one who ’didn’t like’ his kind, sprinting off down the street.

Good to see the fine traditions of cowardice being upheld, even in the Muggle world. Quite a turn of speed he had, too. One carefully aimed spell later and he was dangling in mid-air, wailing. Well, he’d keep. Draco turned to the leader, the one who looked kind of like a Muggle version of Gregory Goyle. Who was standing exactly where he’d left him, staring at Draco as if he was the Devil come up to pay a visit. Which was very fine and flattering, but -

“Do something, troll. Run or fight, I don’t care.” He levelled his wand. “This is too easy. And boring. Really boring.”

The Muggle swallowed. “- can’t do this,” he squeaked.

“What?”

Louder this time. “You can’t do this. You’re the same age as him. You can’t do magic out of school - you’ll be expelled.”

Now Draco was the one to stare. This creature - who was so much a Muggle he was actually a cliché - knew about Hogwarts, and knew a wizard? A delightful possibility occurred to him.

“You live here?” He waved a careless hand to the house behind him. “You’re one of Potter’s clan?”

“If you’re one of his friends -”

Draco actually laughed at that. “I’m not,” he said eventually, when the risk of hysteria had passed. “I’m of age, I’m not at school anymore, I hate Potter and, if you live there, then I have to kill you.” He watched those facts sink in, watched the pig-like face crumple in fear, and had to ask. “You’re really related to Potter? Fuck. He really got the looks, didn’t he? Not that’s saying much, but - Christ. Taking you out of the gene pool is doing the whole world a favour.”

Right. This was it. He could do it. He knew he had the power and will to do it - he’d proven that, even if the Dark Lord had stopped him from actually finishing the job. He could do it.

The words were there, on his tongue, but -

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

This was a Muggle, not even a real person. What the hell was wrong with him?

Maybe he looked too much like Goyle, who definitely was a real person, and someone Draco had spent far too much of his life protecting.

Well, that problem was easily dealt with. He’d always been good at Transfiguration.

*

Harry and Tonks Apparated discretely far from the house, into the alleyway where Harry had fought off the Dementors. Even now, blinking in sunlight and his head pounding from the effects of Side-Along-Apparation, he quickly scanned the passageway, peering at every shadow, his hand pulling free of Tonks’ so as to have quicker access to his wand. When there was nothing unusual there, Harry relaxed with a slight pang of embarrassment. He might be spending too much time in the company of Moody - the man had so much paranoia, some of it was bound to wear off on Harry eventually.

To his relief, Tonks wasn’t laughing at him. Instead, she was doing practically the same thing, hand close to her wand, eyes flicking about the alleyway, frown on her usually cheerful face. So, it wasn’t paranoia, just good professional Auror vigilance. But Tonks looked like she could see - or feel, perhaps - something Harry couldn’t.

Even in the sunlight, he felt the prickle of cold across his skin, and heard Dumbledore’s voice in his head. “It has known magic.” Well, like that was helpful - of course this alley had known magic - Harry’s for a start. But -

Dumbledore was dead, and could no longer help him. The best tribute Harry could give his former headmaster was to take on board everything that Dumbledore had tried to teach him. The magic in the cave hadn’t been the residue of a long-past battle, but the emanations of powerful, still-working enchantments. Maybe this was too?

There was loud crack, and Ron and Hermione appeared beside them. Ron immediately shook off Hermione’s hand and began checking that he still had all his body parts. She stared at him, caught between outrage and amusement.

“Ron! Do you really think I’d leave any of you behind?”

“Best to be certain,” he muttered, continuing his check.

Ron, like Harry, was perfectly capable of Apparating on his own, but while Harry was too young to take his test, Ron had failed his. Harry was all too aware the Ministry was keeping a close eye on him, so he was obeying every law down to the last letter - for the time being. Later, perhaps, when he was ready to take on Voldemort… but for now, Harry was determined not to give the Ministry any opportunity to take him in ‘for his own protection’. There was too much at stake and he had too much to do.

