InsaneJournal

6.

The summer day was bright and golden. As Harry trudged across the field, the sun warm on his skin and the country air sweet in his nostrils, he felt almost as if the weather and scenery were deliberately mocking him. At that place, at that moment, it was hard to believe that a dark shadow was stretching itself over his world, destroying everything in its path. The building he was heading for, with its crooked chimneys and old stone, was as much a perfect part of this scene as the green trees and fields of corn and the cows that placidly watched Harry and Malfoy as they crossed their field, but it could have already been touched by that shadow.

Which was why they had Apparated to a cautious distance away, rather than to the front door. It strained Harry’s patience to the limit, as desperate as he was to discover if his friends were all right, but, despite what Malfoy seemed to think, he did understand the value of caution. He just chose not to use it sometimes.

Harry glanced over his shoulder at Malfoy. He was quite a distance behind Harry, due to winding his way through the field, keeping as far away from the cowpats as he could and glaring at them as if they’d been put there to personally offend him. Despite his worries, the sight of him made Harry smile.

The clothes Ant had provided were too big for either of them, but he’d seemed to take delight in putting Malfoy in the baggiest jeans and loudest t-shirt he could find. The t-shirt hung down around his thighs and was a luminous yellow that clashed horribly with his hair and made him look even more sickly and ill. It was also decorated with a large smiley face. It was so hideously inappropriate that Harry had to believe it was revenge for Ant’s scorched fingers.

Still, at least Malfoy didn’t look quite as naked as he had in his previous Muggle get-up. Harry didn’t know why a perfectly ordinary t-shirt and jeans should look obscenely revealing on Malfoy, but he suspected it was because he was more used to the other boy swathed from neck to ankle in heavy fabric. There was something wrong about him in Muggle clothes - wrong in a severely distracting way.

Harry stopped when he reached the hedge and waited for Malfoy to catch him up. The rucksack he was carrying just made the picture even more amusing - he looked like a kid sent to school in his elder brother’s once-fashionable hand-me-downs. If it hadn’t been for his thoughts on what might be awaiting them at the Burrow, Harry would have thoroughly enjoyed the spectacle. He’d spent enough time in baggy hand-me-downs himself to sympathise with Malfoy, even while he was appreciating Ant’s idea of justice.

Ant had given Harry his phone number, with the promise he’d help in any way he could. Harry planned to pass it on to Lupin; an agent in the Muggle world would probably be as useful to the Order as it had been to the Ministry. He certainly understood Ant’s desire to do something - anything - to help, to not have to wait passively for Voldemort to attack.

“When you’re ready…” he said to Malfoy, who glared at him. The look he gave the stile, and the house and garden beyond it, was no more friendly.

“What is this place?”

“The Burrow,” Harry said. “Ron’s home.”

He waited for some derisive comment about the house, but Malfoy just pulled a face. “So we’re going to tea with Weasley and his clan? Wonderful.”

Harry managed a smile. God - I wish that was what we were doing… “I thought you’d like the idea.”

Malfoy shook his head slowly. “And I thought this day couldn’t get any worse. I hate you, Potter.” But he was smiling as he said it, one of his twisted, complex smiles. The smile itself seemed genuine enough, but the emotions behind it were unreadable. Harry found himself staring at Malfoy’s mouth, wondering how he’d missed noticing how mobile and expressive it was. “So, are we going in, then? Or do you plan to just stand there staring at me for the rest of the day?”

Jolted out of his pleasant contemplation, Harry felt guilt creep over him. After all his impatience - the hasty Apparation, the march across the field - now he was actually here, he was scared to go in, scared of what he might find. Waiting for Malfoy, trying to bicker with him - it was all stalling.

Harry Potter - Saviour of the Wizarding World - trying to put off the inevitable. Pathetic.

He flushed and turned to the stile - then drew back, hand going to his wand, as he heard movement behind the hedge.

But the person who walked past was no Death Eater. Harry caught a glimpse of a small, slim figure scattering grain on the ground, her mane of red hair blazing in the bright sunlight - then Ginny was almost hidden by the squawking chickens surrounding her.

He was so relieved to see her, obviously unhurt - and surely nothing bad could have happened, if she was doing something as ordinary as feeding the chickens - that he forgot caution and leapt up onto the stile.

Ginny dropped the basket of grain and spun around, wand in hand.

“Impedimenta!”

She was definitely getting more powerful, Harry thought vaguely, as he lay on the ground and waited for his vision to clear and his limbs to work again. That hex had felt like he was being hit by a lorry - he must have been thrown back a good ten foot. As the one who’d taught that spell to her, he knew he should feel proud, but he just hurt too much.

