InsaneJournal

Just a quick update...


4.



Harry sat with two of the Aurors, who had volunteered their names as Gerald and Rhiannon, and tried to pretend he wasn’t watching Draco Malfoy. The boy in question was standing by himself by the open window, pointedly ignoring everyone else in the room. The hands clasped behind his back seemed just an extension of his straight-backed, Sergeant-Major-like posture - if you didn’t know that the voluminous sleeves of his robe hid his bound wrists.

The Auror safe-house - well, safe-flat - that Prachett had delivered them to before dashing back off to the Ministry was in the centre of Muggle London. Charing Cross Road, to be exact, conveniently close to the Leaky Cauldron. Malfoy was looking out of the window with every sign of interest; Harry wondered idly what he was thinking. He was certainly plotting his escape, but the world he looked out over had to be completely alien to him. Was he listening to the rumble of traffic in horror, breathing in the thick, hot, fume-laden air with disgust?

Harry gave up any pretence of following the conversation and stood up. Malfoy’s eyes flicked towards him briefly, but that was his only acknowledgement of Harry as he joined him at the window.

“You know, the cuffs were Prachett’s idea -”

“A sensible precaution,” Malfoy said calmly. Harry followed his gaze four stories down, to the street below. Night had fallen, but the city still bustled with its usual hysterical energy. The street was alive with people, bright with street-lamps and headlights and neon shop-signs. The theatre opposite was gaudy with colour and light; the giant billboard attached to his front proclaimed its latest attraction - a musical version of Beauty and the Beast. “He, at least, could see I don’t want to be here.”

Far below them, a group of people spilled out of a black cab. Their voices, loud and happy, floated up to the watchers above.

Malfoy watched them as they staggered off down the street. “So,” he said, “is handing me over to the Ministry your idea of ‘saving’ me?”

“I’m not handing you over to the Ministry.” No response. In a way, Harry was glad, because the next logical question would be then what are you planning to do with me? and he didn’t have an answer to that one yet. His planning hadn’t got any further than ‘get Malfoy away from the Death Eaters’.

He looked at the other boy, painted golden by the light from the street lamps, and sighed. Malfoy had been very quiet since they’d Apparated away from the Manor. He hadn’t said anything when Prachett had insisted on cuffing him, and the few things he had said had been, if not exactly polite, then at least not offensive. It made Harry uneasy.

“Can you unbind me?” Malfoy swallowed hard. “Please.” Harry stared at him, wondering if he’d stepped through into a parallel universe. Malfoy scowled. “I need to use the bathroom, Potter. Don’t make me go into fucking details.”

*

It was amazing how that one polite little word had immediately put Potter on his guard, but the mixture of contempt and irritation that followed it made him relax. Draco wondered if he knew how open and readable his face was.

Potter was only one to relax, however. “We can’t release him.” Draco glared at the speaker - Annabelle something-or-the-other. “Prachett said -”

“You don’t want me to soil my robes, do you, sweetheart?” And he made damn sure that when he said ’sweetheart’ everyone knew he was thinking something else. That whole ‘polite’ thing was getting old, anyway. He lowered his voice. “Unless, of course, you like that sort of thing?” Her face blazed with colour, but she didn’t back down.

“Someone will have to go in with you.”

“And what fun that will be.” Draco leered. “Are you volunteering?”

“I’ll come,” Potter said, taking his arm.

“You better not!” Draco spat. “Though I won’t be fucking surprised if you do, after that earlier performance.” Then it was Potter’s turn to blush. Draco thought back to the garden, to the weight and heat of Potter‘s body, all its hard angles, Potter’s obvious excitement, and really wished he hadn’t brought it up. Potter’s fingers tightened on his arm. Draco tried to pull free, but that only made the grip tighten until it was downright uncomfortable. He could feel heat creeping across his own face. “That hurts.”

“Good.”

Potter virtually dragged him into the bathroom. Hands bound, he couldn’t even brace himself as he was flung against the wall. He managed to turn his head, but his face still hit the tiles with painful force.

“I don’t know why I’m bothering with you,” Potter muttered. He was much too close for comfort, especially with the memory of the garden fresh in Draco’s head. The heat of his body was even more invasive than the death grip he still had on Draco‘s arm.

“I don’t either.” Potter’s wand slid between his wrists. His breath was soft and warm on the back of Draco’s neck as he mumbled his way through the counter-spell. “Why don’t you just forget about this? Give me my wand back and I’ll be on my way. If we meet again we can toss curses at each other just like the good old days -”

Potter stepped back. Such a small movement that the relief Draco felt was completely out of proportion. The cuffs disintegrated into curls of smoke that tickled his wrists.

“Go on, then. Do what you have to.”

“Turn around.”