Tonks had her wand out. She held it in the air as if holding up a finger to check the wind. Both Harry and Hermione watched her with interest. “Something wrong?”

“We’re on the edge of a powerful enchantment. Real Fairy Tale number.” She looked at their confused faces and grinned. “Combination of a sleeping spell and some powerful diversion spells. You know - Sleeping Beauty? Shouldn’t affect us - my guess is the sleeping spell is only still active to keep its hold over its original victims, and we can’t be diverted away because we have an important objective inside the area.” She frowned. “But it means something major is happening here. We can’t just go wandering in.”

“Death Eaters?” Harry said, his heart beat quickening. What he wouldn’t give for another encounter with Bellatrix Lestrange. Or Snape… He felt that familiar twist in his stomach, something hungry and poisonous eating away at his insides. That was one man for whom Harry would gladly cleave his soul in two and count the price worth it, just to have Snape lifeless at his feet and know that he‘d done it.

“As far as I, a humble Auror, know, the Ministry still isn’t going in for mass enchantment of Muggles. Though Scrimgeour might get to that eventually.” Harry met Tonks’ eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Dumbledore wanted me to,” Harry said.

“Then I’ll call reinforcements.” She waved her wand; her wolf Patronus shot off down the alleyway, disappearing into a trail of mist as it sped up.

“It has to be the Dursleys, doesn’t it?” Hermione said softly. Harry looked at her and realised he was thinking the same thing. “They know about them - and the protection spell.”

“And who do you think told them?” Harry heard bitterness in his own voice, but also an edge of mad triumph.

“Harry, mate, if you start ranting about Snape again, I swear I’ll thump you.” Harry whirled round, glared at Ron, but his friend stood his ground. “He’s an evil git, but you’re getting -”

“I’m getting what? Obsessed? He murdered Dumbledore, sent Voldemort after me and my parents. Every piece of shit in my life, even being ’destined’ to fight Voldemort, is thanks to that greasy treacherous bastard, and yes, Ron, I mean to fucking kill him. In fact, if you put the two of them, Voldemort and Snape, in front of me now, I know which one I’d blast first!”

“And that’s the fucking problem!” Ron was shouting too now. “Killing Voldemort would save our world. Killing Snape would do nothing except make you happy - or maybe fucking not, because maybe vengeance isn’t as tasty as people say. Snape is nothing - go after him instead of concentrating on Voldemort and you’re going to get killed!” He took a deep breath. “And, believe me, mate, none of us want that.”

Caught off guard by Ron’s obvious concern, Harry’s anger faltered, was replaced by a deep surge of disappointment. Ron and Hermione had volunteered themselves along on this, and he was grateful for their support, he really was, but - “You don’t understand,” he said, more quietly. You can’t understand. No one can. His friends might be along for the ride but, when it really came down to it, he was alone. And he always would be.

He started walking, out into Wisteria Walk. He actually felt the spells hit him, ice on his skin and voices in his head urging him to turn back, he had other things to do, more important things -

“Harry, no!” Hermione’s voice was strangely muffled, but then, she was outside the blanket of enchantments. “We have to wait for the others! Oh - for God’s sake!”

Harry heard running feet behind him, but he kept walking, ignoring his companions as they caught up.

It wasn’t so much that he was desperate to race to his relatives’ aid, or wanted to confront the Death Eaters (well, not entirely). What drove him on was the thought of more deaths on his conscience - more people dying for daring to try to protect Harry (however reluctantly that might be, in Uncle Vernon’s case at least). He was sick of it - sick of being made responsible for something outside his choosing. His parents, Sirius, Dumbledore, now the Dursleys - no one would ever again take it upon themselves to protect Harry when he didn’t want - or need - protecting, no one would ever again stand between Harry and his enemies. In fact, he vowed silently, it would be his enemies who needed the protection - from him.