He managed to lift his head off the ground, then almost wished he hadn’t. Ginny and Malfoy were facing each other over the stile, wands raised. Their poses were very different - hers tense and guarded, wand arm stiff and held straight out, and his loose and confident, wand arm back and held like a poisonous snake preparing to strike - but the looks on their faces were identical. Two pretty faces - two very ugly expressions.

Another girl, one Harry didn’t know, hovered uncertainly behind Ginny, holding a frying pan like a sword, a constant stream of words coming from her mouth.

“Is it them? Have they come for me? Oh god - have they come for me? They have, haven’t they? They’ve -”

“Aggie,” Ginny said firmly, “everything’s all right. Please go back inside.” Her voice rang with certainty and seemed to have a calming effect on the nearly hysterical girl.

“Are you sure?”

“Just go inside.” Ginny didn’t take her eyes off Malfoy once, not even to check that Aggie was doing as she was told. She looked beautiful and formidable, and Harry was proud of her.

My perfect ex-girlfriend…

He sighed and struggled to his feet, every muscle hurting.

“Harry, are you all right? I‘m really sorry about the hex, we‘re just all really on edge around here at the moment.”

“Put the wands down, both of you. Now.”

“I will when she does, Potter,” Malfoy drawled, and Ginny’s gaze flicked between them. She looked puzzled.

And if Malfoy had still been a Death Eater, he would have had her just then.

“But -”

“It’s a long story,” Malfoy said. “But the short version is - I was stupid enough to save Potter’s life and now I’m stuck with him. And I could have just hexed you into oblivion.”

Her brown eyes flashed with that fine old Weasley temper, and Harry was just starting to think he’d have to physically get between them, when Malfoy lowered his wand. “What the hell.” He spread his arms out and sneered at Ginny, who just looked even angrier. “Go ahead, little Weasel princess. Take your best shot.”

So Harry found himself in the strange position of standing in front of a smirking Draco Malfoy, looking at the point of Ginny’s wand as she threw every insult she knew in Malfoy’s direction, including some even Harry had never heard before. At least it isn’t hexes she’s throwing. And I’m really glad Mrs Weasley can’t hear this. Though she isn’t a fan of the Malfoys, either - she’d probably agree with most of it.

“Are you all right?” he said, as the tirade ended. “The Death Eaters haven’t been here?”

The question seemed to throw her. Ginny blinked and looked at Harry as if she wasn’t really seeing him, but something else. Something much worse. “Only your new friend,” she said eventually. She looked to the front door. Aggie was peering out fearfully. “And I’m fine.”

“Who is she? One of your friends from school?”

“Aggie’s mum works with Dad at the Ministry. Her dad’s a Muggle…was a Muggle.” Ginny looked over Harry’s shoulder at Malfoy, and her fingers tightened on her wand. Her voice shook. “Aggie was at home when they came for him.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. Even Malfoy was, for once, thankfully silent. Neither of them asked for any details.

Harry looked back towards the house and the girl, only to see her being moved gently out of the way by Arthur Weasley as he came outside.

“What’s all this noise about, Ginny?”

The relief Harry felt was like a tide rushing over him. All the horrible things he’d imagined - everything he’d expected - seemed to be washed away by the appearance of this thin, bespectacled man in his worn robes. He vaulted over the stile. If Mr Weasley was safe and unharmed, then surely -

Then he noticed the forlorn look on Ginny’s face, and the way that Mr Weasley was looking at him. He wore the same kindly, curious expression when he looked at Harry as he did when his gaze shifted to Malfoy. Something wasn’t right…

“Friends from school?”

“Arthur! Your dinner’s getting cold. Come back inside.” Mrs Weasley came out; listening to her gentle fussing over her husband made Harry feel tired and cold. In recent years her fussing had felt rather overbearing, but he would give anything for a bit of that now.

She noticed him. Her eyes glowed with relief and love, and he felt a bit better. She didn’t say anything to him, however, just “yours too, young lady - get inside,” to Ginny.

“Is it cottage pie?” Mr Weasley asked, as his wife steered him deftly back inside the house.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Ginny sighed. “Twenty-four hours without any kind of word from him - Mum was going mad with worry. He just turned up this morning, calm as anything, like he’d just had a good day at the office. Something was wrong, though, everyone could see it. Ron and Hermione were still here then, and Dad didn’t even recognise her. It took long enough for him to recognise his own kids - he kept going on about us all growing up overnight -” She looked down at her hands, at the wand being twisted between slim fingers, and bit her lip. A couple of moments later, she continued; she even managed a passably casual shrug. “Anyway, Mum checked his wand, and the last spell it’d done was Obliviate.”