“Oh, for -”

“You don’t want to watch me, do you?”

Potter turned away. “Fine. Satisfied?”

Almost.

One thing about Muggle clothes - it was very hard to hide anything in them. Potter still had Draco’s wand tucked into the waistband of his trousers; the shape of it was clearly visible through the thin fabric of his shirt.

He moved. His fingers were barely on the wand before Potter was reacting, spinning around, knocking it out of his hand. And the pervy git must have been watching me in the mirror, because nobody has reflexes that fast…

Draco had never learned hand-to-hand fighting. Only Muggles and weak wizards had to resort to something as crude as using their fists. He still believed that, but finding himself grappling with Potter for the second time in twenty-four hours, he decided to lower his standards. After all, if Muggles could master it -

Potter lashed out with his foot. For the second time that day Draco found himself falling to the ground with Potter on top of him - and we are not doing this again. The shock of the impact didn’t stop him bringing his knee up. Potter’s startled whimper made the whole thing worthwhile.

Draco shoved the suddenly preoccupied hero off him with more force than he intended. He seized his wand and got to his feet. Screw escaping - the only thing keeping Potter whole and alive was that he couldn’t decide which hex to hit him with first.

Who the fuck does he think he is, throwing me about like a fucking house-elf?

Potter groaned. He was still curled around the main source of his pain, but there was blood splattered over his face, his glasses were hanging off one ear, and the straight line of his nose wasn’t that straight anymore. There were matching splatters of blood on the edge of the white bath-tub. Potter must have cracked his face on it. Draco looked at him with a complete lack of sympathy, but still felt his temper recede somewhat. Hexing him now would probably be overkill.

Then he remembered something that made him want to smash Potter’s face into the tub all over again. The box - the precious box that he’d been sent into a nest of Aurors to retrieve - was in the living room with Annabella Whatsit and her friends. Draco couldn’t just Apparate away without it.

He swore. Then almost jumped out of his skin as the bathroom door opened behind him.

Pratchett looked at his pointed wand and blinked. “Come on, boys - Scrimgeour wants all Aurors back at the Ministry.”

“I’m not an Auror.” But Pratchett knew that. In fact, Pratchett had made it clear he thought Draco was a criminal who should be Apparated straight over to Azkaban. So why was he smiling at him like that?

“Even trainee ones.” The man’s cheerfulness was starting to grate on Draco’s nerves. “Looks like your friend needs some help, son. Pick him up and come along.”

Draco plucked off Potter’s broken glasses and put them in his pocket, then eased Potter’s arm over his shoulder. “What’s going on?” Of course, Potter was probably half-blind without the glasses.

“Something bad, I think.” He got a good look at Pratchett as they made their way back into the living room.

Imperius was a very versatile and useful curse. At one end of the spectrum, applied with the lightest touch, it could be used like a pair of tweezers to tweak one tiny point in the victim’s mind. At the other, it could be a hammer to smash the will and quite possibly the personality in the process. As someone who was capable of a light touch, but found the hammer method much easier, Draco looked at Pratchett and recognised the results.

In the fireplace, the flames burnt high and green, and the last of the students was walking into it. Draco’s box was still sitting on the coffee table, and Potter‘s cloak was slung over the back of the sofa; Pratchett didn’t look at either.

That’s the trouble with using the heavily Imperiused for errands - they only do what they’re told to.

“Go on, lad.” Pratchett had his own wand pointed now. Imperiused or not, he’d reacted to Draco’s hesitation with commendable speed.

Draco stepped into the flames. “Ministry of Magic,” he said clearly, and refused to dwell on what might be waiting for them there.

*

The world was a shifting mess of pain, dizziness and blurred shapes and colours. Harry managed to ignore the pain long enough to stagger out of the fireplace into a space that was noisy and big enough to be the Atrium at the Ministry, then relaxed against Malfoy’s bony shoulder.

Something bad. The words hadn’t meant much at the time. Harry had been too busy trying not to pass out. Anyway, what would Malfoy consider bad?

He had his answer.

“Take their wands!”

“Look who it is!”

Harry didn‘t need perfect vision to know what the black-clad figures crowding around them were. Rough hands pulled them apart, Malfoy protesting loudly. “I’m on your side, you fool!”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.” One of the Death Eaters got close enough for Harry to see his face; he didn’t recognise it, but the very fact that he wasn’t wearing a mask was enough of a shock. So, they were that confident of their victory?

“It’s nice of you to finally join us, Draco.”

Harry froze. He knew that voice…and the owner of that voice knew him. He knew he must look a mess, but Snape had glared at him across a classroom for six years - surely he wouldn’t be fooled by a bit of blood and no glasses…

The Death Eater holding Harry was shoved out of the way, and that hated but familiar face came into view. Snape stared at him. His mouth twitched.