“Shame there’s no tumbleweed blowing about, eh?” Tonks said quietly. She grinned at Harry when he gave in and looked at her. “My dad used to watch these Muggle Westerns, he called em. This is like stepping into one of them. We’ve got the ghost town and, somewhere out there,” she waved her hand, “some hostile gunslingers. All we need is the tumbleweed and some harmonica music.”

Harry smiled despite himself. Finally getting together with Lupin had restored more than just Tonks’ bright pink hair - she was back to her flippant, almost irritatingly cheerful old self.

Then he heard it - not harmonica music, but someone screaming for help.

Later, he’d say it was like the sound flicked a switch in his brain, making him throw caution to the wind and sprint around the corner into Privet Drive.

What he saw first was Dudley’s crony Piers, dangling in mid-air as if some invisible being had hold of his ankle. He was the one making all the noise. Malcolm was on the floor, legs thrashing about as if trying - badly - to do an Irish jig. There was a human-sized mass of tentacles on the pavement near him. And, standing in the middle of it all, back to Harry, a slim figure, clad in jeans and hoodie but holding a wand.

The figure - girl or boy, Harry couldn’t tell in those clothes but it didn’t matter, because it obviously wasn’t friendly - started to turn at the sound of Harry’s footsteps, wand coming round even before he shouted “Expelliarmus!”

His spell hit a partial, but powerful, block. His foe jerked back as if hit by a great punch, but held on to their wand. The hood fell back in the movement, revealing hair that glowed white in the bright sunlight.

“Stupe-”

Blocked again. As Harry let himself fill with anger and burn for battle, his enemy moved into a fighting stance, side on to him, wand arm back, free arm forward, long white fingers stretched out towards him as if to touch, those slim limbs so quick and graceful that it was beautiful to watch. There was almost gasped admiration in his next jinx -

“Expell-”

And blocked again. Through the haze of anger, Harry saw his enemy brush gleaming hair back from his - and it was definitely a ‘his‘, he could see that now - pale face. Why wasn’t he fighting back? Harry wanted him to fight back, wanted hear him screaming curses, wanted to see if he was quite so graceful while dodging Harry’s hexes -

“Imped-” Still just silently blocking, a smooth slash of his wand through the air the only sign he even considered Harry worth fighting. “Petrificus Tot-”

“Malfoy?” Hermione’s voice broke Harry’s concentration. He blinked and looked at the boy in front of him. His opponent remained in his fighting stance - probably a wise move considering he now had four wands pointing his way. Harry mentally swapped the tight jeans and hoodie for a school robe, imagined all that blond hair tied back and slicked firmly off his face, and acknowledged that actually, yes, his Hogwarts irritant and self-styled nemesis was actually standing before him. Perhaps skinnier than he remember, but, like Harry, Malfoy had always been small for his age and who could tell what he’d looked like without the robes? Harry shuddered at the thought. And who’d want to?

Malfoy looked along the line of wands, smirk now playing on his mouth. “So, the gang’s all here,” he drawled. “Charming.” Harry got the usual urge to thump him, just for existing. Malfoy looked slender and fragile enough to break with a single blow… but he’d just blocked five of Harry’s jinxes, one after the other, without breaking into a sweat or being panicked into a retaliation that would have lowered his defences. He now faced four-to-one odds with calm confidence. It wasn’t just the clothes that had delayed Harry recognising him. “And stop staring at me, Potter. That secret crush thing got old years ago.”

Harry was trying for a retort when he was startled by a croaking sound. For a second he thought it was coming from Malcolm, but then something was leaping through the air towards him. Malfoy still had his Seeker’s reflexes - he snatched it out of the air without even looking at it.

“I think this is a member of your family, Potter.” Now clutched tightly in Malfoy’s hand, the big toad croaked miserably. Harry’s eyes flicked over Malfoy’s other victims - Piers, Malcolm and the tentacled thing that could very well be Gordon - and didn’t think to doubt him. The others wouldn’t go anywhere without Dudley. “What? No ‘let him go, Malfoy’? Whatever happened to the legendary Potter heroism?”