Harry stared at her, horrified. Ginny shrugged again, as if the movement made it all so much easier. “We don’t know how much of his memory’s been wiped - possibly years. Mum reckons the spell was done in a hurry.”

“He did it to himself?” Harry imagined himself as Mr Weasley, trapped as the Death Eaters overran the Ministry. Would he have had the courage to do that - to turn his wand on himself so he wouldn’t be forced to betray his friends? Or would he have tried to fight, and been taken away and interrogated anyway, with his secrets intact and ready for extraction by Veritaserum and Cruciatus?

Again, Harry found himself lost for words. His attempts at expressing his sympathy sounded feeble. Fortunately Ginny was saved from them by her mother, who came rushing back out of the house. She went straight to Harry and hugged him tight.

“Thank heavens you’re safe, dear - we were all so worried.” She fussed over him for a moment, then frowned at Malfoy, who remained out in the field, carefully separate from the reunions. He gave her his best smirk.

“It’s a long story,” Harry said.

“Do you trust him?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I hope you’re right to do so, because Remus left this for you, just in case you turned up here.” Mrs Weasley pressed an envelope into his hand. “Take care, Harry.”

“I’m really sorry about Mr Weasley,” Harry blurted out, because he really was and he had to say something, however useless and pathetic.

She just smiled at him and said, “why? You didn’t do it, did you? Arthur’s alive. We have to be thankful for whatever mercies we can.”

Ginny watched her mother go back inside, then managed a smile for Aggie as she waved at her from the window.

“You know, she’s not even my friend - just one of the girls that used to hang around Michael. But she came here, because I’m a Pureblood and I was in the DA, and somehow that’s a magical combination. She thinks she’ll be safe here.”

“She will be. You’re strong. You’ll look after her.”

Ginny’s smile was gone. Her lips twisted, as if she wasn’t sure whether to smile or cry.

“I miss the DA,” she said unexpectedly, and managed a twisted smile. Her eyes were bright with what could be unshed tears. Harry tensed up. He was no good with tears. “It was such a good game, wasn’t it?”

He smiled back, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Not for me.”

“I suppose not.”

Harry felt suddenly awkward. He felt as if he should be doing something, but he didn’t know what. The silence stretched on, and Ginny’s eyes never left his face.

He did care about her, it was just -

There was a very meaningful cough from behind him. “Just kiss the girl, Potter, then we can be going.”

Ginny reacted as if she’d been slapped; Harry spun around and glared at Malfoy, who shrugged. “If you’re shy, I can turn my back.”

Malfoy’s face was carefully set into an expression of complete innocence, but his eyes glinted. Harry looked at his mouth, at lips that twitched as if they wanted to curl into either a smile or a sneer, and wanted to hit him.

Arms slipped around him from behind and gave him a quick hard hug. “Take care of yourself, Harry.”

He spun round, to return the sentiment, to apologise for Malfoy, to apologise for himself - to apologise for not being able to be all that she needed - but he found himself speaking to thin air.

The door slammed behind her as she fled into the house, leaving Harry standing alone in the garden with just the chickens pecking around his feet for company.

Well, not just the chickens.

“Trouble in paradise?”

*

Potter certainly knew how to over-react to a bit of gentle teasing, Draco reflected as he was shoved back into the hedge. Sharp bits of twig jabbed into his back through the thin cotton of the ridiculous shirt, and he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out.

“Don’t. Start.”

“I know you have weird moral standards, Potter, but you are allowed to kiss your girlfriend - that’s the whole point of having one.”

“Ginny’s not my girlfriend.” Potter’s hands were twisted up in the yellow cotton, and he was invading Draco’s personal space to the point that he could feel his breath on his face. Instinct told him to shut up and let Potter calm down, but instinct didn’t have any control over his mouth, which just kept talking.

“Well, you’re allowed to kiss her anyway. Unless she dumped you. Aww - did she dump you, Potter?”

“No!”

“You dumped her? Well - that’s blown your reputation for chivalry. Shag-em-and-leave-em-Potter - whoever would have thought it?”

“We didn’t -” Potter scowled and let him go. “It was for her own good. It’s not safe for her to be around me.”

Draco pulled himself out of the hedge and made a point of straightening his clothes. “I agree with that. If this is what you’re like with me, I’d hate to see you in a relationship. Poor girl was probably covered in bruises.” Potter opened his mouth to protest, but Draco had already decided to take pity on him. “I’m joking, Potter. Where’s your sense of humour?” Besides, the conversation was getting boring - who the hell wanted to talk about the orange-haired princess? He’d heard enough about how beautiful and fantastic she was from Nott and even Zabini - he thought he’d puke if he heard it from Potter too.