“Put this one in with the non-combatants.”

“And the traitor?”

“I’ll deal with him.”

Harry heard a couple of sniggers from the surrounding Death Eaters, and a whispered “I bet he will.”

He didn’t have time to ponder that comment before he was dragged off.

It was as he was being thrown into a dark room full of faceless, miserable people that he heard it - a sound he’d only heard in dark, Voldemort-induced dreams. It was faint, only reaching Harry thanks to the acoustics of the Ministry’s famously echoing corridors, but he recognised it.

Malfoy was screaming.

*

Draco slowly uncurled his body, sucking in great painful gulps of air. His cheeks were wet, and he scrubbed his face with the sleeve of his robe, angrily removing every last trace of tears. Snape watched him impassively. His mentor leaned against the wall, wand still pointed in his direction.

“It seems your lungs are in fine working order. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” The word came out as a croak. My lungs might be ‘fine’, but my throat’s fucked.

Snape moved his hand; Draco’s flinch was reflexive and humiliating.

“I think that’s probably enough. The point’s been made.”

Draco coughed. “To me, or to anyone who might be listening?”

“Both.” Snape’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I wondered why you screamed so readily. Normally there’s a bit of resistance.”

“I didn’t want you to have to drag it out.” Of course, you did anyway.

“Disobeying orders, desertion -”

“I was kidnapped.”

“Really.” Snape moved to sit behind the desk. Draco stayed on the floor. There was nowhere for him to sit, and he was damned if he was going to stand in front of Snape’s desk like a kid reporting for detention. “Potter was in rather a mess. Did you do that?”

Draco didn’t even blink. He kept his face expressionless and concentrated on Snape’s long fingers as they examined Potter’s broken glasses. “It was an accident.”

“Of course. You never actually cause anything to happen, do you? But somehow you still manage to leave a trail of destruction behind you.”

Draco shrugged. The comment was unfair, but had a grain of truth to it. What can I say? The world’s just got it in for me.

“Go ahead - ask the question. You look impatient to do so.”

He shrugged again - such a wonderful, all-purpose movement. “I’m not going to accuse you of protecting Potter, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m sure you have a good reason for ‘not recognising‘ him.”

Snape put his wand tip to the glasses. The wire knitted back together, the glass became whole and sparkling again, and Snape watched it happen with a strange expression on his face. “It’s not his time,” he said.

Draco prided himself on being able to read a world of information from a mere twitch of an eyebrow or curl of lips. Hell, in the world of aggressive diplomacy he had been raised for, being able to hear what wasn’t being said as clearly as what was was a very important survival skill. But Snape had him lost. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to.” And the expression that accompanied that sentence was readable - amusement. “Do you want to know what happens next? For both you and Potter?”

Draco shook his head. “Not really. I don’t think I’m going to like it.”

*

“Are you sure you’re all right, love? You don’t look well.” The voice was kind and motherly. The arm that wrapped around Harry’s shoulders was soft and fleshy but gentle. Harry was reminded of Molly Weasley, but he knew she wasn’t here. Asking about had revealed that he knew no one amongst the prisoners. The non-combatants, Snape had called them. Secretaries and minor officials and maintenance workers - those who weren’t important or likely to put up a serious fight.

Not that they’d had much chance to fight. Apparently the attack had been sudden and smoothly executed; most of the people here hadn’t even been aware that anything was amiss until their wands were being taken from them by stern-faced men in black robes.

Harry rested his forehead against his knees. His head pounded, and he was sure the nausea he felt wasn’t entirely down to the situation. He forced himself to think - and it was hard. Threads of thought seemed to slip away from him like snakes.

Simultaneous raids on both Malfoy Manor and the Ministry - that must have taken up most of Voldemort’s available manpower, so other raids would be unlikely, at least until the Ministry was secure. The Order of the Phoenix had a new headquarters, location unknown to Snape, and the Burrow was too small and insignificant a target, even if Snape had given Voldemort a list of the Order’s members. Arthur Weasley would be on that list, but he would more than likely have been captured during the raid on the Ministry. And Tonks - she might not have been at the Ministry in the first place, but they’d been recalling all the Aurors, hadn’t they?

Harry ground his knuckles against his temples in a vain attempt to somehow draw off the pain, to think straight. Most of his friends and allies were probably safe - at least for the time being, at least. But Tonks and Mr Weasley… The worry caused his already churning stomach to twist. Hot vomit surged up into his throat. He forced it back down, furious with himself.

He should be out there doing something. Some fucking Chosen One - hiding amongst the ‘non-combatants’, half-blind, wandless and chucking up while my friends could be fighting and dying… Not just his friends, either. Malfoy was being tortured, for a ‘desertion’ that wasn’t even his fault...