Harry shrugged. “He’s not worth the effort. Squash him. Or hand him over and I will.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. Harry called up every memory he had of Dudley. He didn’t know how good a Legilimens the blond boy was, but if he’d mastered Occulmency, then… yep, there he goes. Malfoy disappeared, to be replaced by the familiar flickering slideshow of memories being rifled through - it began as an embarrassing show of envy, fear, hate, bullying, pain and surrender, then moved through into his teens, where the pendulum swung, and Dudley became scared of him. Harry tensed as the film reached the end. Malfoy could have those memories - they showed how little Harry cared for Dudley - but if he tried to go any further…

He didn’t. Malfoy had the decency to stop when he’d seen what he needed - and that was a first, Harry decided, the linking of the words ’decency’ and ’Malfoy’, even if it was only in Harry’s head. The world flashed back into view. Malfoy had a strange expression on his face.

“Nasty boy,” he said. “Sadistic.”

“You and him would have got along.”

Malfoy smiled. His eyes met Harry’s, clouds shifting to reveal a malicious admiration and a knowledge that made Harry flush, angry and embarrassed. “Whoever said I was talking about him?” Harry broke the gaze first, and hated himself for doing it. He found himself looking at a scar on Malfoy’s face, a straight pink line that broke at his jaw, then started again on his collarbone, continuing down inside the neck of his t-shirt. Harry’s mark. He remembered the bathroom, the tears and the blood. Malfoy must have noticed where he was looking, because he continued talking, but in a bright, brittle tone. “I’ve enjoyed this, Potter. I’ve missed you trying to murder me. But, you know, places to go, people to see.” His smile widened into a grin. “And, oh yes, I’m supposed to do this -” His wand slashed upwards, towards the sky. “MORSMORDRE!”

The flash of green light was blinding. For one mad moment, Harry’s brain mixed up the spells and he thought he was dead, then he was blinking, vision clearing, looking up at the blazing green skull with its serpent tongue, smoke and light obscene in that clear blue sky.

He heard Tonks’ shouted warning even before the first crack of Apparation. He spun, and found himself face to face with Bellatrix Lestrange. All around them, other wizards materialised, many of them hooded and masked. Death Eaters who still had other lives beyond the war, who walked among normal people, evils unknown.

*

“Get into the house!” the pink-haired woman yelled, and Draco had to smile at that. Where did she think the other Death Eaters had just come from? That house was no sanctuary, not any more.

Potter, he noticed, was still the same wand-happy psychopath he’d known at school. He shot off a curse at Bellatrix and dived over the garden wall as she blocked it, then blasted everything in sight from his position of relative safety. Draco blocked a leg-locker jinx and realised Potter was covering his friends as they ran for the house. Typical. The usual chest-beating heroics.

Potter threw off a Reducto spell that blasted apart two cars. Draco was too busy shielding himself against fire and shards of flying metal to notice him sprint away, but he noticed his Aunt’s screech of rage.

“After them!” Draco saw the door slam shut behind Potter, and the air around him was suddenly full of the sound of Disapparating.

Much as he would rather have stayed out there, in the slumbering street, he knew what he had to do. There was no room for hesitation or chickening out of a battle when his freedom - and probably his life as well - depended on Bellatrix’s report back to the Dark Lord. Besides, seeing Potter finally getting his comeuppance would probably be amusing.

So he did what every instinct was telling him not to do - he Apparated straight into the house, into the battle -

- into what should have been a battle. He stood on the landing of a silent hallway. No sign of Potter and his cronies - but no other Death Eaters, either.

There were shouts and curses from outside. Draco looked over to the window just in time to see a masked form - Rookwood by the mask’s markings - appear just outside…then drop out of sight.