He snatched the crumpled envelope from Potter’s hand. “Let’s see what your friend left you.”

The only thing in the envelope was a folded-up piece of paper - a paper that wouldn’t unfold. It felt glued together. Draco eventually gave up on it and handed it back to Harry. “Some gift.”

“It is.” Ink flooded up to stain the paper beneath Harry’s fingertips, forming words. School Lane, Heath, Yorkshire.

“Shall we move on?”

*

A few minutes later, they walked down a quiet lane, away from a sleepy little village, and wondered what to do next. The lane was shaded by trees and surrounded by fields. It was pretty, but they’d walked up and down it twice and seen nothing but those trees and fields.

“This is a wild goose chase.”

“No.” Potter stared at the paper, and if he was willing it to write more, it wasn’t responding. “This is Lupin’s hand-writing.”

“Lupin?” Draco said casually, but inside he felt a faint pang of alarm.

“Professor Lupin - you must remember him? He taught Defence against the Dark Arts.”

“Oh. The werewolf.” Careful, careful - stay calm - think of the humiliation of Potter seeing you scared…

Potter gave him a quick glare, as if he’d read more into those innocent three words than Draco had intended. Pre-emptive jumping to the defence. I suppose that becomes a habit when you’re friends with a werewolf.

Though how anyone can actually be friends with a werewolf… Aunt Bella only likes Greyback because she gets to watch him tear people apart. I doubt Potter’s into that kind of thing.

Well, I suppose he could be…

“Got something.”

Draco looked up. Potter stood in the middle of the road, the folded paper opening up like a flower in his hands.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. It just opened…” Potter’s words trailed off, and he stared into a field as if it had suddenly acquired magical riches. Flame licked at the edges of the paper. “Read this - quick!”

The paper blackened. Draco ran over, saw the words The Old Schoolhouse dissolve into flame. Potter swore and dropped the burning paper, but it seemed Draco had seen just enough.

He looked at the field Potter had. His view was now blocked by an old brick wall topped with wrought-iron railings. A rusty metal gate hung half off its hinges, and through it he could see a large brick building. It was a bit of mess - there were cracks in the walls, most of the windows were broken, and the roof was missing half its slates.

Potter pulled out his wand. Draco thought the gate would fall off as he touched it, but it swung open, without so much as a creak. He took his own wand out and followed him.

The paving stones beneath his feet were cracked, grass and weeds competing with each other to swallow them up. This had once been a playground, but the climbing frame was broken, lying in rusty pieces on the ground, and the swings that creaked in the breeze had rust-covered chains and paint peeling from their seats. The air was still and heavy.

“So, where are your friends?” He didn’t know why he whispered, just that the place felt dead. Dead for a long time.

Potter shook his head. “I don’t -”

Draco felt the alarm rather than heard it, as if all his senses were an elastic band that had just been twanged.

The still air was broken by several people Apparating into it. Draco stood in a circle of strangers and tried to pretend he wasn’t bothered by all the wands pointing in his direction.

Now’s definitely the time to let Potter do the talking…

*

They weren’t all strangers. Draco recognised that mad old teacher from fourth year - the one who thought transfiguration was the perfect way to discipline students. He would hardly forget him.

He was the one questioning Potter.

“When did we first meet?”

“August 1995. The, um, 6^th?”

“Not before?”

The question was gruff, and he still eyed Potter with suspicion. Potter just grinned at him. “We weren’t properly introduced until then. You never did teach any classes at Hogwarts, even after you were released from your trunk.”

Draco listened with interest but total incomprehension. Potter had been Moody’s teacher’s pet for a full year before he was claiming they met - and what the hell was all this about a trunk? Then he lost interest as the mad old bastard declared Potter to be Potter, not some Death Eater using Polyjuice, and there was general jubilation that the golden boy was safe.

Hurray! The world is safe! Everyone‘s so boring and predictable.

Draco yawned and stretched, feeling stabs of pain in his back. No one was happy to see him. He returned the evil looks he was being given with interest.

I‘ll cheer for him when he actually does something. Up to now he’s been useless.

The main doors of the school opened with a thud. More people came rushing out. Draco suppressed a groan as he spotted Weasley and Granger amongst them. They virtually leapt on their friend.

He came out too - the werewolf. He looked tired and worn, but the sight of Harry prompted a wide smile. Draco just tried not to panic. Oh, Lupin seemed like a nice enough man, and had certainly been a better teacher than that Moody creature, but he wasn’t a man, was he? Draco had originally thought his father was over-reacting when he’d raised the hue-and-cry about a werewolf teaching at Hogwarts, but he knew better now. He knew what was under that mild exterior, the animal waiting to get out.