A sharp bang from the other side of the room rammed another spike of pain through Harry’s skull. The noise level exploded as people all round him leapt to their feet, shouting and gesturing. A cold voice cut easily through the din. “This is a stupidly heroic rescue attempt. I have wands. Don’t all mug me at once.”

Someone crouched down in front of him and Harry found himself shrinking back at the horrific visage that swam into view. Malfoy took off the mask and grimaced. It wasn’t necessarily a better sight. “I don’t think this shower will be able to give us much of a diversion, Potter. Couldn‘t you have been locked up with the Aurors?”

“Damned inconsiderate, those Death Eaters.” Harry tried to match Malfoy’s nonchalance, but couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face.

“They never think, do they?” Malfoy agreed. “When choosing a cell for a hero, always put him with the allies that can help him escape - it should be in the manual somewhere.” He touched his wand to Harry’s nose. “Episkey. Scourgify.” The wand trembled against his skin. Harry touched the hand that was holding it.

“You’re shaking.” Harry’s fingers closed around Malfoy’s wrist. It wasn’t just his hands - his entire body was trembling. Harry’s fingertips brushed over fragile bones, felt a pulse throbbing much too fast under paper-thin skin.

“Cruciatus is a nasty curse.” Malfoy wrenched his hand free. “And stop grabbing me. I know all about your deprived childhood, but if you’re looking for cosy human contact, it isn’t going to come from me.” Harry’s glasses were pressed into his palm. “And I think this is your wand - there were quite a few to choose from. Professor Snape’s got them all in the office he’s using.”

It was only the slightest prickle of suspicion, but it made Harry study Malfoy carefully as he put on his glasses and the world came back into reassuringly sharp focus. The skin around Malfoy‘s eyes was reddened and swollen, and there were tear tracks in the dirt on his face. “How did you escape?”

“I didn’t,” Malfoy said calmly, as if he could tell what Harry was thinking. “Snape let me go. I had to stun the guards outside his office, but -”

“He let you go?”

“And told me where you were being kept. I don’t think he wants you dead, Potter - at least not yet.” Malfoy smiled - that cold, cruel smile that was so much like his father’s. However, the dark amusement in his eyes was all his. “Are you confused yet? Good - that makes two of us.”

They didn’t have time for all these questions, but - “Why are you going along with it?” He could have just escaped on his own…

Malfoy shrugged. “What other choices do I have? Now, be a good little hero and get us out of here.”

*

As he’d thought, a carefully edited truth worked better on Potter than elaborate lies. Also useful if he ended up under Veritaserum in the near future. There wouldn’t be any glaring inconsistencies in his story.

Potter got to his feet - and promptly swayed madly, as if he was about to fall over. Fortunately Draco didn’t have to catch him - there were plenty of people here to fawn over him now his identity was clear. Sycophants.

Potter and his worshipers weren’t Draco’s main priority, however. He turned his back on them and fumbled through the pockets of his robes. When he found the vial, he took a small, cautious sip. Just enough to stop the shaking - he needed to keep his wits about him. That was why he hadn’t taken any when Snape - seemingly determined to keep up the pretence of being concerned for his welfare even while handing out a ‘bargain’ that could only be bad for it - had given it to him in the office. Too much and he would have been ready to agree to anything.

“I know post-Cruciatus isn’t the best time to be demanding favours,” Snape had said. “Post-coitus would be better,” Draco had quipped, and in some strange way it was true. His life would be so much easier if their relationship was based on crude, honest desire, rather than being this tangled, confusing web of obligations and convenience and favours.

Fucking favours.

If I get out of this alive, I’m never going to do another favour - for anyone.

Potter took a deep breath and marched over to the door. Draco was sure he was the only one who saw the unsteadiness of his movements.

He almost tripped over the motionless body in the doorway. It was only Reeves, the Death Eater who was supposed to be guarding the room. Draco had stunned him without hesitation, so he was surprised when Potter got down on his knees beside him. “Rennervate.”

“What are you doing?” Draco got to Potter’s side just as Reeves’ eyes flickered open. Potter put his wand to the Death Eater’s throat, and Draco was glad that expression wasn’t directed at him.

“I’ve had a really bad day and I need you to give me some information.”

Potter’s interrogation technique needed a little work, but he got a reaction. Reeves’ eyes widened as he recognised him; they flicked to Draco and got even wider. He wasn’t much older than either of them - one of the Dark Lord’s most recent recruits. Draco decided to play along. “Yes, he’s the Chosen One and I’m the traitor. He’s crazy and I’m - well, you’ve probably heard what I am. Bet you didn’t expect this in your first week.”

Draco knew Reeves only as a face in the crowd, a face watching as he fought Greyback, a face both horrified and fascinated as it was splattered with blood. Reeves knew him - he could tell from the man’s quick gulp. Snape was right about that duel improving my reputation. “I’ve had a bad day, too.”