He looked out. His fellows were Apparating right up against the walls of the house, but not inside. What the -? As he watched, Bellatrix tried to blast the door - her spell rebounded and she barely managed to dodge it.

They can’t get inside…but I managed it - so what the hell is going on?

Draco glared down at the toad in his hand as if it could somehow give him answers - but all it managed was a feeble croak.

Now what he going to do? Going after Potter alone was definitely no plan. Unlike dear mad Aunt Bella, four to one odds did not excite him, not when he was the one.

Three to one, he corrected as he heard movement downstairs. The pretty Auror must be warding the doors and windows. Hardly necessary given the levels of protection there seemed to be on this house.

Which still left the wonder-kids. He stood on the landing and listened carefully. Clearly recognisable voices came from behind a nearby door.

Swotty Granger: “Harry, I can’t believe you didn’t recognise Malfoy.”

Whining Weasley: “’Course he did. He attacked him on sight, didn’t he? Git - standing there with his Dark Mark out and an Inferius on his t-shirt - like he’s bloody proud to be a Death Eater!”

“He’s got no reason to hide it now, has he? And that Inferius, Ron, is just Eddie.” Draco glanced down at his t-shirt, and at the flag-waving, grinning skeleton on it. It rather amused him. “The Iron Maiden mascot. It’s a Muggle band. Terrible musicians, but hardly followers of the Dark Arts.” Silence. “My dad was a fan, ok?”

Nothing from Potter, but by Granger’s first comment, he had to be in there too. Draco silently ran through every swear word he knew, and thought of Snape’s parting shot. Don’t let yourself get turned into an attack dog. Too late for that now. He could hardly Apparate out of the house empty-handed. Imagine trying to explain that one to Aunt Bella… “Sorry, but there were three of them and I’m not an attack dog -” Yes, that’d go down really well. Fuck.

If he was going to do this, he had to separate them, or at least get Potter out there on his own. Though how he was going to take down the other side’s foremost attack dog was - no, don’t think about it! The other Death Eaters might have gotten in by then, and if not - well, take it as it comes.

Technically, Potter wasn’t that good - he bellowed out spells, mind wide open to anyone with even the slightest skill in Legilimency, then looked surprised when they were instantly blocked - but his combination of massive raw power, very little brain and downright suicidal bravery was not to be taken lightly. Like Aunt Bella, he was all attack, either thinking defensive spells would take away valuable hexing time, or not caring if he lived or died. To Draco, who really did care if he was killed or maimed for life, nut-jobs like that were terrifying - though he would never admit that outside the privacy of his own mind.

Scared of Harry Potter? Never.

Draco took off his hooded garment, carefully pulled up the sliding Muggle fastening, and prepared to make a diversion.

*

Harry stood in his bedroom at No 4, Privet Drive, and watched the confused Death Eaters outside. He was seriously tempted to open the window and take some pot-shots at them. Stupid, when the house was doing such a good job of protecting him, but it was so tempting -

Crash.

The sound of breaking pottery came from just outside the door. His first thought as he jumped was that it was Tonks being clumsy. The second thought was that that it was Tonks being attacked. What if one of the Death Eaters had gotten inside before Harry had?

Ron was already at the door, flinging it open. “There!” he shouted. Harry saw a flicker of black disappearing down the stairs before Ron was charging after it.

“Ron! Come back!” Hermione gave Harry a glance that said it all. He’s an idiot, but I love him. She followed Ron down the stairs with a bit more caution.

Harry felt a prickling on the back of his neck. Something wasn’t right. He looked quickly about the landing, taking in the broken vase, the toad on the floor -

A flash of something white caught on the very edge of his vision sent him spinning around, frantically throwing up a shield charm. A stunning spell smashed against it, the force of it almost knocking him off his feet. The shield disintegrated, he dived out of the way of the next spell, tried to get a bearing on his attacker so he could fight back.

He heard shouts from downstairs - his friends coming to his aid - then a wave of power tore out from the partly open door of Dudley’s bedroom. The stairs turned into a mass of flame, trapping Harry upstairs, but he barely noticed. He had his mark.