But that animal was the only person to notice Draco as anything but a irritant. Mild brown eyes swept over him, taking in the outrageous Muggle clothes with no more than a raised eyebrow. “Let me guess,” Lupin said, “it’s a long story?”

He reached out, and Draco fought to keep from flinching away as Lupin’s long fingers gently closed around his wrist, turning his arm over to look at the Mark. Lupin was almost as thin as Draco, and he certainly didn’t look like anything to scared of - it was such a cruel disguise. At least Greyback was honest about being a monster.

Memories flickered up, fresh and bloody. He could feel the cold wet stone beneath him, hear Greyback’s grunts of pain as he changed. He could feel the body on top of him, bones shifting position, muscles stretching and reshaping, skin feeling like liquid as it flowed over its new shape. He could smell the stench of blood and decay, feel the drool drip onto his neck. He could feel the fangs against his skin, the fur, thick and bristly -

Draco pulled away from Lupin. It was all he could do to stay standing there in the playground, to not hex him and run away. When Lupin reached for him again he bit back a whimper; the last thing he needed was to make a spectacle of himself in front of Potter and his mates.

Lupin’s nostrils twitched; he looked at Draco with concern and a bit of curiosity.

“Look - he’s changed sides. He saved my life. That’s enough for me.”

“How do you know this isn’t all a trick? A set-up to get you to trust a spy?”

“Even if he has turned against You-Know-Who, you can’t trust him! He could turn against you just as easily!”

“Why would he?”

“The question is - why wouldn’t he? He doesn’t care about anyone but himself! He never has!”

It seemed as though Draco’s presence had managed to ruin the celebration completely. Lupin looked over to where Harry was trying to argue with five people at once, including Weasley and Granger.

“Harry - the number of times Malfoy’s tried to hex you in the back -”

Draco met Lupin’s questioning gaze and shrugged. “It was only the once.” He found himself starting to relax and cursed his own gullibility. Lupin might appear to have the animal well in check, but it was still in there, just below that too-nice-to-be-true exterior.

“I trust him!”

“I can’t believe you brought a Death Eater here -”

Lupin coughed. “Shall we take this inside?”

The mild comment stopped the argument as effectively as a shout, and Draco made a mental note. The werewolf was the boss there - or, at the very least, the nominal leader.

Definitely someone to keep on the right side of. Some sucking-up might even be appropriate.

*

Inside the Old Schoolhouse was very different from the outside. Anywhere enough witches and wizards were concentrated, magic would eventually be used to make it more comfortable. This could have been a cave in a hillside and someone would have conjured up lush carpets and comfy sofas and four-poster beds. The only suggestion that the hall they walked into wasn’t a dwelling, but a refugee camp, was in the number of people packed into it, and their little piles of belongings. The lines were carefully drawn - each family seemed to have their own little spot, centring around a bed or a sofa and marked out with those belongings. But that was human nature, wasn’t it? Even when running for their lives, people needed a space that was theirs.

“Who are all these people?” Potter asked.

“Refugees,” Draco said. Lupin looked at him in surprise, maybe even a little impressed, and he preened. I was always good at pleasing the teachers.

“In a manner of speaking. These are all people who feel they have to go underground while Voldemort is in charge. Two days in power and he’s already ordered a census.” Lupin shrugged. “Such an innocent-sounding thing, but when you consider our new government’s views on blood purity, is it really surprising that people are already starting to run?”

Draco wondered what would happen when the hall filled up. Oh, some of these people might join the vigilante group - the Order of the Phoenix, Snape had called them - to fight back, but most of them would need moving on elsewhere. The simplest thing to do with the Mudbloods was to send them back to where they came from. Back to the Muggle world, where they belonged.

It was a good idea in principle, but something about it made him uncomfortable.

“Malfoy needs a healer,” Potter said. “His back is a mess.”

The pain in Draco’s back had faded, replaced by intermittent itching. Finding the school, meeting the werewolf, and seeing the refugees had all rather pushed the stitches from his mind. The reminder was welcome. He could finally get rid of those Muggle abominations.

He threw his rucksack to the floor and stripped off the hideous shirt, prompting gasps of horror from the people around him.

And those gasps had better be caused by the Muggles’ handiwork - my body isn’t that ugly.

“Livia!” Lupin’s call brought over a young woman with dreadlocked hair, who whistled when she got a good look at Draco‘s back. She carried a heavy bag; Draco heard the sound of glass clinking together as she hauled it onto the closest sofa, shooing away the two elderly wizards who had claimed it.

“Right - on here, honey. Let’s get you sorted out.”