Reeves looked at Potter, probably deciding he was the nicer one. “What do you want to know?” His wand was on the floor beside him, just within reach…

He went for it. Draco put his foot over both hand and wand and stamped. The crunch was fairly satisfying, as was the way Reeves screamed and cursed Draco’s parents in language a nice, well-brought-up Pureblood certainly shouldn’t know.

“That’s not very nice.” As he moved his foot he saw that the wand had broken; splinters of wood were sticking out of Reeves’ crumpled up hand. “Ouch. I bet that hurts.”

“Bastard!”

“I’m not actually. I can prove it. How about you?” Draco crouched down, and met Reeves’ glare with a smile that he knew must look evil, but he couldn’t help himself. “Bet you’re a Mudblood, really - grovelling to the Dark Lord in the hope it’ll save your miserable neck.”

“I can trace my family back…eight…generations…”

“Congratulations. Mine goes back through sixty and it hasn’t saved me.”

Potter had been staring at Reeves’ broken hand. He blinked. “The Aurors that were recalled - what’s happened to them?”

Reeves smirked. “Dead.” Potter flinched. Reeves’ smirk turned into a grin.

Draco watched with fascination as Potter’s face changed, his expression hardening and his eyes narrowing. Oh - you’re going to regret that! He sat back on his heels and waited for the entertainment.

To Draco‘s disappointment, Potter held on to his temper. “Were any other prisoners taken, apart from the people here?”

Reeves’ grin got even wider. “The bigwigs - they were sent back to Headquarters.” Potter stood up. Draco recognised the expression on his face - it was amusing not to be the cause of it for a change. “You might as well just get back in that room and wait for your fate. This is only the beginning. Mudbloods and half-breeds and Muggle-lovers - you’ll all get what’s coming to you when the Dark Lord -”

Draco found himself blown back, away from Reeves. Being that close to so many hexes at close range dazzled his eyes and made his skin tingle from the sheer power.

Potter hadn’t been responsible for all of them, he realised as his vision cleared, even if he had cast the first one. Four of the prisoners stood around them, wands still pointed. The others stood crowded behind them, wands ready. A low moan came from the mass of tentacles and lumps that had been Reeves, proving the man himself was still alive somewhere in there.

‘Non-combatants’ - hah! If you can hold a wand there’s no such thing.

Draco felt proud to be a wizard - until he realised how many of those wands were pointing at him.

“My Mark is fucking showing, isn’t it?”

Potter nodded. Then he smiled and held out his hand.

Draco looked at it. Really, with all the manual work Potter was supposed to have done in the service of those Muggles, he should have had peasant’s hands. But his outstretched hand didn’t look much different from Draco’s own. Tanned, with what looked like knife scars on the back - but as that hand closed around his, he discovered that Potter’s fingers were as long as his, and their broomstick calluses matched up almost exactly. Similar flying styles, Draco told himself.

Potter might have had all the political skill of a frog, but he certainly knew the value of a good gesture. As he pulled Draco to his feet, there was movement in the crowd around him, and out of the corner of his eye he saw wand-points dropping.

“You’re on our side - they know that really.”

Yeah? Wish I did.

Draco looked down at their clasped hands. Potter didn’t make any move to let go. In fact, his fingers tightened, and as their palms slid together Draco noticed that, yes, those calluses did match up exactly, and Potter’s scars were rough against his fingertips, and -

“Can I have my hand back?” The words came out more rushed and panicked than he liked. “I am going to need it.” Potter got the message; he dropped Draco’s hand as if it was suddenly rotten. Then he turned to speak to his new minions.

“Right! Let’s figure out how we’re going to get out of here. Any ideas?”

And he’s doing it wrong - you don’t ask minions what to do, you tell them what needs doing. “Is there any way out of this place that doesn’t take us through the Atrium?”

One of the hexers spoke up. “The fireplace in the Minister‘s office is connected to the Network.” A man with fluffy white hair and a disturbingly youthful face, he touched his forehead as Potter looked at him. “Jim Rankin. Magical Maintenance. Pleased to finally meet you.”

Right - partially kill a Dark Lord as a baby and everyone treats you like Lord of the Manor. Potter didn’t even manage to complete the job!

Potter looked uncomfortable under the pressure of all that deference, though. Draco didn’t know if that was a point in his favour or not. Me, I’d be lapping it up. And I always thought Potter did - he’s full of surprises, isn’t he?

A stabbing pain in his arm drew Draco’s attention back to his Dark Mark. Even before he pushed back his sleeve he knew what it was. It felt like a burning brand being pressed into his skin - in his mind’s eye he could see the flesh blistering, turning to charcoal… What he saw as the fabric slid away from his skin was almost worse.