“Reducto!”

The door shattered into a thousand flying splinters. Harry fended off another stunning spell and dived in through the doorway. The massive screen of Dudley’s television smashed as he got behind it, taking a spell meant for Harry. A second spell and the whole thing, television and cabinet alike, was turned into so many fragments at Harry’s feet. His loss of cover didn’t bother him, though. The fight was upon him, his blood was up, and the blond boy in front of him was finally fighting him properly, just as he should have outside. Easy to forget it was Draco Malfoy, when he was such a good opponent and it was so much fun. Easy to forget that this boy was a Death Eater, and losing this duel meant being hauled off to Voldemort.

Spells flew in the tiny space. Turned out Malfoy was still graceful when dodging Harry’s hexes, but he was no longer so arrogant in his command of non-verbal magic. Enough light came from the hall and though the permanently-drawn-shut curtains for Harry to see his face hard with concentration, and his mouth occasionally forming words. Harry enjoyed every minute.

All over too quickly though. Malfoy managed to block a jinx from Tonks as she Apparated onto the landing, and while catching her with a stunner, failed to dodge Harry’s Impediment Jinx.

Harry looked down at the crumbled figure, not so elegant after being slammed up against the wall, and felt his enjoyment drain away. That had been insulting. True, technically Tonks was the Auror and the greater threat, but he couldn’t believe Malfoy had moved his attention away from Harry, even if only for a second. I’m a threat, too - but you’ve learned that now, haven’t you, you arrogant git.

He levelled his wand, nudged Malfoy with his foot, and tried to resist the urge to kick him harder. He noticed that the hoodie was gone, and wondered if that was what Ron had chased downstairs. Malfoy should have looked even more fragile without its bulk, but his bare arms showed that slender body’s apparent frailty to be all illusion - too thin, but not scrawny like Piers - rather his white skin was stretched smoothly over lean muscles.

In which case that jinx shouldn’t haven’t knocked him out cold - he’s playacting. Harry gave him a good kick. “Come on, you faking bastard, get up!”

Malfoy moaned, held up a hand as if in entreaty. He muttered something, and Harry saw his wand-hand twitch. Should have taken that thing off him before trying to get him up -

“Expelliarmus!”

Harry heard a muffled “fu-”, broken off by a pained “uff” as the spell smashed Malfoy to the floor, driving all the air from his lungs. His wand flew from his hand and bounced across the carpet. But his other hand caught what he’d Accioed over.

Harry looked down his wand at Dudley the toad and swore. Hadn’t he learnt? Harry would be happy to see Dudley dea-

But would he? Harry was safe from his enemies here, in this house, only while the Dursleys allowed him house room. He didn’t know where his aunt and uncle were - they could be dead for all he knew. Which just left Dudley. Had Malfoy figured that out? If he had, why didn’t he just kill Dudley and let in his fellow Death Eaters? And, for that part, how was Malfoy in here anyway? Was it because he came in with Dudley? Or because the house didn’t see him as meaning Harry harm..? Which was an interesting thought…

Malfoy got to his feet, every move an exaggerated show of pain. “Fine, Potter,” he said, “looks like you‘ve won. What do we do now?”

Harry looked at him as he leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms, looking much too relaxed for someone who‘d just been disarmed by his enemy. Trying to put his thoughts in order, an idea occurred to him. “We talk.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “No, we don’t,” he said flatly. “We never talk. I talk to you and you attack me. That‘s how it usually works.”

Harry was outraged. “You provoke me! Sneering at people isn’t talking -” He noticed Malfoy’s gaze flicking over the floor, looking for his wand. A slight smirk showed that he’d spotted it. “And neither is deliberately pissing them off to divert their attention.”

“You insult me, Potter. I’d never do something so sneaky and underhand.” Malfoy shrugged. “Well, it’s not like I’ve anything better to do, and you seem to be in charge.” He glanced up and caught Harry’s gaze, then very deliberately looked down again. “Let’s talk.”