“Stay here,” Lupin said. “We’re just going to discuss a few things.” Draco looked for Potter, and saw him being steered firmly away by his friends. “Relax. You’re safe now.”

Draco looked at Lupin’s kindly face, at the healer with her wand at the ready, at the human debris around him, and realised something. To this ’Order’ he wasn’t a potential recruit, but another refugee. And that is not in the fucking plan.

Two steps and he was at Potter’s side. To his surprise, Potter didn’t resist as Draco dragged him away from his friends, and he was too busy staring at Draco’s chest to protest.

Yeah, take a good fucking look. That scar - you made that, you bastard.

“So, that’s it, is it? No thanks, just a pat on the head and a ‘you’ll be safe’? You got me into this, Potter. You kidnap me, then I get you out of the Ministry, getting fucking cut up in the process, and this is how I get repaid? Packed off into hiding with Mudbloods while you go off on your merry fucking way?” Potter’s head shot up, and his eyes flashed with anger. “You wanted me. You went out of your way to get me. Well, now you have to decide what to do with me.”

Potter’s eyes filled up with confusion and something that wasn’t anger - not quite. Something that seemed to sucked the air from Draco’s lungs and made his entire body tense up in anticipation - anticipation of what, he wasn’t sure, but he felt really uncomfortable, especially when Potter flushed and dropped his eyes. Potter’s gaze felt like a physical thing as he stared at the scar. As his eyes followed the line of it down to where it disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers, Draco’s skin reacted as if it was being touched, as if Potter was running his fingers over it rather than just looking.

Someone should really magic up some fans, he thought vaguely - the air in the hall was stiflingly hot.

Then something clicked in Draco’s head. He’d seen that look before - in Zabini’s eyes, and Flint’s, and Greyback’s, fuck him. Potter wanted to…his mind flinched away from the concept and replaced it with another, juvenile but safer…Potter fancied him.

For a moment he was furious - Draco had been kidnapped, tied up, tortured and cut up because Potter had a hard-on? But his sense of the ridiculous was tickled by it. The world was suddenly like one of one of those optical illusions - just as a painting that was one moment an old hag with a large nose could become, by an involuntary twist of the mind, a glamorous young woman, so could Potter’s tediously-heroic saving-people-thing turn into something so self-centred, so Slytherin, that Draco just wanted to laugh.

He stepped closer to Potter, so close that he could feel the fabric of Potter’s shirt shiver against his bare skin. Potter took a hasty step back and cracked his shin against somebody’s conjured coffee table.

“I don’t want to hide. I want to fight.” It was an out-and-out lie, but Potter liked it. His head shot up and he stared at Draco - and fuck, he actually looks excited. Draco dropped his voice until it was almost a purr. “I’m yours now - your responsibility. After all that effort to get me, you’d better make sure you use me well.” Then, coup-de-grâce delivered and obviously effective, he spun on his heel and walked back over to Livia.

A quick glance back showed Potter still standing there, staring after him with his mouth hanging open like an idiot.

A perfect performance, even if I do say so myself.

*

Harry walked out of the hall with his mind reeling.

What the hell just happened?

Well, Malfoy had managed to put unwelcome pictures in Harry’s head and equally uncomfortable feelings in his body with just a few ambiguous (and most likely innocent) words. But his words weren’t the problem, were they? The problem was that unnecessary closeness, the breath tickling Harry’s cheek, the heat of his body, the sight of his body… If jeans and t-shirt were ’dangerously naked’, how to describe Malfoy topless, with only the curve of his arse holding up his borrowed jeans?

He’d looked at the scars - and Malfoy had more of those than he’d been expecting - but he’d also looked at his shoulders, wide enough to be almost out of proportion with the rest of his gaunt body, at his tiny nipples, only a shade darker than the ivory of his skin, at his hip bones that looked almost too sharp to touch…

God - why did he have to get so close?

Malfoy couldn’t have been doing it deliberately, could he? Harry had never been on the receiving end of such aggressive flirting before, but -

No. It wasn’t some girl with an embarrassing case of hero-worship, it was Draco fucking Malfoy, who’d already made it clear - many times - how much he hated Harry touching him.

Harry shook his head, as if by doing so he could somehow dislodge the confusion. In the end, he seized on the only thing about the conversation that had been clear and unthreatening.

I don’t want to hide. I want to fight.

Those words had sent a thrill down Harry’s spine, because to hear your own feelings put into words by someone else, words said with such passion, was exhilarating. It was those words he concentrated on as he tried to work out convincing reasons to trust Malfoy and let him work with the Order - not his smooth skin, or his long translucent lashes, or his wide, oh-so-expressive mouth. I want to fight. Harry was going to make damn sure they both got the chance to do just that.