The details of the Mark were disappearing as that charcoal blackness bled through it. The feeling that went with it - the call - spread through his veins. “This isn’t good,” he managed, stating the bloody obvious.

But no one was paying any attention to him. He looked up and saw why.

A snitch was hovering in the corridor, fluttering its tiny wings. But those wings were made of fleshy membrane, covered in tiny veins, and between them was suspended, not a golden ball, but an eyeball, lidless and staring.

What a ridiculous-looking thing. Draco wondered how you’d go about making something like that - did some poor idiot have to lose their eye?

It focused on him. He stared back, fascinated.

Potter flicked his wand and the whole outrageous thing disintegrated into blood and gunk.

“And that isn’t good, either,” he said.

*

The Death Eaters had appeared out of nowhere. One minute they were looking at the remains of eye, one tiny wing still twitching pathetically, and the next...

The corridor was a scene lifted from Hieronymus Bosch. The posters on the walls were on fire and the glow from their flickering flames mixed with the multicoloured flashes of spells hurtling back and forth in the confined space. The escaping prisoners weren’t as free with the Killing Curse as their attackers, or even what Draco considered ’fighting’ spells, but even the least combat-trained wizard knew spells to incapacitate. The green flashes of Avada Kedavra, bodies dropping lifelessly to the ground, were met by jinxes dimly-remembered from faraway school-days. Someone was terrifyingly good at Transfiguration - black-clad forms flickered, twisted, and changed before his eyes.

Draco felt like he stood outside it all. He didn’t need to think to block and deflect spells - his reflexes, the product of long and harsh training, seemed to take over his body. He was a dreamer, wandering through a nightmare, taking in every detail.

“In here! Move!”

A curse rebounded off Potter’s shield spell and narrowly missed Draco. He saw Rankin gesturing madly from a narrow door in the wall, looking like a grimacing imp amongst the flames. With one hand in a death-grip on Potter’s shirt, he dived for the door - and stunned the Death Eater who tried to follow them in.

Rankin slammed the door and hexed it shut, but it didn’t shut out the battle. The sounds of it seemed to follow them in, chasing them up the narrow passageway.

Potter tore free of Draco’s grip and tried to punch him. Fortunately his aim seemed to be a bit off; his fist only caught the air in front of Draco’s nose. Draco backed away from him, wand ready.

“We can’t just leave them!” The walls of the passageway were covered in carefully-drawn sigils and runes, humming with power, and the light they emitted turned Potter’s furious face into a jigsaw of light and shadow. “People are dying. We can’t just -”

“Run away?” Draco ground his teeth together. He should have been expecting something like this; he should have known Potter’s priorities would be skewed. Stupid, reckless, soft, naïve Gryffindor with his stupid, romantic ideals. “I thought that was the whole fucking idea? To get out of here. In one piece.”

“Those people are my friends and colleagues.” Rankin’s voice was soft and sad. “But they understood what you don’t seem to. One person’s life shouldn’t be worth more than another’s, but in this case it is. If I die, my family and friends will, I hope, mourn me, but the world will go on. If you die, I’m not sure it would.”

“That’s bullshit!”

“You’re not just a person, you’re hope - to so many people. Oh, I’m sure there’ll be resistance to -” Rankin shuddered “- Him, even without you, but -”

“You’re the figurehead, Potter,” Draco said. “Just accept it gracefully and we can be on our way.”

*

Harry felt his clenched fists relaxing, almost against his will. Oh, he understood Rankin’s logic - and Malfoy’s, damn him - but that didn’t mean they were right.

Whatever happened to ‘no one else is going to die for me’?

“Even if I do kill Voldemort, it’s not going to bring them back.”

“Obviously.” Malfoy’s voice was thick with contempt. “I’m not qualified to talk about self-sacrifice, but I would have thought you of all people would get what it is.”

Harry’s temper flared. If that was a dig, it was unforgivable. “Shut your mouth.”

“What am I supposed to have said now? Grow up, Potter. Or go back out there and get yourself killed. At least then we wouldn’t have to put up with your whining.”

Harry’s retort was drowned out by an explosion of sound. The floor beneath him shook and the wall beside him bulged inward as if a huge fist had smashed into it from the other side. He looked at Rankin. His expression said it all. We haven’t got time for this. Harry agreed, but -

“I hate you,” he said to Malfoy as they followed Rankin along the dark corridor.

Malfoy grinned, the expression turned into something diabolical by the strange lighting. “I hate you too.”

Rankin led them to a rickety steel staircase that spiralled into darkness above and below. More symbols flickered into life on the walls. Harry noticed one that flashed on and off like a broken light bulb.

“What is this place?”