Harry couldn’t help it; he followed his gaze down. Down to pale skin made to glow by the contrast with black fabric, down over the t-shirt that skimmed his body, to the jeans that clung to it, exposing every intimate contour of hips and thighs and crotch -

Shit. What the hell am I doing? Harry tore his eyes away, glad the room was dark and Malfoy wouldn’t be able to see his burning cheeks - or where he’d inadvertently been looking.

Small chance of that. Malfoy gave him a strange look - part surprise, part triumph and part disgust. “Ok,” he said, “first topic. Why am I in here with you, but my Aunt and the others are trapped outside?”

Because Dudley’s still alive, and he’s not capable of throwing me out at the moment. The protection holds. You’ve got him, and I want you both in here, so here you are. All things Harry couldn’t tell Malfoy without risking Dudley’s life - and everyone else’s. “Your friends messed up,” he said eventually. “I’m safe in this house. You only got in because I wanted you to.”

Malfoy looked uncomfortable, clearly running through the possible reasons Harry could want to get him wandless and cut off from his allies. Harry felt a hot rush of anger.

Get over yourself, mate. Just because I looked at your body, it doesn’t mean I’m overcome with lust and got you alone to pounce on you. Though you’d fucking deserve it if someone did. You can’t dress like that and then act like someone’s a pervert just because they look.

And it was accidental, anyway.

And it’s not like I enjoyed it.

Harry took a deep breath, then it was all flooding out. “I was up there, on the Astronomy Tower. I saw everything, heard everything. I know you’re not with Voldemort of your own free will. I know he’s been threatening your family. I know you wouldn’t have killed Dumbledore. You’re not a killer. You’re a twisted, nasty git, but you’re not evil. I know it won’t sound as good coming from me, but I can offer you the same deal Dumbledore did. We can protect you, your mother - even your father if he wants it -” Malfoy’s face was a frozen marble mask, his body completely still, impossible to read - was he listening? Did he understand? “You’re proud - how can you bear to serve someone who treats you with contempt, who whacks the Cruciatus curse on you just to see if he can make you scream -”

That got a reaction. Malfoy’s eyes blazed, his fingers curled into fists, tightening around Dudley, who gave a terrified croak. “How-?”

“Leave him.” Harry found himself taking a step forward, then another. “Come with us.” He looked into glowing grey eyes, at a face made gaunt by god-knew-what suffering, at quivering lips already starting to curl into a sneer, and wanted to slap that expression away, to shake Malfoy until he admitted that Harry was right. His fingers tightened on his wand.

Malfoy backed away. “Try anything and I squash the amphibian.”

“You’re not a killer,” Harry said again. Malfoy had lost his wand, they were alone, at least for the moment, and Harry had nothing to lose by trying this. Only Dudley, if he was wrong, but that was a loss he would get over. Malfoy Apparating away, back to his master and the wrong side of the war, another powerful wizard, another soul, lost to Voldemort - now that would be harder to take.

He didn’t know what had prompted this. Despite the dreams, Harry had been happy enough to leave Malfoy to his chosen fate - and it was his choice, after all. But Harry felt closer to Dumbledore at that moment than he ever had - he understood what Malfoy didn’t seem to. Dumbledore hadn’t been negotiating for his life, but for Malfoy’s soul, and now, however much he disliked the guy, so was Harry.

“You have no idea what I am.”

“Then show me!”