The room the Order members were filing into looked like a staff room. Standing in the doorway, looking at over-stuffed armchairs and battered filing cabinets, Harry felt like he was back at primary school. He chose an armchair and sat down; Ron plonked himself down next to him.

“Harry, mate, where the hell have you been? How did you end up with Malfoy?” Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Ron was quicker. “And none of this ‘long story’ crap.” He grinned at Harry. Harry returned the smile. After a day in Malfoy’s company, Ron’s simple good-humour and open smile were refreshing.

“How did things go at Malfoy Manor? Was the tour useful?” Which was Hermione’s way of saying ‘did you find the cup?’. She took the chair on his other side.

“It was interesting. Of course, the day was spoiled completely when the Death Eaters attacked the place.” Harry told the story as quickly as he could - getting away from the Manor, the safe house, being taken to the Ministry but not being recognised, the escape, the hospital - if he left out a few minor details, like Malfoy not coming with him from the Manor of his own free will, or Snape sending Malfoy to help him at the Ministry, did it really matter? It just helped to make the story shorter.

“It’s a shame that you had to leave the painting behind.” Hermione ran her fingers over her mouth, lost in thought, and, Harry noticed with a grin, completely oblivious to Ron watching her do it. “I wonder who the girl was. And this ‘grumpy man’ of hers.”

“She mentioned a ‘Draco’. I should probably ask Malfoy about her.” Harry looked at his friends and saw their interested expressions turn stony. “There can’t many people about with a name like that,” he added quickly, “and the painting was in his house.”

“Harry, be careful. You of all people know what Malfoy’s like. How can you trust him so easily?” Hermione looked to Ron for support. She got it.

“So Malfoy came to your rescue at the Ministry. Great. Fine, we all owe him one. But you’re making him sound like some kind of hero.” Ron scowled. “And that’s one thing that little git will never be.”

*

Draco lay with his cheek pressed against the cushions of the sofa, trying not to flinch as yet another stitch was pulled free from his flesh. Livia dropped the thread, with its ugly knot, into a bowl already containing a twisted mass of the things.

“You know, I’m starting to think Muggle medicine has more to teach us than we tend to think,” she said. “How long have these been in? Twelve hours? Sixteen? And this wound is practically healed. Oh, I’ll have to take steps to prevent scarring, because they don’t seem to have given any thought to that, but it really is impressive.”

Draco looked at the bowl of thread and kept his thoughts to himself. He wasn’t feeling very charitable towards the Muggle ’healers’ at that moment, and he had a nasty suspicion that maybe the speeding healing had more to do with him than any Muggle cleverness.

We heal fast. And there are other advantages…

The fabric of the cushions had a raised pattern on it - flowers and polka-dots - and Draco felt like it was becoming embossed onto his face. When Livia said “there we go, honey - all done,” he sat up and rubbed at his numb cheek.

He wasn’t going to think about Greyback, or anything he’d said. Because he’s a liar as well as a monster.

And I’m being watched. Draco looked around. He couldn’t see anyone directly looking at him and he hadn’t seen anyone looking either of the other times he’d checked, but he was sure… One of the refugees, a very ugly old crone, met his eyes and grinned, exposing toothless gums. Draco flinched and turned his attention back to Livia.

“I’ve got a little essence of dittany. If applied regularly it should reduce the scarring.”

“You took your time getting here.” The words were hissed in his ear, so close he could smell the breath of the speaker. He jumped, and saw that the old witch had sidled up to him. She leered and him and pressed something hard and metallic into his palm. “From a friend.”

The gift was a silver pendant. It was old and tarnished, but the quality of the workmanship that had gone into making it was still evident in its fine engraving. On one side was carefully etched a picture of a man carrying a staff and what looked like a child on his back, up to his shins in water. “What friend? I haven’t got any friends here.” There were words engraved around the edge of the picture. Draco rubbed his finger over them, trying to make them out. A spell, perhaps?

Sai-- -hristoph-- Pro---- Me.

As he mouthed the words, he felt something reach down inside him and tug at his centre of gravity. Then the world was reduced to a feeling of acceleration and a whirling mix of colour and light.

*

“I don’t understand why Harry here’s so set on having this boy join us,” Moody’s magical eye spun around to look at Harry, who stared back and hoped it couldn’t see into minds as easily as it saw through walls, “but there’s a simple enough way to make sure of his loyalty.”

“How?” Harry felt battered and tired of arguing. If Moody could suggest anything that would let him have his way without alienating all his friends and allies, he’d take it.

“Have you heard of something called an Unbreakable Vow?”