“Maintenance corridors.”

Yes - and that tells me so much. “And the symbols?”

“The Ministry runs on magic - years and years worth of spells cast, rituals performed, just to make the building operate properly. And if you mess with one without thinking about how it might affect the others -” Rankin grinned. “Well, let’s just say it can get messy. All these sigils are like a map of the spells we maintain - shows us if they’re working correctly, if the connections are intact… We don’t actually need them, but they make our job a hell of a lot easier. And they save on leg work. Example -” He tapped three of the symbols in turn, muttering under his breath. They slowly went black. “Those spells are nothing much individually, but interfere with them -” He smiled, and his eyes glinted with satisfaction. “Let’s just say the lifts won’t be working exactly as they should.”

Malfoy peered over Harry’s shoulder. “You could cause chaos from in here,” he said wistfully.

Rankin sighed. “Yes - I can.”

Something in his voice made Harry flinch. He gave the man a hard look.

Malfoy wasn’t quite so restrained. “This self-sacrifice thing is catching, isn’t it?” he drawled. “Well, if you really must -”

“I’ll get you to the Minister’s office first, of course. And then - would a little darkness be of use?”

*

‘A little darkness’ Rankin had promised, and that was exactly what they got. Not total darkness - there was enough light to see the various backdrops in the paintings lined along one wall, even if the actual subjects of those paintings were nowhere to be seen. Mere paint and canvas they might be, but the portraits obviously knew which way the wind was blowing, and wanted no part of it.

The corridor they were in was less institutional in style than the rest of the Ministry. A thick carpet lined the floor, and a row of large magical windows filled the wall opposite the portraits. Each window showed the same thing, a dark stormy night, rain lashing against the glass. Harry suspected that was Rankin’s doing as well.

He remembered the last time he’d been here, just a couple of days before. Images flicked through his head, all bathed in golden sunlight - Arthur Weasley’s quiet support, the little witch chasing the scrolls, Ron and Hermione’s bickering… I hope they’re all right…

A sharp twinge of pain slid up his neck. The pain in his head had subsided to a dull ache, but now it burst back into full throbbing life.

“You’re not dying on me, are you, Potter?” Malfoy could sneer even in a whisper.

No - I just can’t decide whether to pass out or throw up. Harry steadied himself and glared. “I’m fine.”

“You’re a liar.” But Malfoy didn’t have enough concern for Harry’s health to actually come over and check on him. “I was here before. This is the office Snape was using.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Harry managed to turn his shout into a hiss.

Malfoy shrugged. “Snape won’t be here. He’ll have gone to the Dark Lord. He did call us all to him.”

“What?”

“I tried to tell you, but you were too busy blasting apart that spying eyeball.”

Malfoy moved over to the office door and, with a barely audible gulp of breath, tapped his wand against the doorknob. The door opened without a sound.

The anteroom where the Minister’s personal secretary normally worked was as dark and quiet as the corridor beyond. However, cold unnatural light leaked from beneath the door to the Minister’s inner sanctum. Harry couldn’t hear any voices, but the door might well have an Imperturbable Charm on it - he couldn’t imagine either of the Ministers he’d met wanting their secretaries to be able to overhear everything said in that room.

Maybe Snape is here. But that shouldn’t matter. If he really sent Malfoy to help me, then he won’t turn on us now - will he? Harry’s head hurt more than ever. He leaned on the desk for support.

The doorknob turned - the door began to swing open. Malfoy caught hold of his arm and he found himself dragged behind the desk. Fortunately it was big and old - there was just enough room beneath it for them to both squeeze under, and the decency panel that protected the secretary’s legs from the Minister’s gaze worked just as well to hide the two boys. Even if it was very cramped and uncomfortable.

“I was told the Ministry was secure.”

Every thought of comfort fled from Harry’s mind. Because he knew that voice. It was burned into his memory from both his nightmares and that handful of equally dreadful real-life encounters. Malfoy knew it too - he went from trying to wriggle further under the desk to frozen like a statue.

“It is. The escape attempt was merely a group of low-end workers.” Snape’s voice was silky and reassuring. “They’ve been dealt with. The current…inconveniences seem to be the work of one man. I have teams out looking for him. He can’t hide for long.”

“And Potter?” Harry’s name was spat out like cobra venom. Malfoy flinched; his breath quickened against Harry’s neck.

Yes - you’ll be in some real trouble if you’re caught helping me escape.

Malfoy’s obvious fear contrasted painfully with Harry’s lack of it. He knew he should be scared - Voldemort was a monster - but the fear just didn’t seem to be there. If this was his time to face him, then so be it. At least no one else would die for him.