“Just because you open your mind up like a fucking whore opening her legs, it doesn’t mean everyone does!” Malfoy snapped. Harry gaped; that wasn’t what he’d meant. Was Malfoy suggesting -

He suddenly felt like someone had grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and was tugging him forward, and there were images in his head, a memory that was definitely not his - he didn’t understand how it could be happening, he was no Legilimens, but he was looking at a hallway full of wizards, and Draco Malfoy, back against the wall, covered in blood, aiming curse after curse at a big man crawling across the floor. Each one gouged out another deep cut, then another, and the man was a moving mass of blood and gore. He caught hold of Malfoy’s robes, tearing them as he either tried to drag himself to his feet or pull Malfoy down to him. “Pretty…” It could have been the beginning of a plea for mercy, but Harry felt his stomach twist, saw his revulsion mirrored on Malfoy’s face as the other boy drew back his wand and screamed “AVADA KED-”

Just as easily as he’d pulled Harry into his mind, Malfoy shoved him out. Harry stared at him. His chest heaved under the thin t-shirt, making Eddie seem like he was moving, his eyes were wide and wild, and Harry could feel the magic in the air around him, like static, oil, ice and fire all at once. So powerful… He couldn’t be allowed to go back to Voldemort.

“You see.” Malfoy’s voice was soft. Not triumphant. And that gave Harry hope.

I saw you kill. But I’m not too late. “I saw a boy like me,” Harry said calmly, “fighting for his life.”

Malfoy ran his hand through his hair and glared. “You don’t fucking give up, do you?”

The sounds of battle came drifting in through the window. Malfoy tilted his head, listening to the shouts and spell blasts and screams. Reinforcements had arrived, the Order to the rescue, but Harry was focused completely on the boy in front of him.

“I don’t intend to,” he said.

“Fine,” Malfoy hissed. “Catch!” He threw the frantically croaking toad at Harry. Hard - Harry snatched it out of the air inches from his face. He spun, shouting out a binding spell, but Malfoy had already grabbed his own wand up off the floor.

Crack.

Malfoy was gone. The binding ropes span in mid-air for a moment, seeking their target, then dropped to the floor.

*

Harry revived Tonks, and sat beside her on the smoke-filled landing as she held her head and swore loudly and inventively. As he’d thought, it was just a stunning spell, and without much power behind it - maybe Malfoy hadn’t taken his attention from Harry that much after all. Down in the hall below, Moody and Lupin were putting out the fire.

“So,” Tonks said eventually, “did you get him?”

Harry blinked. It took a moment for him to understand what she meant. Ah, yes - capturing the Death Eater to interrogate and then hand over to the Ministry. No, actually - I got a bit diverted by trying to get him to join us. “He got away.”

“Shame.” She frowned. “Shame you didn’t take him. But more shame on Aunt Narcissa and that husband of hers for bringing their kid into this. Sixteen-year-old Death Eaters -” Her voice became weaker. “And I always thought she doted on him, too-”

Tonks swayed; Harry steadied her. “I’m sorry - guess my healing spells aren’t too good.”

She patted him somewhere in the region of his shoulder. “Good enough. Just feel a little dizzy. Anyway, enough about my cousin - give me yours.”

“Are you sure -”

“Harry.”

So he handed over Dudley, who had evidently given in to whatever horrors the world had to throw at him and just lay there pathetically in her hand.

“Poor little toad. Did the nasty boy threaten to squish you?”

“Tonks -”

“Oh, fine.” She waved her wand. There was a sharp snapping noise and a flicker in the air - or perhaps in the fabric of the world - and Dudley reappeared. “Y’know, Harry, I think I preferred the toad.”

Dudley’s face was bright red, his eyes flicking in all directions, as he curled up on himself like a baby. Harry had no sympathy. “What happened, Dud? You finally pick on someone who could fight back?” Dudley flinched. “You’re pathetic.”

“Harry,” Tonks put a hand on Harry’s shoulder and pulled him away. “don’t be too hard on him. He’s a fool, and bully, and god knows what else, but he’s also an orphan.” Harry stared at her; she gave a slight shrug, saying: and the world is shit - what can we do about it? “Downstairs in the kitchen. Before we came. Killing Curse.”

Murdered. Harry looked down at his wand, clutched so hard his knuckles were going white. And I let one of the murderers go. Smooth.