“Yes.” The word came out calmly enough, but Harry’s fingers sunk into the fabric of the chair-arm. He wanted to scream at Moody - and at all the others, sitting there, nodding and whispering as if it was a perfect solution. Hermione leant over and touched his arm, her expression concerned. Harry took a deep breath. “I know all about Unbreakable Vows,” he said, “and the only way you’ll make Malfoy take one is over my dead body.”

“Mine too,” Lupin said unexpectedly. “In my opinion, the Unbreakable Vow is dangerously close to the Dark Arts. You might as well suggest Imperiusing the boy, Alastor.”

“So you agree with Harry - we should just take him in on trust?”

“Not trusting enough can be as harmful as trusting too much,” Lupin said. He closed his eyes, and Harry was grateful - the pain and sorrow in them had been hard to look at. “We’re not getting anywhere with this. Harry, why don’t you take a walk?” He looked at Harry, eyes back to their usual mild good humour. And that had to be an act, coming so quickly after all that pain. “And try to calm down. We‘re all on the same side here, remember.”

Harry stood up, aware of every eye in the room on him. “This isn’t over,” he said. Hermione made an irritated little sigh, and Ron was looking at him as if he really was a Polyjuiced Death Eater.

Lupin just smiled. “Of course not.”

They all talk so much about trust - why can’t they just trust me?

Harry avoided Ron’s outstretched arm and almost ran out of the room. He stood in the empty corridor and looked at the children’s paintings tacked to the peeling walls. The paints were faded and the paper curling around the edges, but he could still make out the things depicted, however amateurishly. Children always seemed to draw the same things - boxy little houses, unnatural-looking trees, fluffy clouds, and groups of people standing together - their homes, families and friends.

Harry had never drawn pictures like that as a child. ’Home’, ’family’ and ’friends’ had all been alien concepts to him - things only other people had. Until he’d gone to Hogwarts. The castle had become his home, and the friends he’d made there had become his family. Only now he couldn’t go back to Hogwarts and his friends didn’t trust him.

The floorboards creaked under his feet as he walked. He tried not to look at the paintings, or let himself dwell on the memories they brought. That lonely little boy with no friends, always bullied, never quite fitting in - he didn’t exist anyone. Harry had left him behind a long time ago. And there was nothing to be gained by thinking about him now.

He opened the door to the hall. The noise and activity inside, and the hall’s chaotic furnishing, made a welcome contrast to the deserted corridor with its souvenirs of childhood.

His eyes sought out Malfoy. He was easy to spot, even amongst all those people.

Malfoy was talking to an old woman. He looked at something in his hand, said something, and disappeared…

“Draco!”

Harry’s shout seemed to be swallowed up in the noise of the hall, lost amongst the laughter and chatter of people going about their business, oblivious to the boy who’d just been snatched from their midst. But the old woman heard him. She spun around much too quickly for her age and look of general feebleness, and grinned wildly at him as he started to push past people, trying to get to her before she -

- Apparated away…

*

Draco’s feet slammed against uneven stone. He managed to stay upright and even kept hold of the pendant. Pretty fancy thing to turn into a Portkey.

And I’m an idiot for just accepting something like that from some random stranger.

Self-recriminations could wait until later, however - providing there was a later. Draco didn’t know who had sent him the Portkey or where it had taken him - and both were pretty important questions.

The darkness surrounding him seemed almost heavy enough to touch. He put his hand out, to see if there was anything around him but empty space. His fingers touched wet stone, and something cold and slick that made him snatch his hand back. He pulled out his wand and thought lumos. Because that had felt just like…

Bones. Lit up in the beam of light from his wand was a real skeleton, bound to the rock in an extremely contorted position. Symbols like those he’d seen in the Ministry’s maintenance corridors were painted around it, the paint encrusted with something that glittered in the light like crushed diamonds.

As he moved the light, he saw that the Portkey had deposited him in a narrow passageway carved into solid rock. The bones were everywhere, bound to the ceiling as well as the walls.

Draco thought about the Portkey journey. There had been moments of absolute stillness, accompanied by the feeling of running up against a barrier which, after a couple of seconds, let him through. Those barriers must have been wards.

Wards that let me through without any trouble, plus this very cheery decor…

I’m back in the castle.

He heard the laboured creak of door hinges left for centuries without attention, and swung his wand in the direction of the sound. A hurried “nox” cut off the light and freed his wand for cursing.

Not that Draco would ever dare curse the man standing in the doorway. No clumsy wand-light for him - a globe of light hung above his left shoulder like a miniature moon, casting soft blue light on the rock walls and the contorted remains. Even its feeble illumination was enough to make his pale hair seem to glow.

“Father?”