That thought coincided with a fresh wave of pain and dizziness. Harry tried to focus on something else - the solidity of the wood against his back, the warm and strength of the limbs tangled with his, the irritating tickle of hair against his face, the scent of that hair - no flowery fantasy fragrance, but sweat and earth and smoke - and of course, the smooth curve of neck just inches from his mouth.

“There is no way Harry Potter can possibly be here. It has to be a trick.” Snape sounded completely confident. The man really was an excellent liar. “In fact, the information I’ve received is that he was supposed to be at Malfoy Manor yesterday, inspecting the facilities.”

The pain was still there, but the dizziness was gone. Harry had to move the focus of his attention from Malfoy’s neck to his face as the other boy twisted his body, finally managing to get his feet under the desk. His eyes were still wide and panicked, but, being Malfoy, he couldn’t resist a twisted smile at ’inspecting the facilities’.

“Then why didn’t Bellatrix take him?”

“You’ll have to ask her that.”

“I will.”

Harry heard the soft clunk of the outer door shutting. The conversation continued, but muffled.

“Right. Fire. Now.” Harry’s limbs felt like they were made out of jelly. He was no help at all as Malfoy struggled out from beneath the desk. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Blackness crept across his vision; he felt strong fingers dragging at his unresponsive body. “Move.”

He managed to blink away the darkness, and with Malfoy’s help, got to his feet. The other boy half-carried, half-dragged him into the Minister’s office. The least Harry could do was stand - well, lean against the desk - on his own while Malfoy retrieved an ornate pot of Floo powder from the mantelpiece and threw a large handful into the fire.

“Back to the flat, right?”

Harry was in the flames, mumbling “Charing Cross Road,” when he saw the door open. He called out a warning, but he was much too late.

Snape made a slashing movement with his wand. The last thing Harry saw before he was whisked away into the Floo Network was the startled look on Draco Malfoy’s face as he fell forward, into the flames.

*****

Jimmy Fraser was having a bad night. The little brats in the flat downstairs were having a party. One hell of a party, by the sound of it; dawn was breaking, soft golden light outlining the chimney pots of the buildings opposite, and the music and laughter and occasional screaming were still going strong.

When he’d heard the bang on his ceiling, followed by another, his tired brain just chalked it up to more of the brats’ antics. Sure, it was from the flat above, but they could have broken in there - from what he could tell, the owners weren’t often there. In fact, though Jimmy had kept a careful look-out, and while he sometimes heard voices and footsteps from the flat above, he had never seen them. Obviously not neighbourly types - not many people are these days.

The explosion was a little bit harder to ignore. The entire building seemed to shake, and bits of plaster floated down from the ceiling. Jimmy brushed flakes of it out of his thin brown hair and glared at the ceiling.

“Enough is enough.” If the kids had broken into the flat upstairs…

He chose a golf club from his vast selection, adjusted his dressing gown, and marched out of the door.

The stairwell was thick with acrid smoke. A couple of drunken kids peered at him wide-eyed from the landing below. Apparently the explosion had been loud enough to penetrate even their alcohol-numbed brains.

“Hey, man, what was that?”

Jimmy looked at the decidedly uninspiring specimen of future-manhood in front of him and sniffed. Ant Brearey - leader of the Brats Downstairs. Ant - what a name! Why he had to call himself that, when Anthony was such a good, respectable name, Jimmy didn’t know.

“It wasn’t some prank of yours, then?”

Ant’s face hardened. He actually managed to look quite tough and capable. “No. It wasn’t.” He pushed past Jimmy and bounded up the stairs. Jimmy heard the crack of breaking wood as he kicked at the door.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Ant wasn’t listening. The door gave way and he pushed inside. Jimmy followed him in, a bit more cautiously, eyes watering from the smoke. And that was something else - the smoke smelled funny…wrong…

It must have been the fireplace that had exploded - fragments of what had once been an fancy stone mantelpiece crunched beneath his feet as he made his way into the living room.

Then he saw the bodies on the floor.

Two boys - no older than Ant. Jimmy threw his neighbour a suspicious look, but Ant looked shocked and horrified. He crouched down beside them, checking for life. Some hope of that, Jimmy thought. Even from where he stood by the door, he could see the blood staining the carpet beneath the blond boy, the one in the Halloween costume.

His shaking hands dialled 999. The operator on the other end of the phone sounded much too chirpy for that time in the morning. “Which emergency service do you require?”

“Ambulance. Maybe the police and fire brigade as well. I - there’s been an explosion, but I can’t smell gas or anything.”

“Please give me your address, sir.”

As he fumbled through the address, inadvertently giving the wrong flat number at first, Jimmy watched Ant. He rolled the dark-haired boy onto his back, something Jimmy was sure, from the mostly-forgotten First Aid course he’d done, you shouldn’t do. Then he whistled through his teeth and muttered something. A name?

“Harry Potter…”